William Shakespeare, The Comedies (Oxford 1916)

THE TEMPEST

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Alonso,	King of Naples.
Sebastian,	his Brother.
Prospero,	the right Duke of Milan.
Antonio,	his Brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.
Ferdinand,	Son to the King of Naples.
Gonzalo,	an honest old Counsellor.
Adrian, }	Lords.
Francisco, }	Lords.
Caliban,	a savage and deformed Slave.
Trinculo,	a Jester.
Stephano,	a drunken Butler.
Master of a Ship, Boatswain, Mariners.
Miranda,	Daughter to Prospero.
Ariel,	an airy Spirit.
Iris, }	presented by Spirits.
Ceres, }
Juno, }
Nymphs, }
Reapers, }
Other Spirits attending on Prospero.

Scene.—The Sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island.

Scene I.— On a Ship at Sea. A tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard.

Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally.

Mast.

Boatswain!

Boats.

Here, master: what cheer?

Mast.

Good, speak to the mariners: fall to’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.

[Exit.

Enter Mariners.

Boats.

Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master’s whistle.—Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough! 9

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, and others.

Alon.

Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men.

Boats.

I pray now, keep below. 12

Ant.

Where is the master, boson?

Boats.

Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. 16

Gon.

Nay, good, be patient.

Boats.

When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not. 20

Gon.

Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 22

Boats.

None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say.

[Exit.

Gon.

I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Boatswain.

Boats.

Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [A cry within.] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather, or our office.— 42

Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo.

Yet again? what do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink?

Seb.

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Boats.

Work you, then. 47

Ant.

Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent noisemaker, we are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

Gon.

I’ll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench. 53

Boats.

Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses; off to sea again; lay her off.

Enter Mariners, wet.

Mar.

All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

[Exeunt.

Boats.

What, must our mouths be cold? 58

Gon.

The king and prince at prayers! let us assist them,

For our case is as theirs.

Seb.

I am out of patience. 60

Ant.

We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.—

This wide-chapp’d rascal,—would thou might’st lie drowning,

The washing of ten tides!

Gon.

He’ll be hang’d yet,

Though every drop of water swear against it, 64

And gape at wid’st to glut him.

[A confused noise within,—‘Mercy on us!’—

‘We split, we split!’—‘Farewell, my wife and children!’—

‘Farewell, brother!’—‘We split, we split, we split!’—] 67

Ant.

Let’s all sink wi’ the king.

[Exit.

Seb.

Let’s take leave of him.

[Exit.

Gon.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Island: before the Cell of Prospero.

Enter Prospero and Miranda.

Mira.

If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, 3

But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek,

Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffer’d

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her,

Dash’d all to pieces. O! the cry did knock 8

Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d.

Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e’er 11

It should the good ship so have swallow’d and

The fraughting souls within her.

Pro.

Be collected:

No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart

There’s no harm done.

Mira.

O, woe the day!

Pro.

No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,— 16

Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter!—who

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am: nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20

And thy no greater father.

Mira.

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Pro.

’Tis time

I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me.—So: 24

[Lays down his mantle.

Lie there, my art.—Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.

The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art 28

So safely order’d, that there is no soul—

No, not so much perdition as an hair,

Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down; 32

For thou must now know further.

Mira.

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d,

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding, ‘Stay; not yet.’

Pro.

The hour’s now come, 36

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember

A time before we came unto this cell?

I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not 40

Out three years old.

Mira.

Certainly, sir, I can.

Pro.

By what? by any other house or person?

Of anything the image tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mira.

’Tis far off; 44

And rather like a dream than an assurance

That my remembrance warrants. Had I not

Four or five women once that tended me?

Pro.

Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it 48

That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else

In the dark backward and abysm of time?

If thou remember’st aught ere thou cam’st here,

How thou cam’st here, thou may’st.

Mira.

But that I do not. 52

Pro.

Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,

Thy father was the Duke of Milan and

A prince of power.

Mira.

Sir, are not you my father?

Pro.

Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and

She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father

Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir 58

A princess,—no worse issued.

Mira.

O, the heavens!

What foul play had we that we came from thence? 60

Or blessed was’t we did?

Pro.

Both, both, my girl:

By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence;

But blessedly holp hither.

Mira.

O! my heart bleeds

To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to,

Which is from my remembrance. Please you, further. 65

Pro.

My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio,—

I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should

Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself, 68

Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put

The manage of my state; as at that time,

Through all the signiories it was the first, 71

And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed

In dignity, and for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel: those being all my study,

The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported 76

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—

Dost thou attend me?

Mira.

Sir, most heedfully.

Pro.

Being once perfected how to grant suits,

How to deny them, who t’advance, and who 80

To trash for over-topping; new created

The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em,

Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key

Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state 84

To what tune pleas’d his ear; that now he was

The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,

And suck’d my verdure out on’t.—Thou attend’st not.

Mira.

O, good sir! I do.

Pro.

I pray thee, mark me. 88

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

With that, which, but by being so retir’d, 91

O’erpriz’d all popular rate, in my false brother

Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust,

Like a good parent, did beget of him

A falsehood in its contrary as great 95

As my trust was; which had, indeed no limit,

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,

Not only with what my revenue yielded,

But what my power might else exact,—like one,

Who having, into truth, by telling of it, 100

Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,—he did believe

He was indeed the duke; out o’ the substitution,

And executing th’ outward face of royalty, 104

With all prerogative:—Hence his ambition growing,—

Dost thou hear?

Mira.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Pro.

To have no screen between this part he play’d

And him he play’d it for, he needs will be 108

Absolute Milan. Me, poor man,—my library

Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties

He thinks me now incapable; confederates,—

So dry he was for sway,—wi’ the king of Naples

To give him annual tribute, do him homage;

Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend

The dukedom, yet unbow’d,—alas, poor Milan!—

To most ignoble stooping.

Mira.

O the heavens! 116

Pro.

Mark his condition and the event; then tell me

If this might be a brother.

Mira.

I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Pro.

Now the condition. 120

This King of Naples, being an enemy

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;

Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises

Of homage and I know not how much tribute,

Should presently extirpate me and mine 125

Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,

With all the honours on my brother: whereon,

A treacherous army levied, one midnight 128

Fated to the purpose did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness,

The ministers for the purpose hurried thence

Me and thy crying self.

Mira.

Alack, for pity! 132

I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then,

Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint,

That wrings mine eyes to ’t.

Pro.

Hear a little further,

And then I’ll bring thee to the present business

Which now’s upon us; without the which this story 137

Were most impertinent.

Mira.

Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us?

Pro.

Well demanded, wench:

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, 140

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set

A mark so bloody on the business; but

With colours fairer painted their foul ends.

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, 144

Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar’d

A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d,

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats

Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,

To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sigh 149

To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,

Did us but loving wrong.

Mira.

Alack! what trouble

Was I then to you!

Pro.

O, a cherubin 152

Thou wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst smile,

Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt,

Under my burden groan’d; which rais’d in me

An undergoing stomach, to bear up 157

Against what should ensue.

Mira.

How came we ashore?

Pro.

By Providence divine. 159

Some food we had and some fresh water that

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity,—who being then appointed

Master of this design,—did give us; with 163

Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,

Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,

Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me,

From mine own library with volumes that

I prize above my dukedom.

Mira.

Would I might 168

But ever see that man!

Pro.

Now I arise:—

[Resumes his mantle.

Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.

Here in this island we arriv’d; and here

Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit

Than other princes can, that have more time

For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.

Mira.

Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray you, sir,—

For still ’tis beating in my mind,—your reason 176

For raising this sea-storm?

Pro.

Know thus far forth.

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,

Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies

Brought to this shore; and by my prescience 180

I find my zenith doth depend upon

A most auspicious star, whose influence

If now I court not but omit, my fortunes

Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions; 184

Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness,

And give it way;—I know thou canst not choose.—

[Miranda sleeps.

Come away, servant, come! I’m ready now.

Approach, my Ariel; come! 188

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come

To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly,

To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 191

On the curl’d clouds: to thy strong bidding task

Ariel and all his quality.

Pro.

Hast thou, spirit,

Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?

Ari.

To every article.

I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak, 196

Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,

I flam’d amazement: sometime I’d divide

And burn in many places; on the topmast,

The yards, and boresprit, would I flame distinctly, 200

Then meet, and join: Jove’s lightnings, the precursors

O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary

And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks

Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune

Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, 205

Yea, his dread trident shake.

Pro.

My brave spirit!

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil

Would not infect his reason?

Ari.

Not a soul 208

But felt a fever of the mad and play’d

Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners,

Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,

Then all a-fire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand, 212

With hair up-staring,—then like reeds, not hair,—

Was the first man that leap’d; cried, ‘Hell is empty,

And all the devils are here.’

Pro.

Why, that’s my spirit!

But was not this nigh shore?

Ari.

Close by, my master. 216

Pro.

But are they, Ariel, safe?

Ari.

Not a hair perish’d;

On their sustaining garments not a blemish,

But fresher than before: and, as thou bad’st me,

In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the isle.

The king’s son have I landed by himself; 221

Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs

In an odd angle of the isle and sitting,

His arms in this sad knot.

Pro.

Of the king’s ship 224

The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d,

And all the rest o’ the fleet.

Ari.

Safely in harbour

Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once

Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew

From the still-vex’d Bermoothes; there she’s hid:

The mariners all under hatches stow’d; 230

Who, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour,

I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet

Which I dispers’d, they all have met again,

And are upon the Mediterranean flote,

Bound sadly home for Naples,

Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wrack’d, 236

And his great person perish.

Pro.

Ariel, thy charge

Exactly is perform’d: but there’s more work:

What is the time o’ th’ day?

Ari.

Past the mid season.

Pro.

At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now 240

Must by us both be spent most preciously.

Ari.

Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,

Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d

Which is not yet perform’d me.

Pro.

How now! moody? 244

What is’t thou canst demand?

Ari.

My liberty.

Pro.

Before the time be out? no more!

Ari.

I prithee

Remember, I have done thee worthy service;

Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d

Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise 249

To bate me a full year.

Pro.

Dost thou forget

From what a torment I did free thee?

Ari.

No.

Pro.

Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the ooze 252

Of the salt deep,

To run upon the sharp wind of the north,

To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth

When it is bak’d with frost.

Ari.

I do not, sir. 256

Pro.

Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot

The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy

Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?

Ari.

No, sir.

Pro.

Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me. 260

Ari.

Sir, in Argier.

Pro.

O! was she so? I must,

Once in a month, recount what thou hast been,

Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch, Sycorax, 263

For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible

To enter human hearing, from Argier,

Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did

They would not take her life. Is not this true?

Ari.

Ay, sir. 268

Pro.

This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child

And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,

As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant:

And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 272

To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,

Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,

By help of her more potent ministers,

And in her most unmitigable rage, 276

Into a cloven pine; within which rift

Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain

A dozen years; within which space she died

And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans 280

As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island,—

Save for the son that she did litter here,

A freckled whelp hag-born,—not honour’d with

A human shape.

Ari.

Yes; Caliban her son. 284

Pro.

Dull thing, I say so; he that Caliban,

Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st

What torment I did find thee in; thy groans

Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts

Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment 289

To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax

Could not again undo; it was mine art,

When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape

The pine, and let thee out.

Ari.

I thank thee, master.

Pro.

If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

Ari.

Pardon, master; 296

I will be correspondent to command,

And do my spiriting gently.

Pro.

Do so; and after two days

I will discharge thee.

Ari.

That’s my noble master!

What shall I do? say what? what shall I do?

Pro.

Go make thyself like a nymph of the sea: be subject 301

To no sight but thine and mine; invisible

To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape,

And hither come in’t: go, hence with diligence!

[Exit Ariel.

Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;

Awake!

Mira.

[Waking.] The strangeness of your story put

Heaviness in me.

Pro.

Shake it off. Come on;

We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never 308

Yields us kind answer.

Mira.

’Tis a villain, sir,

I do not love to look on.

Pro.

But, as ’tis,

We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,

Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices 312

That profit us.—What ho! slave! Caliban!

Thou earth, thou! speak.

Cal.

[Within.] There’s wood enough within.

Pro.

Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee:

Come, thou tortoise! when? 316

Re-enter Ariel, like a water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,

Hark in thine ear.

Ari.

My lord, it shall be done.

[Exit.

Pro.

Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! 320

Enter Caliban.

Cal.

As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d

With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen

Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye,

And blister you all o’er! 324

Pro.

For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,

Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins

Shall forth at vast of night, that they may work

All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch’d 328

As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging

Than bees that made them.

Cal.

I must eat my dinner.

This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,

Which thou tak’st from me. When thou camest first, 332

Thou strok’dst me, and mad’st much of me; wouldst give me

Water with berries in’t; and teach me how

To name the bigger light, and how the less,

That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee 336

And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,

The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile.

Cursed be I that did so!—All the charms

Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!

For I am all the subjects that you have, 341

Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ th’ island.

Pro.

Thou most lying slave, 344

Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee,

Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodg’d thee

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honour of my child. 348

Cal.

Oh ho! Oh ho!—would it had been done!

Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else

This isle with Calibans.

Pro.

Abhorred slave,

Which any print of goodness will not take, 352

Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour

One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like 356

A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes

With words that made them known: but thy vile race,

Though thou didst learn, had that in’t which good natures

Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou

Deservedly confin’d into this rock, 361

Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.

Cal.

You taught me language: and my profit on’t 363

Is, I know how to curse: the red plague rid you,

For learning me your language!

Pro.

Hag-seed, hence!

Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou’rt best,

To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice?

If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly 368

What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,

Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar,

That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

Cal.

No, pray thee!—

[Aside.] I must obey: his art is of such power,

It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, 373

And make a vassal of him.

Pro.

So, slave; hence!

[Exit Caliban.

Re-enter Ariel invisible, playing and singing; Ferdinand following.

Ariel’s Song.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:  376

Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d,—

The wild waves whist,—

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.  380

Hark, hark!

[Burden Bow, wow, dispersedly.

The watch-dogs bark:

[Burden Bow, wow, dispersedly.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting Chanticleer  384

[Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Fer.

Where should this music be? i’ th’ air, or th’ earth?

It sounds no more;—and sure, it waits upon

Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,

Weeping again the king my father’s wrack, 388

This music crept by me upon the waters,

Allaying both their fury, and my passion,

With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it,—

Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone. 392

No, it begins again.

Ariel sings.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made

Those are pearls that were his eyes: 396

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 400

[Burden ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,—ding-dong, bell.

Fer.

The ditty does remember my drown’d father.

This is no mortal business, nor no sound

That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.

Pro.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, 405

And say what thou seest yond.

Mira.

What is’t? a spirit?

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,

It carries a brave form:—but ’tis a spirit. 408

Pro.

No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses

As we have, such; this gallant which thou see’st,

Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d

With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou might’st call him 412

A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows

And strays about to find ’em.

Mira.

I might call him

A thing divine; for nothing natural

I ever saw so noble.

Pro.

[Aside.] It goes on, I see, 416

As my soul prompts it.—Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee

Within two days for this.

Fer.

Most sure, the goddess

On whom these airs attend!—Vouchsafe, my prayer

May know if you remain upon this island; 420

And that you will some good instruction give

How I may bear me here: my prime request,

Which I do last pronounce, is,—O you wonder!—

If you be maid or no?

Mira.

No wonder, sir; 424

But certainly a maid.

Fer.

My language! heavens!—

I am the best of them that speak this speech,

Were I but where ’tis spoken.

Pro.

How! the best?

What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? 428

Fer.

A single thing, as I am now, that wonders

To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;

And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples,

Who with mine eyes,—ne’er since at ebb,—beheld

The king, my father wrack’d.

Mira.

Alack, for mercy!

Fer.

Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan, 434

And his brave son being twain.

Pro.

[Aside.] The Duke of Milan,

And his more braver daughter could control thee,

If now ’twere fit to do’t.—At the first sight 437

[Aside.]

They have changed eyes:—delicate Ariel,

I’ll set thee free for this!—[To Fer.] A word, good sir;

I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. 440

Mira.

[Aside.] Why speaks my father so ungently? This

Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first

That e’er I sigh’d for: pity move my father

To be inclin’d my way!

Fer.

[Aside.] O! if a virgin, 444

And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you

The Queen of Naples.

Pro.

Soft, sir: one word more—

[Aside.] They are both in either’s powers: but this swift business

I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 448

Make the prize light.—[To Fer.] One word more: I charge thee

That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp

The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself

Upon this island as a spy, to win it 452

From me, the lord on’t.

Fer.

No, as I am a man.

Mira.

There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:

If the ill spirit have so fair a house,

Good things will strive to dwell with’t.

Pro.

[To Fer.] Follow me.— 456

[To Mira.] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor.—[To Fer.] Come;

I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:

Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be

The fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots and husks 460

Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

Fer.

No;

I will resist such entertainment till

Mine enemy has more power.

[He draws, and is charmed from moving.

Mira.

O dear father!

Make not too rash a trial of him, for 464

He’s gentle, and not fearful.

Pro.

What! I say,

My foot my tutor?—Put thy sword up, traitor;

Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience

Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward,

For I can here disarm thee with this stick 469

And make thy weapon drop.

Mira.

Beseech you, father!

Pro.

Hence! hang not on my garments.

Mira.

Sir, have pity:

I’ll be his surety.

Pro.

Silence! one word more 472

Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!

An advocate for an impostor? hush!

Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,

Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! 476

To the most of men this is a Caliban

And they to him are angels.

Mira.

My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

Pro.

[To Fer.] Come on; obey: 480

Thy nerves are in their infancy again,

And have no vigour in them.

Fer.

So they are:

My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.

My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, 484

The wrack of all my friends, or this man’s threats,

To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,

Might I but through my prison once a day

Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth

Let liberty make use of; space enough 489

Have I in such a prison.

Pro.

[Aside.] It works.—[To Fer.] Come on.—

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!—[To Fer.] Follow me.—

[To Ariel.] Hark, what thou else shalt do me.

Mira.

Be of comfort; 492

My father’s of a better nature, sir,

Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted,

Which now came from him.

Pro.

Thou shalt be as free

As mountain winds; but then exactly do 496

All points of my command.

Ari.

To the syllable.

Pro.

[To Fer.] Come, follow.—Speak not for him.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Another Part of the Island.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others.

Gon.

Beseech you, sir, be merry: you have cause,

So have we all, of joy; for our escape

Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe

Is common: every day some sailor’s wife, 4

The masters of some merchant and the merchant,

Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,

I mean our preservation, few in millions

Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh

Our sorrow with our comfort.

Alon.

Prithee, peace. 9

Seb.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

Ant.

The visitor will not give him o’er so.

Seb.

Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike. 13

Gon.

Sir,—

Seb.

One: tell.

Gon.

When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d, 16

Comes to the entertainer—

Seb.

A dollar.

Gon.

Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed. 20

Seb.

You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

Gon.

Therefore, my lord,—

Ant.

Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! 25

Alon.

I prithee, spare.

Gon.

Well, I have done: but yet—

Seb.

He will be talking. 28

Ant.

Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?

Seb.

The old cock.

Ant.

The cockerel. 32

Seb.

Done. The wager?

Ant.

A laughter.

Seb.

A match!

Adr.

Though this island seem to be desert,—

Seb.

Ha, ha, ha! So you’re paid.

Adr.

Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—

Seb.

Yet—

Adr.

Yet—

Ant.

He could not miss it.

Adr.

It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.

Ant.

Temperance was a delicate wench. 44

Seb.

Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.

Adr.

The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 48

Seb.

As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

Ant.

Or as ’twere perfumed by a fen.

Gon.

Here is everything advantageous to life.

Ant.

True; save means to live. 53

Seb.

Of that there’s none, or little.

Gon.

How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! 56

Ant.

The ground indeed is tawny.

Seb.

With an eye of green in’t.

Ant.

He misses not much.

Seb.

No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 61

Gon.

But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—

Seb.

As many vouch’d rarities are. 64

Gon.

That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses; being rather new-dyed than stain’d with salt water. 68

Ant.

If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?

Seb.

Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

Gon.

Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. 75

Seb.

’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.

Adr.

Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.

Gon.

Not since widow Dido’s time. 80

Ant.

Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

Seb.

What if he had said, widower Æneas too? Good Lord, how you take it! 84

Adr.

Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

Gon.

This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

Adr.

Carthage? 88

Gon.

I assure you, Carthage.

Ant.

His word is more than the miraculous harp.

Seb.

He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too.

Ant.

What impossible matter will he make easy next?

Seb.

I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. 96

Ant.

And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

Alon.

Ay?

Ant.

Why, in good time. 100

Gon.

[To Alon.] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. 104

Ant.

And the rarest that e’er came there.

Seb.

Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

Ant.

O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

Gon.

Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort. 109

Ant.

That sort was well fish’d for.

Gon.

When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage? 112

Alon.

You cram these words into mine ears, against

The stomach of my sense. Would I had never

Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,

My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too, 116

Who is so far from Italy remov’d,

I ne’er again shall see her. O thou, mine heir

Of Naples and of Milan! what strange fish

Hath made his meal on thee?

Fran.

Sir, he may live: 120

I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs: he trod the water,

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted

The surge most swoln that met him: his bold head 124

’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d

Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke

To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d,

As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt 128

He came alive to land.

Alon.

No, no; he’s gone.

Seb.

Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,

That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,

But rather lose her to an African; 132

Where she at least is banish’d from your eye,

Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.

Alon.

Prithee, peace.

Seb.

You were kneel’d to and importun’d otherwise

By all of us; and the fair soul herself 136

Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at

Which end o’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son,

I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have

More widows in them of this business’ making,

Than we bring men to comfort them: the fault’s 141

Your own.

Alon.

So is the dearest of the loss.

Gon.

My lord Sebastian,

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness

And time to speak it in; you rub the sore, 145

When you should bring the plaster.

Seb.

Very well.

Ant.

And most chirurgeonly.

Gon.

It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 148

When you are cloudy.

Seb.

Foul weather?

Ant.

Very foul.

Gon.

Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

Ant.

He’d sow’t with nettle-seed.

Seb.

Or docks, or mallows.

Gon.

’And were the king on’t, what would I do?

Seb.

’Scape being drunk for want of wine. 153

Gon.

I’ the commonwealth I would by contraries

Execute all things; for no kind of traffic

Would I admit; no name of magistrate; 156

Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,

And use of service, none; contract, succession,

Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;

No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; 160

No occupation; all men idle, all;

And women too, but innocent and pure;

No sovereignty,—

Seb.

Yet he would be king on’t.

Ant.

The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. 165

Gon.

All things in common nature should produce

Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,

Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,

Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, 169

Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,

To feed my innocent people.

Seb.

No marrying ’mong his subjects? 172

Ant.

None, man; all idle; whores and knaves.

Gon.

I would with such perfection govern, sir,

To excel the golden age

Seb.

Save his majesty!

Ant.

Long live Gonzalo!

Gon.

And,—do you mark me, sir? 176

Alon.

Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.

Gon.

I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.

Ant.

’Twas you we laugh’d at. 183

Gon.

Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you; so you may continue and laugh at nothing still.

Ant.

What a blow was there given!

Seb.

An it had not fallen flat-long. 188

Gon.

You are gentlemen of brave mettle: you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. 192

Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music.

Seb.

We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling.

Ant.

Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

Gon.

No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy? 197

Ant.

Go sleep, and hear us.

[All sleep but Alon., Seb., and Ant.

Alon.

What! all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes

Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find 200

They are inclin’d to do so.

Seb.

Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth

It is a comforter.

Ant.

We two, my lord, 204

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

Alon.

Thank you. Wondrous heavy.

[Alonson sleeps. Exit Ariel.

Seb.

What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

Ant.

It is the quality o’ the climate.

Seb.

Why 208

Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not

Myself dispos’d to sleep.

Ant.

Nor I: my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, 212

Worthy Sebastian? O! what might?—No more:—

And yet methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be. The occasion speaks thee; and

My strong imagination sees a crown 216

Dropping upon thy head.

Seb.

What! art thou waking?

Ant.

Do you not hear me speak?

Seb.

I do; and surely,

It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st

Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? 220

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

Ant.

Noble Sebastian, 223

Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink’st

Whiles thou art waking.

Seb.

Thou dost snore distinctly:

There’s meaning in thy snores.

Ant.

I am more serious than my custom: you

Must be so too, if heed me; which to do 228

Trebles thee o’er.

Seb.

Well; I am standing water.

Ant.

I’ll teach you how to flow.

Seb.

Do so: to ebb,

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Ant.

O! 231

If you but knew how you the purpose cherish

Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,

You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,

Most often do so near the bottom run

By their own fear or sloth.

Seb.

Prithee, say on: 236

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter from thee, and a birth indeed

Which throes thee much to yield.

Ant.

Thus, sir:

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this

Who shall be of as little memory 241

When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,—

For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only

Professes to persuade,—the king, his son’s alive,

’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d 245

As he that sleeps here swims.

Seb.

I have no hope

That he’s undrown’d.

Ant.

O! out of that ‘no hope

What great hope have you! no hope that way is

Another way so high a hope that even 249

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me

That Ferdinand is drown’d?

Seb.

He’s gone.

Ant.

Then tell me 252

Who’s the next heir of Naples?

Seb.

Claribel.

Ant.

She that is Queen of Tums; she that dwells

Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples

Can have no note, unless the sun were post— 256

The man i’ th’ moon’s too slow—till new-born chins

Be rough and razorable: she that, from whom?

We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,

And by that destiny to perform an act 260

Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come

In yours and my discharge.

Seb.

What stuff is this!—How say you?

’Tis true my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis;

So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions

There is some space.

Ant.

A space whose every cubit

Seems to cry out, ‘How shall that Claribel 266

Measure us back to Naples?—Keep in Tunis,

And let Sebastian wake!’—Say, this were death

That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse

Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples

As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate

As amply and unnecessarily 272

As this Gonzalo; I myself could make

A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore

The mind that I do! what a sleep were this

For your advancement! Do you understand me?

Seb.

Methinks I do.

Ant.

And how does your content

Tender your own good fortune?

Seb.

I remember 278

You did supplant your brother Prospero.

Ant.

True:

And look how well my garments sit upon me;

Much feater than before; my brother’s servants

Were then my fellows; now they are my men.

Seb.

But, for your conscience,— 283

Ant.

Ay, sir; where lies that? if it were a kibe,

’Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not

This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,

That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they,

And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, 288

No better than the earth he lies upon,

If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead;

Whom I, with this obedient steel,—three inches of it,—

Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,

To the perpetual wink for aye might put 293

This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who

Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,

They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk; 296

They’ll tell the clock to any business that

We say befits the hour.

Seb.

Thy case, dear friend,

Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan,

I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke

Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay’st,

And I the king shall love thee.

Ant.

Draw together;

And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 303

To fall it on Gonzalo.

Seb.

O! but one word.

[They converse apart.

Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible.

Ari.

My master through his art foresees the danger

That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth—

For else his project dies—to keep thee living.

[Sings in Gonzalo’s ear.

While you here do snoring lie, 308

Open-ey’d Conspiracy

His time doth take.

If of life you keep a care,

Shake off slumber, and beware 312

Awake! awake!

Ant.

Then let us both be sudden.

Gon.

Now, good angels

Preserve the king!

[They wake.

Alon.

Why, how now! ho, awake! Why are you drawn? 316

Wherefore this ghastly looking?

Gon.

What’s the matter?

Seb.

Whiles we stood here securing your repose,

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

Like bulls, or rather hons; did’t not wake you?

It struck mine ear most terribly.

Alon.

I heard nothing.

Ant.

O! ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear,

To make an earthquake: sure it was the roar

Of a whole herd of lions.

Alon.

Heard you this, Gonzalo? 324

Gon.

Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,

And that a strange one too, which did awake me.

I shak’d you, sir, and cry’d; as mine eyes open’d,

I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise,

That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard,

Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons.

Alon.

Lead off this ground, and let’s make further search

For my poor son. 332

Gon.

Heavens keep him from these beasts!

For he is, sure, i’ the island.

Alon.

Lead away.

[Exit with the others.

Ari.

Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:

So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Island.

Enter Caliban, with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard.

Cal.

All the infections that the sun sucks up

From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him

By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,

And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch, 4

Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire,

Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark

Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but

For every trifle are they set upon me: 8

Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me

And after bite me; then like hedge-hogs, which

Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way and mount

Their pricks at my foot-fall; sometime am I 12

All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues

Do hiss me into madness.—

Enter Trinculo.

Lo now! lo!

Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me

For bringing wood in slowly: I’ll fall flat; 16

Perchance he will not mind me.

Trin.

Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls.—What have we here? a man or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now,—as once I was,—and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer; this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt. [Thunder.] Alas! the storm is come again: my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. 44

Enter Stephano, singing; a bottle in his hand.

Ste.

I shall no more to sea, to sea,

Here shall I die a-shore:—

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral:

Well, here’s my comfort.

[Drinks.

The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,  49

The gunner and his mate,

Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian and Margery,

But none of us car’d for Kate;  52

For she had a tongue with a tang,

Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go hang!’

She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch,

Yet a tailor might scratch her where-e’er she did itch:

Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang.  57

This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort.

[Drinks.

Cal.

Do not torment me: O!

Ste.

What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon us with savages and men of Ind? Ha! I have not ’scaped drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground: and it shall be said so again while Stephano breathes at’s nostrils.

Cal.

The spirit torments me: O! 68

Ste.

This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that: if I can recover him and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. 75

Cal.

Do not torment me, prithee: I’ll bring my wood home faster.

Ste.

He’s in his fit now and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him: he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. 84

Cal.

Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. 87

Ste.

Come on your ways: open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth: this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly [gives Caliban drink]: you cannot tell who’s your friend; open your chaps again.

Trin.

I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned, and these are devils. O! defend me. 96

Ste.

Four legs and two voices; a most delicate monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches, and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth.

Trin.

Stephano! 104

Ste.

Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon.

Trin.

Stephano!—if thou beest Stephano, touch me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo:—be not afeard—thy good friend Trinculo. 110

Ste.

If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I’ll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos? 115

Trin.

I took him to be killed with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now thou art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead mooncalf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano! two Neapolitans ’scaped! 122

Ste.

Prithee, do not turn me about: my stomach is not constant.

Cal.

[Aside.] These be fine things an if they be not sprites.

That’s a brave god and bears celestial liquor:

I will kneel to him. 127

Ste.

How didst thou ’scape? How cam’st thou hither? swear by this bottle, how thou cam’st hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved overboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore. 133

Cal.

I’ll swear upon that bottle, to be thy true subject; for the liquor is not earthly.

Ste.

Here: swear then, how thou escapedst.

Trin.

Swam ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn. 138

Ste.

Here, kiss the book [gives Trinculo drink]. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 141

Trin.

O Stephano! hast any more of this?

Ste.

The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! how does thine ague? 146

Cal.

Hast thou not dropped from heaven?

Ste.

Out o the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man in the moon, when time was.

Cal.

I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee; my mistress showed me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush. 152

Ste.

Come, swear to that; kiss the book; I will furnish it anon with new contents; swear.

Trin.

By this good light, this is a very shallow monster.—I afeard of him!—a very weak monster.—The man i’ the moon! a most poor credulous monster!—Well drawn, monster, in good sooth.

Cal.

I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island; 160

And I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god.

Trin.

By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster: when his god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle. 164

Cal.

I’ll kiss thy foot: I’ll swear myself thy subject.

Ste.

Come on then; down, and swear.

Trin.

I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,— 169

Ste.

Come, kiss.

Trin.

But that the poor monster’s in drink: an abominable monster! 172

Cal.

I’ll shew thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries;

I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.

A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!

I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,

Thou wondrous man. 177

Trin.

A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!

Cal.

I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; 180

And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;

Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how

To snare the nimble marmozet; I’ll bring thee

To clust’ring filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee

Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? 185

Ste.

I prithee now, lead the way, without any more talking.—Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here.—Here; bear my bottle.—Fellow Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again. 190

Cal.

Farewell, master; farewell, farewell

[Sings drunkenly.

Trin.

A howling monster, a drunken monster.

Cal.

No more dams I’ll make for fish,

Nor fetch in firing

At requiring,

Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish, 196

’Ban, ’Ban, Ca—Caliban,

Has a new master—Get a new man.

Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom! high-day, freedom! 200

Ste.

O brave monster! lead the way.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Before Prospero’s Cell.

Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log.

Fer.

There be some sports are painful, and their labour

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness

Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters

Point to rich ends. This my mean task 4

Would be as heavy to me as odious; but

The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead

And makes my labours pleasures: O! she is 7

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,

And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove

Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,

Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress

Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness 12

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,

Most busiest when I do it.

Enter Miranda; and Prospero behind.

Mira.

Alas! now, pray you,

Work not so hard: I would the lightning had 16

Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile!

Pray, set it down and rest you: when this burns,

’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father

Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself: 20

He’s safe for these three hours.

Fer.

O most dear mistress,

The sun will set, before I shall discharge

What I must strive to do.

Mira.

If you’ll sit down,

I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray, give me that; 24

I’ll carry it to the pile.

Fer.

No, precious creature:

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,

Than you should such dishonour undergo,

While I sit lazy by.

Mira.

It would become me 28

As well as it does you: and I should do it

With much more ease; for my good will is to it,

And yours it is against.

Pro.

[Aside.] Poor worm! thou art infected:

This visitation shows it.

Mira.

You look wearily. 32

Fer.

No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me

When you are by at night. I do beseech you—

Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers—

What is your name?

Mira.

Miranda.—O my father! 36

I have broke your hest to say so.

Fer.

Admir’d Miranda!

Indeed, the top of admiration; worth

What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady

I have ey’d with best regard, and many a time 40

The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage

Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues

Have I lik’d several women; never any

With so full soul but some defect in her 44

Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,

And put it to the foil: but you, O you!

So perfect and so peerless, are created

Of every creature’s best.

Mira.

I do not know 48

One of my sex; no woman’s face remember,

Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen

More that I may call men than you, good friend,

And my dear father: how features are abroad, 52

I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty,—

The jewel in my dower,—I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you;

Nor can imagination form a shape, 56

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly and my father’s precepts

I therein do forget.

Fer.

I am in my condition

A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;— 60

I would not so!—and would no more endure

This wooden slavery than to suffer

The flesh-fly blow my mouth.—Hear my soul speak:—

The very instant that I saw you did 64

My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me slave to it; and for your sake

Am I this patient log-man.

Mira.

Do you love me?

Fer.

O heaven! O earth! bear witness to this sound, 68

And crown what I profess with kind event

If I speak true: if hollowly, invert

What best is boded me to mischief! I,

Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, 72

Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira.

I am a fool

To weep at what I am glad of.

Pro.

[Aside.] Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace

On that which breeds between them!

Fer.

Wherefore weep you? 76

Mira.

At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take

What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;

And all the more it seeks to hide itself 80

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow 84

You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant

Whether you will or no.

Fer.

My mistress, dearest;

And I thus humble ever.

Mira.

My husband then?

Fer.

Ay, with a heart as willing 88

As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.

Mira.

And mine, with my heart in’t: and now farewell

Till half an hour hence.

Fer.

A thousand thousand!

[Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally.

Pro.

So glad of this as they, I cannot be, 92

Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing

At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book;

For yet, ere supper time, must I perform

Much business appertaining.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Island

Enter Caliban, with a bottle, Stephano, and Trinculo.

Ste.

Tell not me:—when the butt is out, we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em.—Servant-monster, drink to me. 4

Trin.

Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They say there’s but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters. 8

Ste.

Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head.

Trin.

Where should they be set else? he were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 13

Ste.

My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. 19

Trin.

Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard.

Ste.

We’ll not run, Monsieur monster.

Trin.

Nor go neither: but you’ll lie, like dogs; and yet say nothing neither. 24

Ste.

Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf.

Cal.

How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant. 28

Trin.

Thou hest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever a man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?

Cal.

Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? 36

Trin.

‘Lord’ quoth he!—that a monster should be such a natural!

Cal.

Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee. 40

Ste.

Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree! The poor monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. 44

Cal.

I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas’d

To hearken once again the suit I made thee?

Ste.

Marry, will I; kneel, and repeat it: I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. 48

Enter Ariel, invisible.

Cal.

As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.

Ari.

Thou liest. 52

Cal.

Thou liest, thou jesting monkey thou;

I would my valiant master would destroy thee;

I do not lie.

Ste.

Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. 58

Trin.

Why, I said nothing.

Ste.

Mum then and no more.—[To Caliban.] Proceed.

Cal.

I say, by sorcery he got this isle;

From me he got it: if thy greatness will,

Revenge it on him,—for, I know, thou dar’st;

But this thing dare not,— 65

Ste.

That’s most certain.

Cal.

Thou shalt be lord of it and I’ll serve thee.

Ste.

How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party? 69

Cal.

Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep,

Where thou may’st knock a nail into his head.

Ari.

Thou liest; thou canst not. 72

Cal.

What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch!—

I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows,

And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone

He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him 76

Where the quick freshes are.

Ste.

Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further, and, by this hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors and make a stock-fish of thee. 81

Trin.

Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go further off.

Ste.

Didst thou not say he hed? 84

Ari.

Thou liest.

Ste.

Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes Trin.]

As you like this, give me the lie another time.

Trin.

I did not give thee the he:—Out o’ your wits and hearing too?—A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do.—A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers! 92

Cal.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ste.

Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee stand further off.

Cal.

Beat him enough: after a little time 96

I’ll beat him too.

Ste.

Stand further.—Come, proceed.

Cal.

Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him

I’ the afternoon to sleep: there thou may’st brain him,

Having first seiz’d his books; or with a log 100

Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,

Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember

First to possess his books; for without them

He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 104

One spirit to command: they all do hate him

As rootedly as I. Burn but his books;

He has brave utensils,—for so he calls them,—

Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal:

And that most deeply to consider is 109

The beauty of his daughter; he himself

Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,

But only Sycorax my dam and she; 112

But she as far surpasseth Sycorax

As great’st does least.

Ste.

Is it so brave a lass?

Cal.

Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant,

And bring thee forth brave brood. 116

Ste.

Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I will be king and queen,—save our graces! and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo? 120

Trin.

Excellent.

Ste.

Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. 124

Cal.

Within this half hour will he be asleep;

Wilt thou destroy him then?

Ste.

Ay, on mine honour.

Ari.

This will I tell my master.

Cal.

Thou mak’st me merry: I am full of pleasure. 128

Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch

You taught me but while-ere?

Ste.

At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason: Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. 132

[Sings.

Flout ’em, and scout ’em; and scout ’em, and flout ’em;

Thought is free.

Cal.

That’s not the tune.

[Ariel plays the tune on a Tabor and Pipe.

Ste.

What is this same? 136

Trin.

This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody.

Ste.

If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take’t as thou list. 141

Trin.

O, forgive me my sins!

Ste.

He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee.—Mercy upon us! 144

Cal.

Art thou afeard?

Ste.

No, monster, not I.

Cal.

Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 148

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,

That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep,

Will make mesleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches 153

Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d

I cried to dream again.

Ste.

This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing.

Cal.

When Prospero is destroyed.

Ste.

That shall be by and by: I remember the story. 160

Trin.

The sound is going away: let’s follow it, and after do our work.

Ste.

Lead, monster; we’ll follow.—I would I could see this taborer! he lays it on. Wilt come?

Trin.

I’ll follow, Stephano.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Island.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others.

Gon.

By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;

My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod indeed,

Through forth-rights, and meanders! by your patience,

I needs must rest me.

Alon.

Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 4

Who am myself attach’d with weariness,

To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.

Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it

No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d 8

Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks

Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.

Ant.

[Aside to Seb.] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope.

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 12

That you resolv’d to effect.

Seb.

[Aside to Ant.] The next advantage

Will we take throughly.

Ant.

[Aside to Seb.] Let it be to-night;

For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they

Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance 16

As when they are fresh.

Seb.

[Aside to Ant.] I say to-night: no more.

Solemn and strange music; and Prospero above, invisible. Enter below several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, inviting the King, &c., to eat, they depart.

Alon.

What harmony is this? my good friends, hark!

Gon.

Marvellous sweet music!

Alon.

Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these? 20

Seb.

A living drollery. Now I will believe

That there are unicorns; that in Arabia

There is one tree, the phœnix’ throne; one phœnix

At this hour reigning there.

Ant.

I’ll believe both; 24

And what does else want credit, come to me,

And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie,

Though fools at home condemn them.

Gon.

If in Naples

I should report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say I saw such islanders,— 29

For, certes, these are people of the island,—

Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,

Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 32

Our human generation you shall find

Many, nay, almost any.

Pro.

[Aside.] Honest lord,

Thou hast said well; for some of you there present

Are worse than devils.

Alon.

I cannot too much muse, 36

Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing,—

Although they want the use of tongue,—a kind

Of excellent dumb discourse.

Pro.

[Aside.] Praise in departing.

Fran.

They vanish’d strangely.

Seb.

No matter, since 40

They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.—

Will’t please you to taste of what is here?

Alon.

Not I.

Gon.

Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,

Who would believe that there were mountaineers 44

Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at them

Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men

Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find

Each putter-out of five for one will bring us 48

Good warrant of.

Alon.

I will stand to and feed,

Although my last; no matter, since I feel

The best is past.—Brother, my lord the duke,

Stand to and do as we. 52

Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel like a harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes.

Ari.

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny—

That hath to instrument this lower world

And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea 55

Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island

Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men

Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;

[Seeing Alon., Seb., &c., draw their swords.

And even with such-like valour men hang and drown

Their proper selves. You fools! I and my fellows 60

Are ministers of fate: the elements

Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as well

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 64

One dowle that’s in my plume; my fellow-ministers

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,

And will not be uplifted. But, remember,— 68

For that’s my business to you,—that you three

From Milan did supplant good Prospero;

Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it,

Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed 72

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me, 76

Lingering perdition,—worse than any death

Can be at once,—shall step by step attend

You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from— 79

Which here in this most desolate isle, else falls

Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow

And a clear life ensuing.

He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance with mocks and mows, and carry out the table.

Pro.

[Aside.] Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou

Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:

Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 85

In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life

And observation strange, my meaner ministers

Their several kinds have done. My high charms work, 88

And these mine enemies are all knit up

In their distractions: they now are in my power;

And in these fits I leave them, while I visit

Young Ferdinand,—whom they suppose is drown’d,— 92

And his and mine lov’d darling.

[Exit above.

Gon.

I the name of something holy, sir, why stand you

In this strange stare?

Alon.

O, it is monstrous! monstrous!

Methought the billows spoke and told me of it;

The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,

That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d

The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.

Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and 100

I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded,

And with him there lie mudded.

[Exit.

Seb.

But one fiend at a time,

I’ll fight their legions o’er.

Ant.

I’ll be thy second.

[Exeunt Seb. and Ant.

Gon.

All three of them are desperate; their great guilt, 104

Like poison given to work a great time after,

Now ’gins to bite the spirits.—I do beseech you

That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly

And hinder them from what this ecstasy 108

May now provoke them to.

Adr.

Follow, I pray you.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Before Prospero’s Cell.

Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda.

Pro.

If I have too austerely punish’d you,

Your compensation makes amends; for I

Have given you here a third of mine own life,

Or that for which I live; whom once again 4

I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations

Were but my trials of thy love, and thou

Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,

I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand! 8

Do not smile at me that I boast her off,

For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,

And make it halt behind her.

Fer.

I do believe it

Against an oracle. 12

Pro.

Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition

Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but

If thou dost break her virgin knot before

All sanctimonious ceremonies may 16

With full and holy rite be minister’d,

No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall

To make this contract grow; but barren hate,

Sour-ey’d disdain and discord shall bestrew 20

The union of your bed with weeds so loathly

That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,

As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.

Fer.

As I hope

For quiet days, fair issue and long life, 24

With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den,

The most opportune place, the strong’st sug gestion

Our worser genius can, shall never melt

Mine honour into lust, to take away 28

The edge of that day’s celebration

When I shall think, or Phœbus’ steeds are founder’d,

Or Night kept chain’d below.

Pro.

Fairly spoke:

Sit then, and talk with her, she is thine own.

What, Ariell my industrious servant Ariell 33

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

What would my potent master? here I am.

Pro.

Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service

Did worthily perform; and I must use you 36

In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,

O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place:

Incite them to quick motion; for I must

Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 40

Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,

And they expect it from me.

Ari.

Presently?

Pro.

Ay, with a twink.

Ari.

Before you can say, ‘Come,’ and ‘Go,’ 44

And breathe twice; and cry, ‘so, so,’

Each one, tripping on his toe,

Will be here with mop and mow.

Do you love me, master? no? 48

Pro.

Dearly my delicate Ariel. Do not approach

Till thou dost hear me call.

Ari.

Well, I conceive.

[Exit.

Pro.

Look, thou be true; do not give dalliance

Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw 52

To the fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious,

Or else good night your vow!

Fer.

I warrant you, sir;

The white-cold virgin snow upon my heart

Abates the ardour of my liver.

Pro.

Well.— 56

Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,

Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.

No tongue! all eyes! be silent.

[Soft music.

A Masque. Enter Iris.

Iris.

Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 60

Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas;

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,

And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, 64

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,

To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,

Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; 68

And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,

Where thou thyself dost air: the queen o’ the sky,

Whose watery arch and messenger am I,

Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace, 72

Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,

To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain:

Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter Ceres.

Cer.

Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er 76

Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;

Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers

Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers:

And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown

My bosky acres, and my unshrubb’d down, 81

Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen

Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green?

Iris.

A contract of true love to celebrate, 84

And some donation freely to estate

On the bless’d lovers.

Cer.

Tell me, heavenly bow,

If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,

Do now attend the queen? since they did plot

The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, 89

Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company

I have forsworn.

Iris.

Of her society

Be not afraid; I met her deity 92

Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son

Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done

Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,

Whose vows are, that no bed-rite shall be paid

Till Hymen’s torch be lighted; but in vain: 97

Mars’s hot minion is return’d again;

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,

Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, 100

And be a boy right out.

Cer.

Highest queen of state,

Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait.

Enter Juno.

Jun.

How does my bounteous sister? Go with me

To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, 104

And honour’d in their issue.

SONG.

Jun.

Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you! 108

Juno sings her blessings on you.

Cer.

Earth’s increase, foison plenty,

Barns and garners never empty:

Vines, with clust’ring bunches growing; 112

Plants with goodly burden bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you; 116

Ceres’ blessing so is on you.

Fer.

This is a most majestic vision, and

Harmonious charmingly: May I be bold

To think these spirits?

Pro.

Spirits, which by mine art 120

I have from their confines call’d to enact

My present fancies.

Fer.

Let me live here ever:

So rare a wonder’d father and a wise,

Makes this place Paradise.

[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment.

Pro.

Sweet, now, silence! 124

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously,

There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute,

Or else our spell is marr’d.

Iris.

You nymphs, call’d Naiades, of the windring brooks, 128

With your sedg’d crowns, and ever-harmless looks,

Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land

Answer your summons: Juno does command.

Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate

A contract of true love: be not too late. 133

Enter certain Nymphs.

You sun-burn’d sicklemen, of August weary,

Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:

Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, 136

And these fresh nymphs encounter every one

In country footing.

Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish.

Pro.

[Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy

Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates 140

Against my life: the minute of their plot

Is almost come.—[To the Spirits.] Well done! avoid; no more!

Fer.

This is strange: your father’s in some passion

That works him strongly.

Mira.

Never till this day 144

Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.

Pro.

You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort,

As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 148

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 153

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 156

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.—Sir, I am vex’d:

Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled.

Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. 160

If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell

And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,

To still my beating mind.

Fer. Mira.

We wish your peace.

[Exeunt.

Pro.

Come with a thought!—[To them.] I thank thee: Ariel, come! 164

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure?

Pro.

Spirit,

We must prepare to meet with Caliban.

Ari.

Ay, my commander; when I presented Ceres,

I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d 168

Lest I might anger thee.

Pro.

Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?

Ari.

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;

So full of valour that they smote the air 172

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

For kissing of their feet; yet always bending

Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor;

At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears, 176

Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses

As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears

That, calf-like, they my lowing follow’d through

Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns, 180

Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them

I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,

There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake

O’erstunk their feet.

Pro.

This was well done, my bird. 184

Thy shape invisible retain thou still:

The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,

For stale to catch these thieves.

Ari.

I go, I go.

[Exit.

Pro.

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature

Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, 189

Humanely taken, are all lost, quite lost;

And as with age his body uglier grows,

So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, 192

Even to roaring.

Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c.

Come, hang them on this line.

Prospero and Ariel remain invisible. Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet.

Cal.

Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not

Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. 195

Ste.

Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us.

Trin.

Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation. 200

Ste.

So is mine.—Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,—

Trin.

Thou wert but a lost monster.

Cal.

Good my lord, give me thy favour still:

Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to 205

Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly;

All’s hush’d as midnight yet.

Trin.

Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,— 209

Ste.

There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss.

Trin.

That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster. 213

Ste.

I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour.

Cal.

Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here, 216

This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter.

Do that good mischief, which may make this island

Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,

For aye thy foot-licker. 220

Ste.

Give me thy hand: I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

Trin.

O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for thee! 225

Cal.

Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

Trin.

O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.—O king Stephano! 228

Ste.

Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown.

Trin.

Thy grace shall have it.

Cal.

The dropsy drown this fooll what do you mean 232

To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s along,

And do the murder first: if he awake,

From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches;

Make us strange stuff. 236

Ste.

Be you quiet, monster.—Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and prove a bald jerkin. 240

Trin.

Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your grace.

Ste.

I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment for’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country: ‘Steal by line and level,’ is an excellent pass of pate; there’s another garment for’t. 247

Trin.

Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.

Cal.

I will have none on’t: we shall lose our time,

And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes

With foreheads villanous low. 252

Ste.

Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to; carry this.

Trin.

And this. 256

Ste.

Ay, and this.

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of hounds, and hunt them about; Prospero and Ariel setting them on.

Pro.

Hey, Mountain, hey!

Ari.

Silver! there it goes, Silver!

Pro.

Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark, hark! 260

[Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out

Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints

With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews

With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them

Than pard, or cat o’ mountain.

Ari.

Hark! they roar. 264

Pro.

Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour

Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou

Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little, 268

Follow, and do me service.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Before the Cell of Prospero.

Enter Prospero in his magic robes; and Ariel.

Pro.

Now does my project gather to a head:

My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time

Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?

Ari.

On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, 4

You said our work should cease.

Pro.

I did say so,

When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my spirit,

How fares the king and’s followers?

Ari.

Confin’d together

In the same fashion as you gave in charge, 8

Just as you left them: all prisoners, sir,

In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;

They cannot budge till your release. The king,

His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, 12

And the remainder mourning over them,

Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly

Him, that you term’d, sir, ‘The good old lord Gonzalo:’

His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops

From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works them, 17

That if you now beheld them, your affections

Would become tender.

Pro.

Dost thou think so, spirit?

Ari.

Mine would, sir, were I human.

Pro.

And mine shall. 20

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling

Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,

One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,

Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art? 24

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,

Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury

Do I take part: the rarer action is

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 28

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend

Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel.

My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,

And they shall be themselves.

Ari.

I’ll fetch them, sir

[Exit.

Pro.

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; 33

And ye, that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him

When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that 36

By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make

Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice

To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,— 40

Weak masters though ye be—I have bedimm’d

The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds,

And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault

Set roaring war: to the dread-rattling thunder 44

Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak

With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory

Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up

The pine and cedar: graves at my command 48

Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let them forth

By my so potent art. But this rough magic

I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d

Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,—

To work mine end upon their senses that 53

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 56

I’ll drown my book.

[Solemn music.

Re-enter Ariel: after him, Alonso, with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks.

A solemn air and the best comforter

To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,

Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, 60

For you are spell-stopp’d.

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,

Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;

And as the morning steals upon the night, 65

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason.—O good Gonzalo! 68

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

To him thou follow’st, I will pay thy graces

Home, both in word and deed.—Most cruelly

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: 72

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act;—

Thou’rt pinch’d for’t now, Sebastian.—Flesh and blood,

You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,

Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,— 76

Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,—

Would here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee,

Unnatural though thou art!—Their understanding

Begins to swell, and the approaching tide 80

Will shortly fill the reasonable shores

That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them

That yet looks on me, or would know me.—Ariel,

Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:— 84

[Exit Ariel.

I will discase me, and myself present,

As I was sometime Milan.—Quickly, spirit;

Thou shalt ere long be free.

Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospero.

Ari.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I 88

In a cowslip’s bell I he:

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily 92

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough

Pro.

Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee;

But yet thou shalt have freedom;—so, so, so.—

To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art: 97

There shalt thou find the mariners asleep

Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain

Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100

And presently, I prithee.

Ari.

I drink the air before me, and return

Or e’er your pulse twice beat.

[Exit.

Gon.

All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement 104

Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us

Out of this fearful country!

Pro.

Behold, sir king,

The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.

For more assurance that a living prince 108

Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;

And to thee and thy company I bid

A hearty welcome.

Alon.

Whe’r thou beest he or no,

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, 112

As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse

Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,

Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which,

I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,—

An if this be at all—a most strange story. 117

Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat

Thou pardon me my wrongs.—But how should Prospero

Be living, and be here?

Pro.

First, noble friend, 120

Let me embrace thine age; whose honour cannot

Be measur’d, or confin’d.

Gon.

Whether this be,

Or be not, I’ll not swear.

Pro.

You do yet taste

Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you

Believe things certain.—Welcome! my friends all:— 125

[Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,

I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you,

And justify you traitors: at this time 128

I will tell no tales.

Seb.

[Aside.] The devil speaks in him.

Pro.

No.

For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother

Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive

Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require 132

My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know,

Thou must restore.

Alon.

If thou beest Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation;

How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 136

Were wrack’d upon this shore; where I have lost,—

How sharp the point of this remembrance is!—

My dear son Ferdinand.

Pro.

I am woe for’t, sir.

Alon.

Irreparable is the loss, and patience

Says it is past her cure.

Pro.

I rather think 141

You have not sought her help; of whose soft grace,

For the like loss I have her sovereign aid,

And rest myself content.

Alon.

You the like loss! 144

Pro.

As great to me, as late; and, supportable

To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker

Than you may call to comfort you, for I

Have lost my daughter.

Alon.

A daughter? 148

O heavens! that they were living both in Naples,

The king and queen there! that they were, I wish

Myself were mudded in that oozy bed

Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter? 152

Pro.

In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords

At this encounter do so much admire

That they devour their reason, and scarce think

Their eyes do offices of truth, their words 156

Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have

Been justled from your senses, know for certain

That I am Prospero and that very duke

Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely 160

Upon this shore, where you were wrack’d, was landed,

To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this;

For ’tis a chronicle of day by day,

Not a relation for a breakfast nor 164

Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;

This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants

And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.

My dukedom since you have given me again, 168

I will requite you with as good a thing;

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye

As much as me my dukedom.

The entrance of the Cell opens, and discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess.

Mira.

Sweet lord, you play me false.

Fer.

No, my dearest love, 172

I would not for the world.

Mira.

Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,

And I would call it fair play.

Alon.

If this prove

A vision of the island, one dear son 176

Shall I twice lose.

Seb.

A most high miracle!

Fer.

Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:

I have curs’d them without cause.

[Kneels to Alon.

Alon.

Now, all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about! 180

Arise, and say how thou cam’st here.

Mira.

O, wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

That has such people in’t!

Pro.

’Tis new to thee. 184

Alon.

What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play?

Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:

Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us,

And brought us thus together?

Fer.

Sir, she is mortal; 188

But by immortal Providence she’s mine;

I chose her when I could not ask my father

For his advice, nor thought I had one. She

Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 192

Of whom so often I have heard renown,

But never saw before; of whom I have

Receiv’d a second life; and second father

This lady makes him to me.

Alon.

I am hers: 196

But O! how oddly will it sound that I

Must ask my child forgiveness!

Pro.

There, sir, stop:

Let us not burden our remembrances

With a heaviness that’s gone.

Gon.

I have inly wept, 200

Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods,

And on this couple drop a blessed crown;

For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way

Which brought us hither!

Alon.

I say, Amen, Gonzalo! 204

Gon.

Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue

Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice

Beyond a common joy, and set it down

With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage 208

Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,

And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife

Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom

In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves, 212

When no man was his own.

Alon.

[To Fer. and Mira.] Give me your hands:

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart

That doth not wish you joy!

Gon.

Be it so: Amen!

Re-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following.

O look, sir! look, sir! here are more of us. 216

I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,

This fellow could not drown.—Now, blasphemy,

That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore?

Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?

Boats.

The best news is that we have safely found 221

Our king and company: the next, our ship,—

Which but three glasses since we gave out split,—

Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d as when

We first put out to sea.

Ari.

[Aside to Pro.] Sir, all this service 225

Have I done since I went.

Pro.

[Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit!

Alon.

These are not natural events; they strengthen

From strange to stranger.—Say, how came you hither? 228

Boats.

If I did think, sir, I were well awake,

I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,

And,—how we know not,—all clapp’d under hatches,

Where, but even now, with strange and several noises 232

Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,

And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible,

We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty:

Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 236

Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master

Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,

Even in a dream, were we divided from them,

And were brought moping hither.

Ari.

[Aside to Pro.] Was’t well done? 240

Pro

[Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence! Thou shalt be free.

Alon.

This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod;

And there is in this business more than nature

Was ever conduct of: some oracle 244

Must rectify our knowledge.

Pro.

Sir, my liege,

Do not infest your mind with beating on

The strangeness of this business: at pick’d leisure

Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you,—

Which to you shall seem probable,—of every

These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful,

And think of each thing well.—[Aside to Ari.] Come hither, spirit;

Set Caliban and his companions free; 252

Untie the spell. [Exit Ari.] How fares my gracious sir?

There are yet missing of your company

Some few odd lads that you remember not.

Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, in their stolen apparel.

Ste.

Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio! bully-monster, Coragio!

Trin.

If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight. 260

Cal.

O Setebos! these be brave spirits, indeed.

How fine my master is! I am afraid

He will chastise me.

Seb.

Ha, ha!

What things are these, my lord Antonio? 264

Will money buy them?

Ant.

Very like; one of them

Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

Pro.

Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,

Then say, if they be true.—This mis-shapen knave,— 268

His mother was a witch; and one so strong

That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,

And deal in her command without her power.

These three have robb’d me; and this demidevil,— 272

For he’s a bastard one,—had plotted with them

To take my life: two of these fellows you

Must know and own; this thing of darkness I

Acknowledge mine.

Cal.

I shall be pinch’d to death 276

Alon.

Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

Seb.

He is drunk now: where had he wine?

Alon.

And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them?

How cam’st thou in this pickle? 281

Trin.

I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing. 284

Seb.

Why, how now, Stephano!

Ste.

O! touch me not: I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

Pro.

You’d be king of the isle, sirrah?

Ste.

I should have been a sore one then. 288

Alon.

This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on.

[Pointing to Cal.

Pro.

He is as disproportion’d in his manners As in his shape.—Go, sirrah, to my cell;

Take with you your companions: as you look

To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 293

Cal.

Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter,

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass

Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, 296

And worship this dull fool!

Pro.

Go to; away!

Alon.

Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

Seb.

Or stole it, rather.

[Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin.

Pro.

Sir, I invite your highness and your train 300

To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest

For this one night; which—part of it—I’ll waste

With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it

Go quick away; the story of my life 304

And the particular accidents gone by

Since I came to this isle: and in the morn

I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,

Where I have hope to see the nuptial 308

Of these our dear-beloved solemniz’d;

And thence retire me to my Milan, where

Every third thought shall be my grave.

Alon.

I long

To hear the story of your life, which must 312

Take the ear strangely.

Pro.

I’ll deliver all;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales

And sail so expeditious that shall catch

Your royal fleet far off.—[Aside to Ari.] My Ariel, chick, 316

That is thy charge: then to the elements

Be free, and fare thou well!—Please you, draw near.

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Prospero.

Now my charms are all o’erthrown,

And what strength I have’s mine own;

Which is most faint: now, ’tis true,

I must be here confin’d by you,  4

Or sent to Naples Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got

And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell;  8

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands.

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,  12

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be reliev’d by prayer,  16

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon’d be,

Let your indulgence set me free.  20

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke of Milan,	Father to Silvia.
Valentine, }	the Two Gentlemen.
Proteus, }	the Two Gentlemen.
Antonio,	Father to Proteus.
Thurio,	a foolish rival to Valentine.
Eglamour,	Agent for Silvia, in her escape.
Speed,	a clownish Servant to Valentine.
Launce,	the like to Proteus.
Panthino,	Servant to Antonio.
Host,	where Julia lodges in Milan.
Outlaws	with Valentine.
Julia,	beloved of Proteus.
Silvia,	beloved of Valentine.
Lucetta,	waiting woman to Julia.
Servants, Musicians.

Scene.—Verona; Milan; and the frontiers of Mantua.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Verona. An open place.

Enter Valentine and Proteus.

Val.

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.

Were’t not affection chains thy tender days

To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love, 4

I rather would entreat thy company

To see the wonders of the world abroad

Than, living dully sluggardiz’d at home,

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 8

But since thou lov’st, 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 seest 12

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, 16

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,

For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Val.

And on a love-book pray for my success?

Pro.

Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee. 20

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. 24

Val.

’Tis true; for you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Pro.

Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.

Val.

No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

Pro.

What? 28

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; 32

If lost, why then a grievous labour won:

However, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro.

So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. 36

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, 40

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. 44

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 turned to folly; blasting in the bud, 48

Losing his verdure even in the prime,

And all the fair effects of future hopes.

But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee

That art a votary to fond desire? 52

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. 56

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters

Of thy success in love, and what news else

Betideth here in absence of thy friend;

And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 60

Pro.

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

Val.

As much to you at home! and so, farewell.

[Exit.

Pro.

He after honour hunts, I after love:

He leaves his friends to dignify them more; 64

I leave myself, my friends and all, for love.

Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos’d me;—

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,

War with good counsel, set the world at nought;

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. 69

Enter Speed.

Speed.

Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?

Pro.

But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.

Speed.

Twenty to one, then, he is shipp’d already, 72

And I have play’d the sheep, in losing him.

Pro.

Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,

An if the shepherd be a while away.

Speed.

You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, and I a sheep? 77

Pro.

I do.

Speed.

Why then my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. 80

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. 85

Pro.

It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another.

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. 91

Pro.

The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou for wages followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep. 96

Speed.

Such another proof will make me cry ‘baa.’

Pro.

But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia? 100

Speed.

Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton; and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. 104

Pro.

Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons.

Speed.

If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her. 108

Pro.

Nay, in that you are astray; ’twere best pound you.

Speed.

Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. 112

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. 116

Pro.

But what said she? [Speed nods.] Did she nod?

Speed.

Ay.

Pro.

Nod, ay? why, that’s noddy. 120

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. 125

Pro.

No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

Speed.

Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. 129

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. 133

Pro.

Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

Speed.

And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. 136

Pro.

Come, come; open the matter in brief: what said she?

Speed.

Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered. 140

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? 145

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. Give her no token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel.

Pro.

What! said she nothing? 152

Speed.

No, not so much as ‘Take this for thy pains.’ To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master. 157

Pro.

Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wrack;

Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,

Being destin’d to a drier death on shore.— 160

[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. 163

[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 4

That every day with parle 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. 8

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. 11

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? 16

Luc.

Pardon, dear madam; ’tis a passing shame

That I, unworthy body as I am,

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Jul.

Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

Luc.

Then thus,—of many good I think him best. 21

Jul.

Your reason?

Luc.

I have no other but a woman’s reason:

I think him so because I think him so. 24

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 mov’d me.

Luc.

Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. 28

Jul.

His little speaking shows his love but small.

Luc.

Fire 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. 32

Jul.

I would I knew his mind.

Luc.

Peruse this paper, madam.

[Gives a letter.

Jul.

‘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 Proteus. 36

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!

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? 40

To whisper and conspire against my youth?

Now, trust me, ’tis an office of great worth

And you an officer fit for the place.

There, take the paper: see it be return’d; 44

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. 48

It were a shame to call her back again

And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.

What fool is she, that knows I am a maid,

And would not force the letter to my view! 52

Since maids, in modesty, say ‘No’ to that

Which they would have the profferer construe ‘Ay.’

Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love

That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse 56

And presently all humbled kiss the rod!

How churlishly I child Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here:

How angerly I taught my brow to frown, 60

When inward joy enforc’d 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? 64

Jul.

Is it near dinner-time?

Luc.

I would it were;

That you might kill your stomach on your meat

And not upon your maid.

Jul.

What is’t that you took up so gingerly?

Luc.

Nothing. 69

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. 72

Jul.

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Luc.

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,

Unless it have a false interpreter.

Jul.

Some love of yours hath writ to you in rime. 76

Luc.

That I might sing it, madam, to a tune:

Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

Jul.

As little by such toys as may be possible;

Best sing it to the tune of ‘Light o’ Love.’ 80

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. 84

Jul.

Let’s see your song. [Taking the letter.] 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. 88

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. 92

Jul.

The mean is drown’d with your unruly bass.

Luc.

Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

Jul.

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

Here is a coil with protestation!— 96

[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 pleas’d

To be so anger’d with another letter.

[Exit.

Jul.

Nay, would I were so anger’d with the same! 101

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. 105

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. 109

And here is writ ‘love-wounded Proteus:’

Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed

Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal’d; 112

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, 116

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, 120

‘Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,

To the sweet Julia’:—that I’ll tear away;

And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names: 124

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. 128

Jul.

Well, let us go.

Luc.

What! shall these papers he like tell-tales here?

Jul.

If you respect them, best to take them up.

Luc.

Nay, I was taken up for laying them down; 132

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

Jul.

I see you have a month’s mind to them.

Luc.

Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;

I see things too, although you judge I wink. 136

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 talk was that

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

Pant.

‘Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

Ant.

Why, what of him?

Pant.

He wonder’d that your lordship 4

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; 8

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, 12

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,

Which would be great impeachment to his age,

In having known to travel in his youth. 16

Ant.

Nor need’st thou much importune 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, 20

Not being tried and tutor’d in the world:

Experience is by industry achiev’d

And perfected by the swift course of time.

Then tell me, whither were I best to send him?

Pant.

I think your lordship is not ignorant

How his companion, youthful Valentine, 26

Attends the emperor in his royal court.

Ant.

I know it well. 28

Pant.

’Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:

There shall be practise tilts and tournaments,

Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,

And be in eye of every exercise 32

Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

Ant.

I like thy counsel, well hast thou advis’d:

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it

The execution of it shall make known. 36

Even with the speediest expedition

I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court.

Pant.

To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso

With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40

Are journeying to salute the emperor

And to commend their service to his will.

Ant.

Good company; with them shall Proteus go: 43

And in good time:—now will we break with him.

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, 48

To seal our happiness with their consents!

O heavenly Julia!

Ant.

How now! what letter are you reading there?

Pro.

May’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two 52

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 56

How happily he lives, how well belov’d

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 61

And not depending on his friendly wish.

Ant.

My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; 64

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

I am resolv’d that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the emperor’s court:

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. 69

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. 73

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 76

To hasten on his expedition.

[Exeunt Antonio and Panthino.

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, 80

Lest he should take exceptions to my love;

And with the vantage of mine own excuse

Hath he excepted most against my love.

O! how this spring of love resembleth 84

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Re-enter Panthino.

Pant.

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:

He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go. 89

Pro.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,

And yet a thousand times it answers, ‘no.’

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Milan. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Valentine and Speed.

Speed.

Sir, your glove.

[Offering a glove.

Val.

Not mine; my gloves are on.

Speed.

Why, then this may be yours, for this is but one.

Val.

Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it’s mine;

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! 4

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. 12

Speed.

And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

Val.

Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? 16

Speed.

She that your worship loves?

Val.

Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed.

Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.

Val.

Are all these things perceived in me? 36

Speed.

They are all perceived without ye.

Val.

Without me? they cannot.

Speed.

Without you? nay, that’s certain; for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. 45

Val.

But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

Speed.

She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper? 49

Val.

Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.

Speed.

Why, sir, I know her not. 52

Val.

Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not?

Speed.

Is she not hard-favoured, sir?

Val.

Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. 56

Speed.

Sir, I know that well enough.

Val.

What dost thou know?

Speed.

That she is not so fair, as, of you, well-favoured. 60

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. 64

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 esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty. 69

Speed.

You never saw her since she was deformed.

Val.

How long hath she been deformed? 72

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. 76

Val.

Why?

Speed.

Because Love is blind. O! that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! 81

Val.

What should I see then?

Speed.

Your own present folly and her passing deformity: for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. 86

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. 93

Val.

In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

Speed.

I would you were set, so your affection would cease. 95

Val.

Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves.

Speed.

And have you?

Val.

I have. 100

Speed.

Are they not lamely writ?

Val.

No, boy, but as well as I can do them.

Peace! here she comes.

Enter Silvia.

Speed.

[Aside.] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! now will he interpret to her.

Val.

Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows. 107

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.

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 116

But for my duty to your ladyship.

[Gives a letter.

Sil.

I thank you, gentle servant. ’Tis very clerkly done.

Val.

Now, trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 120

For, being ignorant to whom it goes

I writ at random, very doubtfully.

Sil.

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— 126

Sil.

A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;

And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not;

And yet take this again; and yet I thank you,

Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 130

Speed.

[Aside.] And yet you will; and yet another yet.

Val.

What means your ladyship? do you not like it? 132

Sil.

Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly 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. 137

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: 140

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: 143

And so, good morrow, servant.

[Exit.

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. 148

O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,

That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?

Val.

How now, sir! what are you reasoning with yourself?

Speed.

Nay, I was riming: ’tis you that have the reason. 152

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. 156

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? 162

Val.

No, believe me.

Speed.

No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest?

Val.

She gave me none, except an angry word.

Speed.

Why, she hath given you a letter.

Val.

That’s the letter I writ to her friend. 168

Speed.

And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.

Val.

I would it were no worse.

Speed.

I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: 172

‘For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,

Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;

Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,

Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.’ 176

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.

Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.

Val.

I have dined. 179

Speed.

Ay, but hearken, sir: though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. O! be not like your mistress: be moved, be moved.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Verona. A Room in 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. 4

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 9

Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness! 12

My father stays my coming; answer not.

The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;

That tide will stay me longer than I should.

Julia, farewell.

[Exit Julia.

What! gone without a word? 16

Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter Panthino.

Pant.

Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.

Pro.

Go; I come, I come.

Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 20

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The 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 received 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 weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog; a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting: why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the 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, is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on’t! there ’tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister; for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog; no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,—O! the dog is me, and I am myself: ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; ‘Father, your blessing;’ now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother;—O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes: Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. 36

Enter Panthino.

Pant.

Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you’ll lose the tide if you tarry any longer. 41

Launce.

It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

Pant.

What’s the unkindest tide? 44

Launce.

Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog.

Pant.

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? 52

Launce.

For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Pant.

Where should I lose my tongue?

Launce.

In thy tale. 56

Pant.

In thy tail!

Launce.

Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! 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.

Pant.

Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 64

Launce.

Sir, call me what thou darest.

Pant.

Wilt thou go?

Launce.

Well, I will go.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Milan. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio, and Speed.

Sil.

Servant!

Val.

Mistress?

Speed.

Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

Val.

Ay, boy, it’s for love. 4

Speed.

Not of you.

Val.

Of my mistress, then.

Speed.

’Twere good you knock’d him.

Sil.

Servant, you are sad. 8

Val.

Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Thu.

Seem you that you are not?

Val.

Haply I do.

Thu.

So do counterfeits. 12

Val.

So do you.

Thu.

What seem I that I am not?

Val.

Wise.

Thu.

What instance of the contrary? 16

Val.

Your folly.

Thu.

And how quote you my folly?

Val.

I quote it in your jerkin.

Thu.

My jerkin is a doublet. 20

Val.

Well, then, I’ll double your folly.

Thu.

How?

Sil.

What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour? 24

Val.

Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

Thu.

That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. 28

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. 32

Sil.

A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

Val.

’Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. 36

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. 41

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. 49

Enter 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 52

Of much good news?

Val.

My lord, I will be thankful

To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke.

Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

Val.

Ay, my good lord; I know the gentleman

To be of worth and worthy estimation, 57

And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke.

Hath he not a son?

Val.

Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 60

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 convers’d and spent our hours together:

And though myself have been an idle truant, 65

Omitting the sweet benefit of time

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

Yet hath Sir Proteus,—for that’s his name,— 68

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 72

Come all the praises that I now bestow,—

He is complete in feature and in mind

With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

Duke.

Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, 76

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; 80

And here he means to spend his time awhile:

I think, ’tis no unwelcome news to you.

Val.

Should I have wish’d a thing, it had been he.

Duke.

Welcome him then according to his worth. 84

Silvia, I speak to you; and you, Sir Thurio:—

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.

I’ll send him hither to you presently.

[Exit.

Val.

This is the gentleman I told your ladyship 88

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 enfranchis’d them

Upon some other pawn for fealty. 92

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 pairs of eyes.

Thu.

They say that Love hath not an eye at all. 97

Val.

To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:

Upon a homely object Love can wink.

Sil.

Have done, have done. Here comes the gentleman. 100

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, 103

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 108

To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

Val.

Leave off discourse of disability:

Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

Pro.

My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 112

Sil.

And duty never yet did want his meed.

Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

Pro.

I’ll die on him that says so but yourself.

Sil.

That you are welcome?

Pro.

That you are worthless. 116

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

Sil.

I wait upon his pleasure. [Exit Servant.] Come, Sir Thurio,

Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:

I’ll leave you to confer of home-affairs; 120

When you have done, we look to hear from you.

Pro.

We’ll both attend upon your ladyship.

[Exeunt Silvia, Thurio, and Speed.

Val.

Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?

Pro.

Your friends are well and have them much commended. 124

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. 128

Val.

Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now:

I have done penance for contemning love;

Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me

With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 132

With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;

For, in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chas’d sleep from my enthralled eyes,

And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sorrow. 136

O, gentle Proteus! Love’s a mighty lord,

And hath so humbled me as I confess,

There is no woe to his correction,

Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 140

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? 145

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. 148

Val.

O! flatter me, for love delights in praises.

Pro.

When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

Val.

Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, 152

Yet let her be a principality,

Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Pro.

Except my mistress.

Val.

Sweet, except not any,

Except thou wilt except against my love. 156

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 160

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. 164

Pro.

Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

Val.

Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing

To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing.

She is alone.

Pro.

Then, let her alone. 168

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. 172

Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,

Because thou see’st me dote upon my love.

My foolish rival, that her father likes

Only for his possessions are so huge, 176

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 are betroth’d: nay, more, our marriage-hour, 180

With all the cunning manner of our flight,

Determin’d of: how I must climb her window,

The ladder made of cords, and all the means

Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. 184

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Pro.

Go on before, I shall inquire you forth:

I must unto the road, to disembark 188

Some necessaries that I needs must use,

And then I’ll presently attend you.

Val.

Will you make haste?

Pro.

I will.

[Exit Valentine.

Even as one heat another heat expels, 193

Or as one nail by strength drives out another,

So the remembrance of my former love

Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 196

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,— 200

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, 204

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, 208

That thus without advice begin to love her?

’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason’s light;

But when I look on her perfections, 212

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can check my erring love, I will;

If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill.

[Exit.

Scene V.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Speed and Launce.

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 hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say, ‘Welcome!’ 7

Speed.

Come on, you madcap, I’ll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? 12

Launce.

Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest.

Speed.

But shall she marry him?

Launce.

No. 16

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. 24

Speed.

What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

Launce.

What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me. 28

Speed.

What thou sayest?

Launce.

Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I’ll but lean, and my staff understands me.

Speed.

It stands under thee, indeed. 32

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. 41

Speed.

’Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest thou, that my master is become a notable lover? 44

Launce.

I never knew him otherwise.

Speed.

Than how?

Launce.

A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. 48

Speed.

Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.

Launce.

Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master. 52

Speed.

I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

Launce.

Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse so; if not, thou art a Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.

Speed.

Why? 60

Launce.

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale 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;

And even that power which gave me first my oath 4

Provokes me to this threefold perjury:

Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.

O sweet-suggesting Love! if thou hast sinn’d,

Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. 8

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 12

To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.

Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,

Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d

With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.

I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; 17

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; 20

If I lose them, thus find I by their loss,

For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.

I to myself am dearer than a friend,

For love is still most precious in itself; 24

And Silvia—witness heaven that made her fair!—

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.

I will forget that Julia is alive,

Remembering that my love to her is dead; 28

And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy,

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.

I cannot now prove constant to myself

Without some treachery us’d to Valentine: 32

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder

To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window,

Myself in counsel, his competitor.

Now presently, I’ll give her father notice 36

Of their disguising and pretended flight;

Who, all enrag’d, will banish Valentine;

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;

But, Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross, 40

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!

[Exit.

Scene VII.— Verona. A Room in Julia’s House

Enter Julia and Lucetta.

Jul.

Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me:

And e’en in kind love I do conjure thee,

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts

Are visibly character’d and engrav’d, 4

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. 8

Jul.

A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary

To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;

Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly,

And when the flight is made to one so dear, 12

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, 16

By longing for that food so long a time.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20

Luc.

I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire,

But qualify the fire’s extreme rage,

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

Jul.

The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. 24

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 29

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 32

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; 36

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. 41

Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds

As may beseem some well-reputed page.

Luc.

Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair. 44

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. 48

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 farthingale?’

Why, even what fashion thou best lik’st, Lucetta. 52

Luc.

You must needs have them with a cod-piece, madam.

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 cod-piece to stick pins on. 56

Jul.

Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have

What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly.

But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me

For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 60

I fear me, it will make me scandaliz’d.

Luc.

If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

Jul.

Nay, that I will not.

Luc.

Then never dream on infamy, but go. 64

If Proteus like your journey when you come,

No matter who’s displeas’d when you are gone.

I fear me, he will scarce be pleas’d withal.

Jul.

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: 68

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,

And instances of infinite of love

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Luc.

All these are servants to deceitful men.

Jul.

Base men, that use them to so base effect; 73

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth:

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, 76

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 lov’st me, do him not that wrong 80

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 84

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation;

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. 88

Come, answer not, but to it presently!

I am impatient of my tarriance.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Milan. An anteroom 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 4

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 8

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. 12

I know you have determin’d to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;

And should she thus be stol’n away from you

It would be much vexation to your age. 16

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 grave. 21

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, 24

Haply, when they have judg’d me fast asleep,

And oftentimes have purpos’d to forbid

Sir Valentine her company and my court;

But fearing lest my jealous aim might err 28

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 disclos’d to me. 32

And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,

Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,

The key whereof myself have ever kept; 36

And thence she cannot be convey’d away.

Pro.

Know, noble lord, they have devis’d a mean

How he her chamber-window will ascend

And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 40

For which the youthful lover now is gone

And this way comes he with it presently;

Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.

But, good my lord, do it so cunningly 44

That my discovery be not aimed at;

For love of you, not hate unto my friend,

Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Duke.

Upon mine honour, he shall never know 48

That I had any light from thee of this.

Pro.

Adieu, my lord: Sir Valentine is coming.

[Exit.

Enter Valentine.

Duke.

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Val.

Please it your Grace, there is a messenger 52

That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And I am going to deliver them.

Duke.

Be they of much import?

Val.

The tenour of them doth but signify 56

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. 60

’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 64

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, 68

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, 72

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;

And, where I thought the remnant of mine age

Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty,

I now am full resolv’d to take a wife 76

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? 80

Duke.

There is a lady of Verona here,

Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy

And nought esteems my aged eloquence:

Now therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,

For long agone I have forgot to court; 85

Besides, the fashion of the time is chang’d,

How and which way I may bestow myself

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 88

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. 92

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, 96

But rather to beget more love in you;

If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone;

For why the fools are mad if left alone.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 100

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. 105

Duke.

But she I mean is promis’d by her friends

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,

And kept severely from resort of men, 108

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. 112

Val.

What lets 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. 116

Val.

Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,

To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower,

So bold Leander would adventure it. 120

Duke.

Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,

Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

Val.

When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.

Duke.

This very night; for Love is like a child, 124

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? 128

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: 132

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. 136

[Pulls open Valentine’s cloak.

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.

My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 140

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, 148

That they should harbour where their lord would be.

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,—

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? 156

Go, basc intruder! overweening slave!

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence. 160

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 164

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever borc my daughter or thyself.

Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; 168

But, as thou lov’st 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 172

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 176

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, 180

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence; and I leave to be,

If I be not by her fair influence

Foster’d, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive. 184

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:

Tarry I here, I but attend on death;

But, fly I hence, I fly away from life.

Enter Proteus and Launce.

Pro.

Run, boy; run, run, and seek him out.

Launce.

Soho! soho! 189

Pro.

What seest thou?

Launce.

Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on’s head but ’tis a Valentine. 192

Pro.

Valentine?

Val.

No.

Pro.

Who then? his spirit?

Val.

Neither. 196

Pro.

What then?

Val.

Nothing.

Launce.

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? 200

Pro.

Who would’st thou strike?

Launce.

Nothing.

Pro.

Villain, forbear.

Launce.

Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing: I pray you,— 204

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. 209

Val.

Is Silvia dead?

Pro.

No, Valentine.

Val.

No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia!

Hath she forsworn me? 213

Pro.

No, Valentine.

Val.

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me!

What is your news? 216

Launce.

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

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, 220

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— 223

Which, unrevers’d, 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 228

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; 232

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chaf’d him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her, 236

With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val.

No more; unless the next word that thou speak’st

Have some malignant power upon my life:

If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 240

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament’st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 244

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. 248

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: 252

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 lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself, 256

Regard thy danger, and along with me!

Val.

I pray thee, Launce, and if thou seest my boy,

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

Pro.

Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 260

Val.

O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!

[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 knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love: yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel,—which is much in a bare Christian. [Pulling out a paper.] Here is the catelog of her condition. Imprimis, She can fetch and carry. Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore, is she better than a jade. Item, She can milk; look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. 280

Enter Speed.

Speed.

How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership?

Launce.

With my master’s ship? why, it is at sea. 284

Speed.

Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper?

Launce.

The blackest news that ever thou heardest. 288

Speed.

Why, man, how black?

Launce.

Why, as black as ink.

Speed.

Let me read them.

Launce.

Fie on thee, jolthead! thou canst not read. 293

Speed.

Thou liest; I can.

Launce.

I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee? 296

Speed.

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Launce.

O, illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read. 300

Speed.

Come, fool, come: try me in thy paper.

Launce.

There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed! 304

Speed.

Imprimis, She can 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.’ 309

Speed.

Item, She can sew.

Launce.

That’s as much as to say, Can she so? 312

Speed.

Item, She can knit.

Launce.

What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock?

Speed.

Item, She can wash and scour. 316

Launce.

A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured.

Speed.

Item, She can spin.

Launce.

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. 321

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. 328

Speed.

Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath.

Launce.

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. 332

Speed.

Item, She hath a sweet mouth.

Launce.

That makes amends for her sour breath.

Speed.

Item, She doth talk in her sleep. 336

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. 344

Launce.

Out with that too: it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her.

Speed.

Item, She hath no teeth.

Launce.

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. 349

Speed.

Item, She is curst.

Launce.

Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 352

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. 356

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. 365

Launce.

Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. 368

Speed.

Item, She hath more hair than wit.—

Launce.

More hair than wit it may be; I’ll prove it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair, that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next?

Speed.

And more faults than hairs.— 376

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. 385

Speed.

For me?

Launce.

For thee! ay; who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee. 388

Speed.

And must I go to him?

Launce.

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. 392

Speed.

Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love-letters!

[Exit.

Launce

Now will he be swing’d 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 despis’d me most,

Forsworn my company and rail’d at me, 4

That I am desperate of obtaining her.

Duke.

This weak impress of love is as a figure

Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat

Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 8

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? 12

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,— 17

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. 21

Duke.

Thou know’st how willingly I would effect

The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.

Pro.

I do, my lord. 24

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 persevers so. 28

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.

Pro.

Ay, if his enemy deliver it:

Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken

By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. 37

Duke.

Then you must undertake to slander him.

Pro.

And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:

’Tis an ill office for a gentleman, 40

Especially against his very friend.

Duke.

Where your good word cannot advantage him,

Your slander never can endamage him:

Therefore the office is indifferent, 44

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. 48

But say this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

Thu.

Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,

Lest it should ravel and be good to none, 52

You must provide to bottom it on me;

Which must be done by praising me as much

As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.

Duke.

And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, 56

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 60

Where you with Silvia may confer at large;

For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,

And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you;

Where you may temper her, by your persuasion

To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65

Pro.

As much as I can do I will effect.

But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;

You must lay lime to tangle her desires 68

By wailful sonnets, whose composed rimes

Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

Duke.

Ay,

Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 72

Pro.

Say that upon the altar of her beauty

You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears

Moist it again, and frame some feeling line 76

That may discover such integrity:

For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews,

Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,

Make tigers tame and huge leviathans 80

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.

After your dire-lamenting elegies,

Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window

With some sweet consort: to their instruments

Tune a deploring dump; the night’s dead silence

Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.

This, or else nothing, will inherit her.

Duke.

This discipline shows thou hast been in love. 88

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 some gentlemen well skill’d in music. 92

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 aftersupper, 96

And afterward determine our proceedings.

Duke.

Even now about it! I will pardon you.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Forest between Milan and Verona.

Enter certain Outlaws.

First Out.

Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

Sec. Out.

If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em.

Enter Valentine and Speed.

Third Out.

Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;

If not, we’ll make you sit and rifle you. 4

Speed.

Sir, we are undone: these are the villains

That all the travellers do fear so much.

Val.

My friends,—

First Out.

That’s not so, sir; we are your enemies. 8

Sec. Out.

Peace! we’ll hear him.

Third Out.

Ay, by my beard, will we, for he is a proper man.

Val.

Then know, that I have little wealth to lose.

A man I am cross’d with adversity: 12

My riches are these poor habiliments,

Of which if you should here disfurnish me,

You take the sum and substance that I have.

Sec. Out.

Whither travel you? 16

Val.

To Verona.

First Out.

Whence came you?

Val.

From Milan.

Third Out.

Have you long sojourn’d there?

Val.

Some sixteen months; and longer might have stay’d 21

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

Sec. Out.

What! were you banish’d thence?

Val.

I was. 24

Sec. Out.

For what offence?

Val.

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, 28

Without false vantage or base treachery.

First Out.

Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done so.

But were you banish’d for so small a fault?

Val.

I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

Sec. Out.

Have you the tongues? 33

Val.

My youthful travel therein made me happy,

Or else I often had been miserable.

Third Out.

By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar, 36

This fellow were a king for our wild faction!

First Out.

We’ll have him: Sirs, a word.

Speed.

Master, be one of them;

It is an honourable kind of thievery. 40

Val.

Peace, villain!

Sec. Out.

Tell us this: have you anything to take to?

Val.

Nothing, but my fortune.

Third Out.

Know then, that some of us are gentlemen, 44

Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth

Thrust from the company of awful men:

Myself was from Verona banished

For practising to steal away a lady, 48

An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

Sec Out.

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,

Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart.

First Out.

And I for such like petty crimes as these. 52

But to the purpose; for we cite our faults,

That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives;

And, partly, seeing you are beautified

With goodly shape, and by your own report 56

A linguist, and a man of such perfection

As we do in our quality much want—

Sec. Out.

Indeed, because you are a banish’d man,

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. 60

Are you content to be our general?

To make a virtue of necessity

And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Third Out.

What say’st thou? wilt thou be of our consort? 64

Say ‘ay,’ and be the captain of us all:

We’ll do thee homage and be rul’d by thee,

Love thee as our commander and our king.

First Out.

But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. 68

Sec. Out.

Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer’d.

Val.

I take your offer and will live with you,

Provided that you do no outrages

On silly women, or poor passengers. 72

Third Out.

No; we detest such vile, base practices.

Come, go with us; we’ll bring thee to our crews,

And show thee all the treasure we have got,

Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. 76

[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 be as unjust to Thurio.

Under the colour of commending him,

I have access my own love to prefer: 4

But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

When I protest true loyalty to her,

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; 8

When to her beauty I commend my vows,

She bids me think how I have been forsworn

In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov’d:

And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 12

The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope,

Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,

The more it grows, and fawneth on her still.

But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window, 16

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. 20

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. 24

Thu.

I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,

Let’s tune, and to it lustily a while.

Enter Host and Julia behind. Julia in boy’s clothes.

Host.

Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly: I pray you, why is it? 28

Jul.

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 asked for. 33

Jul.

But shall I hear him speak?

Host.

Ay, that you shall.

Jul.

That will be music.

[Music plays.

Host.

Hark! hark! 37

Jul.

Is he among these?

Host.

Ay; but peace! let’s hear ’em.

SONG.

Who is Silvia? what is she?  40

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.  44

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness:

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness;  48

And, being help’d, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing  52

Upon the dull earth dwelling;

To her let us garlands bring.

Host.

How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not. 57

Jul.

You mistake; the musician likes me not.

Host.

Why, my pretty youth?

Jul.

He plays false, father. 60

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. 64

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. 68

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? 72

Jul.

I would always have one play but one thing.

But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on

Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

Host.

I will tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov’d her out of all nick. 77

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 lady. 81

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. 84

Thu.

Where meet we?

Pro.

At Saint Gregory’s well.

Thu.

Farewell.

[Exeunt Thurio and Musicians.

Enter Silvia above, at her window.

Pro.

Madam, good even to your ladyship. 88

Sil.

I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spake?

Pro.

One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth,

You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 92

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. 97

Thou subtle, perjur’d, false, disloyal man!

Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,

To be seduced by thy flattery, 100

That hast deceiv’d 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 104

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.] ’Tware 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 112

I am betroth’d: and art thou not asham’d

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. 117

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. 120

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. 128

Jul.

[Aside.] If ’twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it,

And make it but a shadow, as I am.

Sil.

I am very loath to be your idol, sir;

But, since your falsehood shall become you well

To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 133

Send to me in the morning and I’ll send it.

And so, good rest.

Pro.

As wretches have o’er night

That wait for execution in the morn. 136

[Exeunt Proteus, and Silvia, above.

Jul.

Host, will you go?

Host.

By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

Jul.

Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Host.

Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost day. 141

Jul.

Not so; but it hath been the longest night

That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Eglamour.

Egl.

This is the hour that Madam Silvia

Entreated me to call, and know her mind:

There’s some great matter she’d employ me in.

Madam, Madam!

Enter Silvia above, at her window.

Sil.

Who calls?

Egl.

Your servant, and your friend; 4

One that attends your ladyship’s command.

Sil.

Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.

Egl.

As many, worthy lady, to yourself.

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— 12

Valiant, wise, remorseful, well-accomplish’d.

Thou art not ignorant what dear good will

I bear unto the banish’d Valentine,

Nor how my father would enforce me marry 16

Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.

Thyself hast lov’d; and I have heard thee say

No grief did ever come so near thy heart

As when thy lady and thy true love died, 20

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, 24

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, 28

And on the justice of my flying hence,

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart 32

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. 36

Egl.

Madam, I pity much your grievances;

Which since I know they virtuously are plac’d,

I give consent to go along with you,

Recking as little what betideth me 40

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. 44

Egl.

I will not fail your ladyship.

Good morrow, gentle lady.

Sil.

Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene IV.— The Same.

Enter Launce with his dog.

Launce.

When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard; one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, ‘Thus would I teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master, and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O! ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies. I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for’t: sure as I live, he had suffered for’t: you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke’s table: he had not been there—bless the mark—a pissing-while, but all the chamber smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one; ‘What cur is that?’ says another; ‘Whip him out,’ says the third; ‘Hang him up,’ says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: ‘Friend,’ quoth I, ‘you mean to whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry, do I,’ quoth he. ‘You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘’twas I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, 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 killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t; thou thinkest 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? 44

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.

Jul.

In what you please: I will do what I can.

Pro.

I hope thou wilt. [To Launce.] How now, you whoreson peasant! 48

Where have you been these two days loitering?

Launce.

Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

Pro.

And what says she to my little jewel? 52

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? 56

Launce

No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again.

Pro.

What! didst thou offer her this from me?

Launce.

Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the marketplace; and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. 64

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 turns me to shame. 68

[Exit Launce.

Sebastian, I have entertained thee

Partly, that I have need of such a youth,

That can with some discretion do my business,

For’t is no trusting to yond foolish lout; 72

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. 77

Deliver it to Madam Silvia:

She lov’d me well deliver’d it to me.

Jul

It seems, you lov’d not her, to leave her token. 80

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. 84

Pro.

Wherefore should’st thou pity her?

Jul.

Because methinks that she lov’d you as well

As you do love your lady Silvia.

She dreams on him that has forgot her love; 88

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 92

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? 97

Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him 100

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; 105

And now am I—unhappy messenger—

To plead for that which I would not obtain,

To carry that which I would have refus’d, 108

To praise his faith which I would have disprais’d.

I am my master’s true-confirmed love,

But cannot be true servant to my master,

Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 112

Yet will I woo for him; but yet so coldly

As heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

Enter Silvia, attended.

Gentlewoman, good day! 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?

Jul.

If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on.

Sil.

From whom? 120

Jul.

From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

Sil

O! he sends you for a picture?

Jul.

Ay, madam.

Sil.

Ursula, bring my picture there. 124

[A picture 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.—

Pardon me, madam, I have unadvis’d 129

Deliver’d you a paper that I should not:

This is the letter to your ladyship.

Sil.

I pray thee, let me look on that again.

Jul.

It may not be: good madam, pardon me.

Sil.

There, hold.

I will not look upon your master’s lines:

I know, they are stuff’d with protestations 136

And full of new-found oaths, which he will break

As easily as I do tear his paper.

Jul.

Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.

Sil.

The more shame for him that he sends it me; 140

For, I have heard him say a thousand times,

His Julia gave it him at his departure.

Though his false finger have profan’d the ring,

Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. 144

Jul.

She thanks you.

Sil

What say’st thou?

Jul.

I thank you, madam, that you tender her.

Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much. 148

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. 152

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? 155

Jul.

She hath been fairer, madam, than she is.

When she did think my master lov’d 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, 160

The air hath starv’d the roses in her cheeks

And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.

Sil.

How tall was she? 164

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, 168

Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments,

As if the garment had been made for me:

Therefore I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood; 172

For I did play a lamentable part.

Madam, ’twas Ariadne passioning

For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight;

Which I so lively acted with my tears 176

That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,

Wept bitterly, and would I might be dead

If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!

Sil.

She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.—

Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 181

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 lov’st her. 184

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, 188

Since she respects my mistress’ love so much.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Here is her picture: let me see; I think,

If I had such a tire, this face of mine 192

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: 196

If that be all the difference in his love

I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig.

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:

Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high.

What should it be that he respects in her 201

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?

Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,

For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form! 205

Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, lov’d, and ador’d,

And, were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead. 208

I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake,

That us’d 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.

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, 4

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, 8

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.

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? 4

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.

Thu.

What says she to my face? 8

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; 13

For I had rather wink than look on them.

Thu.

How likes she my discourse?

Pro.

Ill, when you talk of war. 16

Thu.

But well, when I discourse of love and peace?

Jul.

[Aside.] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.

Thu.

What says she to my valour?

Pro.

O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 20

Jul.

[Aside.] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.

Thu.

What says she to my birth?

Pro.

That you are well deriv’d.

Jul.

[Aside.] True; from a gentleman to a fool. 24

Thu.

Considers she my possessions?

Pro.

O, ay; and pities them.

Thu.

Wherefore?

Jul.

[Aside.] That such an ass should owe them. 28

Pro.

That they are out by lease.

Jul.

Here comes the duke.

Enter Duke.

Duke.

How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!

Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? 32

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. 36

’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; 40

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, 44

But mount you presently and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot,

That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled.

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.

[Exit.

Thu.

Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,

That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50

I’ll after, more to be reveng’d 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.— Frontiers of Mantua. The Forest.

Enter Outlaws with Silvia.

First Out.

Come, come,

Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

Sil.

A thousand more mischances than this one

Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. 4

Second Out.

Come, bring her away.

First Out.

Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Third Out.

Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us;

But Moyses and Valerius follow him. 8

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;

There is our captain. We’ll follow him that’s fled:

The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape.

[Exeunt all except the First Outlaw and Silvia.

First Out.

Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave. 12

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!

This shadowy desart, unfrequented woods,

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 4

And to the nightingale’s complaining notes

Tune my distresses and record my woes.

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, 8

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall

And leave no memory of what it was!

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia! 11

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!

[Noise within.

What halloing and what stir is this to-day?

These are my mates, that make their wills their law,

Have some unhappy passenger in chase.

They love me well; yet I have much to do 16

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who’s this comes here?

[Steps aside.

Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia.

Pro

Madam, this service I have done for you—

Though you respect not aught your servant doth— 20

To hazard life and rescue you from him

That would have forc’d your honour and your love.

Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, 24

And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.

Val.

[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! 28

Pro.

Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;

But by my coming I have made you happy.

Sil.

By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy.

Jul.

[Aside.] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. 32

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, 36

Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul,

And full as much—for more there cannot be—

I do detest false perjur’d Proteus.

Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 40

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 approv’d,

When women cannot love where they’re belov’d! 44

Sil.

When Proteus cannot love where he’s belov’d.

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 48

Descended into perjury to love me.

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two,

And that’s far worse than none: better have none

Than plural faith which is too much by one. 52

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, 56

I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end,

And love you ’gainst the nature of love,—force ye.

Sil.

O heaven!

Pro.

I’ll force thee yield to my desire.

Val.

[Coming forward.] Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch; 60

Thou friend of an ill fashion!

Pro.

Valentine!

Val.

Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love—

For such is a friend now—treach’rous man!

Thou hast beguil’d my hopes: naught but mine eye 64

Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say

I have one friend alive: thou wouldst disprove me.

Who should be trusted now, when one’s right hand

Is perjur’d to the bosom? Proteus, 68

I am 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. 73

Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender’t here: I do as truly suffer 76

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 pleas’d.

By penitence the Eternal’s wrath’s appeas’d: 81

And, that my love may appear plain and free,

All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.

Jul.

O me unhappy!

[Swoons.

Pro.

Look to the boy. 85

Val.

Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s the matter?

Look up; speak.

Jul.

O good sir, my master charg’d me 88

To deliver a ring to Madam Silvia,

Which out of my neglect was never done.

Pro.

Where is that ring, boy?

Jul.

Here ’tis this is it.

[Gives a ring.

Pro.

How! let me see. 92

Why this is the ring I gave to Julia.

Jul.

O, cry you mercy, sir; I have mistook:

This is the ring you sent to Silvia.

[Shows another ring.

Pro.

But how cam’st thou by this ring? 96

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! 100

Jul.

Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,

And entertain’d them deeply in her heart:

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!

O Proteus! let this habit make thee blush. 104

Be thou asham’d that I have took upon me

Such an immodest raiment; if shame live

In a disguise of love.

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 108

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 the sins: 112

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. 116

Let me be blest to make this happy close:

’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

Pro.

Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish, for ever.

Jul.

And I mine. 120

Enter Outlaws with Duke and Thurio.

Out.

A prize! a prize! a prize!

Val.

Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the duke.

Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac’d,

Banished Valentine.

Duke.

Sir Valentine! 124

Thu.

Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia’s mine.

Val.

Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;

Come not within the measure of my wrath;

Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, 128

Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands;

Take but possession of her with a touch;

I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.

Thu.

Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I. 132

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. 135

Duke.

The more degenerate and base art thou,

To make such means for her as thou hast done,

And leave her on such slight conditions.

Now, by the honour of my ancestry,

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140

And think thee worthy of an empress’ love.

Know then, I here forget all former griefs,

Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,

Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit, 144

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,

Thou art a gentleman and well deriv’d;

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv’d her.

Val.

I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy. 148

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 withal 152

Are men endu’d 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, 156

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 all jars 160

With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.

Val.

And as we walk along, I dare be bold

With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.

What think you of this page, my lord? 164

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. 169

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. 173

[Exeunt.

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sir John Falstaff.
Fenton,	a young Gentleman.
Shallow,	a Country Justice.
Slender,	Cousin to Shallow.
Ford, }	two Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor.
Page, }	two Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor.
William Page,	a Boy, Son to Page.
Sir Hugh Evans,	a Welsh Parson.
Doctor Caius,	a French Physician.
Host	of the Garter Inn.
Bardolph, Pistol, Nym,	Followers of Falstaff.
Robin,	Page to Falstaff.
Simple,	Servant to Slender.
Rugby,	Servant to Doctor Caius.
Mistress Ford.
Mistress Page.
Anne Page,	her Daughter, in love with Fenton.
Mistress Quickly,	Servant to Doctor Caius.
Servants to Page, Ford, &c.

Scene.—Windsor; and the Neighbourhood.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Windsor. Before Page’s House.

Enter Justice Shallow, Slender, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Shal.

Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. 4

Slen.

In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram.

Shal.

Ay, cousin Slender, and cust-alorum.

Slen.

Ay, and rato-lorum too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson; who writes himself armigero, in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation,—armigero. 11

Shal.

Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years.

Slen.

All his successors gone before him hath done’t; and all his ancestors that come after him may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. 17

Shal.

It is an old coat.

Eva.

The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. 21

Shal.

The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat.

Slen.

I may quarter, coz? 24

Shal.

You may, by marrying.

Eva.

It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.

Shal.

Not a whit.

Eva.

Yes, py’r lady; if he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures: but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the Church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you. 34

Shal.

The Council shall hear it; it is a riot.

Eva.

It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot. The Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that.

Shal.

Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. 41

Eva.

It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which, peradventure, prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas Page, which is pretty virginity.

Slen.

Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. 49

Eva.

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold and silver, is her grandsire, upon his death’s-bed,—Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!—give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.

Shal.

Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound? 60

Eva.

Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.

Shal.

I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. 64

Eva.

Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is goot gifts.

Shal.

Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there? 68

Eva.

Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a har as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise one that is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks.] What, hoa! Got pless your house here!

Page.

[Within ] Who’s there? 76

Eva

Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend. and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. 80

Enter Page.

Page.

I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow.

Shal.

Master Page, I am glad to see you: much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?—and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart.

Page.

Sir, I thank you. 88

Shal.

Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.

Page.

I am glad to see you, good Master Slender.

Slen.

How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. 93

Page.

It could not be judged, sir.

Slen.

You’ll not confess, you’ll not confess.

Shal.

That he will not: ’tis your fault, ’tis your fault. ’Tis a good dog. 97

Page.

A cur, sir.

Shal.

Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog; can there be more said? he is good and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? 101

Page.

Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you.

Eva.

It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.

Shal.

He hath wronged me, Master Page. 105

Page.

Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.

Shal.

If it be confessed, it is not redressed: is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed, he hath;—at a word, he hath,—believe me: Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged.

Page.

Here comes Sir John. 112

Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol.

Fal.

Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the king?

Shal.

Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. 116

Fal.

But not kissed your keeper’s daughter?

Shal.

Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

Fal.

I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered. 120

Shal.

The Council shall know this.

Fal.

’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you’ll be laughed at.

Eva.

Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. 124

Fal.

Good worts! good cabbage. Slender, I broke your head: what matter have you against me?

Slen.

Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket. 132

Bard.

You Banbury cheese!

Slen.

Ay, it is no matter.

Pist.

How now, Mephistophilus!

Slen.

Ay, it is no matter. 136

Nym.

Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! that’s my humour.

Slen.

Where’s Simple, my man? can you tell, cousin? 140

Eva.

Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand: there is three umpires in this matter, as I understand; that is—Master Page, fidelicet, Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet, myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.

Page.

We three, to hear it and end it between them. 148

Eva.

Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can.

Fal.

Pistol! 152

Pist.

He hears with ears.

Eva.

The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, ‘He hears with ear?’ Why, it is affectations.

Fal.

Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse? 157

Slen.

Ay, by these gloves, did he,—or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else,—of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves.

Fal.

Is this true, Pistol? 164

Eva.

No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

Pist.

Ha, thou mountain foreigner!—Sir John and master mine,

I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.

Word of denial in thy labras here! 168

Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest.

Slen.

By these gloves, then, ’twas he.

Nym.

Be avised, sir, and pass good humours. I will say, ‘marry trap,’ with you, if you run the nuthook’s humour on me: that is the very note of it. 174

Slen.

By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. 178

Fal.

What say you, Scarlet and John?

Bard.

Why, sir, for my part, I say, the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences.

Eva.

It is his ‘five senses;’ fie, what the ignorance is! 183

Bard.

And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier’d; and so conclusions pass’d the careires.

Slen.

Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but ’tis no matter. I’ll ne’er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick: if I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. 191

Eva.

So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

Fal.

You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it. 194

Enter Anne Page, with Wine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Page.

Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we’ll drink within.

[Exit Anne Page.

Slen.

O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.

Page.

How now, Mistress Ford!

Fal.

Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met: by your leave, good mistress. 200

[Kissing her.

Page.

Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. 204

[Exeunt all but Shallow, Slender, and Evans.

Slen.

I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here.

Enter Simple.

How now, Simple! Where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you? 209

Sim.

Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-Hallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas? 212

Shal.

Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as ’twere a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here: do you understand me? 216

Slen.

Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable: if it be so, I shall do that that is reason.

Shal.

Nay, but understand me.

Slen.

So I do, sir. 220

Eva.

Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you pe capacity of it.

Slen.

Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says. I pray you pardon me; he’s a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here.

Eva.

But that is not the question; the question is concerning your marriage. 228

Shal.

Ay, there’s the point, sir.

Eva.

Marry, is it, the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page.

Slen.

Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. 233

Eva.

But can you affection the ’oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth: therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid? 239

Shal.

Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?

Slen.

I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason. 243

Eva.

Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her.

Shal.

That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her? 248

Slen.

I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason.

Shal.

Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: what I do, is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? 253

Slen.

I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another: I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt: but if you say, ‘Marry her,’ I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. 261

Eva.

It is a fery discretion answer; save, the faul is in the ort ‘dissolutely:’ the ort is, according to our meaning, ‘resolutely.’ His meaning is goot.

Shal.

Ay, I think my cousin meant well.

Slen.

Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la! 268

Shal.

Here comes fair Mistress Anne.

Re-enter Anne Page.

Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne.

Anne.

The dinner is on the table; my father desires your worships’ company. 273

Shal.

I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne.

Eva.

Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace. 276

[Exeunt Shallow and Evans.

Anne.

Will’t please your worship to come in, sir?

Slen.

No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well. 280

Anne.

The dinner attends you, sir.

Slen.

I am not a-hungry, I thank you forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Exit Simple.] A justice of peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead; but what though? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. 289

Anne.

I may not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come.

Slen.

I’ faith, I’ll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did.

Anne.

I pray you, sir, walk in. 294

Slen.

I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes;—and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? be there bears i’ the town? 301

Anne.

I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of.

Slen.

I love the sport well; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not?

Anne.

Ay, indeed, sir. 308

Slen.

That’s meat and drink to me, now: I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. 315

Re-enter Page.

Page.

Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you.

Slen.

I’ll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.

Page.

By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come. 320

Slen.

Nay, pray you, lead the way.

Page.

Come on, sir.

Slen.

Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.

Anne.

Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. 324

Slen.

Truly, I will not go first: truly, la! I will not do you that wrong.

Anne.

I pray you, sir.

Slen.

I’ll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! 329

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple.

Eva.

Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house, which is the way: and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his try nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. 5

Sim.

Well, sir.

Eva.

Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to desire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and seese to come. 13

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin.

Fal.

Mine host of the Garter!

Host.

What says my bully-rook? Speak scholarly and wisely.

Fal.

Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. 5

Host.

Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them wag; trot, trot.

Fal.

I sit at ten pounds a week. 8

Host.

Thou’rt an emperor, Cæsar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector?

Fal.

Do so, good mine host. 12

Host.

I have spoke; let him follow. [To Bard.] Let me see thee forth and lime: I am at a word; follow.

[Exit.

Fal.

Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade: an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man, a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.

Bard.

It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. 20

Pist.

O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield?

[Exit Bard.

Nym.

He was gotten in drink; is not the humour conceited? 24

Fal.

I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox; his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer; he kept not time.

Nym.

The good humour is to steal at a minim’s rest. 29

Pist.

‘Convey,’ the wise it call. ‘Steal!’ foh! a fico for the phrase!

Fal.

Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 32

Pist.

Why, then, let kibes ensue.

Fal.

There is no remedy; I must conycatch, I must shift.

Pist.

Young ravens must have food. 36

Fal.

Which of you know Ford of this town?

Pist.

I ken the wight: he is of substance good.

Fal.

My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. 41

Pist.

Two yards, and more.

Fal.

No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is, ‘I am Sir John Falstaff’s.’ 51

Pist.

He hath studied her well, and translated her well, out of honesty into English.

Nym.

The anchor is deep: will that humour pass? 55

Fal.

Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse; he hath a legion of angels.

Pist.

As many devils entertain, and ‘To her, boy,’ say I. 60

Nym.

The humour rises; it is good: humour me the angels.

Fal.

I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious œilliades: sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.

Pist.

Then did the sun on dunghill shine. 68

Nym.

I thank thee for that humour.

Fal.

O! she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here’s another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be ’cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me: they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. 80

Pist.

Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,

And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!

Nym.

I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the haviour of reputation. 85

Fal.

[To Robin.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly:

Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.

Rogues, hence! avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;

Trudge, plod away o’the hoof; seek shelter, pack!

Falstaff will learn the humour of this age,

French thrift, you rogues: myself and skirted page.

[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.

Pist.

Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, 92

And high and low beguile the rich and poor.

Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,

Base Phrygian Turk!

Nym.

I have operations in my head, which be humours of revenge. 97

Pist.

Wilt thou revenge?

Nym.

By welkin and her star!

Pist.

With wit or steel? 100

Nym.

With both the humours, I:

I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.

Pist.

And I to Ford shall eke unfold

How Falstaff, varlet vile, 104

His dove will prove, his gold will hold,

And his soft couch defile.

Nym.

My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. 110

Pist.

Thou art the Mars of malcontents: I second thee; troop on.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Doctor Caius’s House.

Enter Mistress Quickly and Simple.

Quick.

What, John Rugby!—

Enter Rugby.

I pray thee, go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i’ faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the king’s English. 6

Rug.

I’ll go watch.

Quick.

Go; and we’ll have a posset for’t soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. [Exit Rugby.] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate: his worst fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way, but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is? 16

Sim.

Ay, for fault of a better.

Quick.

And Master Slender’s your master?

Sim.

Ay, forsooth.

Quick.

Does he not wear a great round beard like a glover’s paring-knife? 21

Sim.

No, forsooth: he hath but a little wheyface, with a little yellow beard—a cane-coloured beard. 24

Quick.

A softly-sprighted man, is he not?

Sim.

Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head: he hath fought with a warrener. 28

Quick.

How say you?—O! I should remember him: does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?

Sim.

Yes, indeed, does he. 32

Quick.

Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I wish— 36

Re-enter Rugby.

Rug.

Out, alas! here comes my master.

Quick.

We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet. [Shuts Simple in the closet.] He will not stay long. What, John Rugby! John, what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home. [Exit Rugby.] [Sings.]

‘And down, down, adown-a,’ &c. 44

Enter Doctor Caius.

Caius.

Vat is you sing? I do not like dese toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet une boitine verde; a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box. 48

Quick.

Ay, forsooth; I’ll fetch it you. [Aside.] I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.

Caius.

Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m’en vais à la cour,—la grande affaire. 54

Quick.

Is it this, sir?

Caius.

Oui; mettez le au mon pocket; dépêchez, quickly.—Vere is dat knave Rugby?

Quick.

What, John Rugby! John! 58

Re-enter Rugby.

Rug.

Here, sir.

Caius.

You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to de court.

Rug.

’Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. 63

Caius.

By my trot, I tarry too long.—Od’s me! Qu’ay j’oublié? dere is some simples in my closet, dat I vill not for de varld I shall leave behind. 67

Quick.

[Aside.] Ay me! he’ll find the young man there, and be mad.

Caius.

O diable! diable! vat is in my closet?—Villain! larron! [Pulling Simple out.] Rugby, my rapier! 72

Quick.

Good master, be content.

Caius.

Verefore shall I be content-a?

Quick.

The young man is an honest man.

Caius.

Vat shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. 78

Quick.

I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. 81

Caius.

Vell.

Sim.

Ay, forsooth, to desire her to—

Quick.

Peace, I pray you. 84

Caius.

Peace-a your tongue!—Speak-a your tale.

Sim.

To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage. 89

Quick.

This is all, indeed, la! but I’ll ne’er put my finger in the fire, and need not.

Caius.

Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a little-a while. 93

[Writes.

Quick.

I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud, and so melancholy. But, notwithstanding, man, I’ll do your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master,—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself,— 102

Sim.

’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand.

Quick.

Are you avis’d o’ that? you shall find it a great charge: and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding,—to tell you in your ear,—I would have no words of it,—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind, that’s neither here nor there. 111

Caius.

You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a challenge: I vill cut his troat in de Park; and I vill teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here: by gar, I vill cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to trow at his dog.

[Exit Simple.

Quick.

Alas! he speaks but for his friend. 119

Caius.

It is no matter-a for dat:—do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I vill myself have Anne Page.

Quick.

Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer! 127

Caius.

Rugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.

[Exeunt Caius and Rugby.

Quick.

You shall have An fool’s-head of your own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.

Fent.

[Within.] Who’s within there? ho! 136

Quick.

Who’s there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.

Enter Fenton.

Fent.

How now, good woman! how dost thou?

Quick.

The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask. 141

Fent.

What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?

Quick.

In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.

Fent.

Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit? 149

Quick.

Troth, sir, all is in his hands above; but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on a book, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye? 153

Fent.

Yes, marry have I; what of that?

Quick.

Well, thereby hangs a tale. Good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread: we had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s company;—but, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you—well, go to. 161

Fent.

Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there’s money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me. 165

Quick.

Will I? i’ faith, that we will: and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers. 169

Fent.

Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.

Quick.

Farewell to your worship.—[Exit Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon’t! what have I forgot?

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Before Page’s House.

Enter Mistress Page, with a Letter.

Mrs. Page.

What! have I ’scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see.

Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to then, there’s sympathy; you are merry, so am I, ha! ha! then, there’s more sympathy, you love sack, and so do I, would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of a soldier can suffice, that I love thee I will not say, pity me,—’tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, love me. By me,

Thine own true knight,

By day or night, 16

Or any kind of light,

With all his might

For thee to fight,

4330.
John Falstaff.

What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! one that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age, to show himself a young gallant! What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with the devil’s name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:—heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. 32

Enter Mistress Ford.

Mrs. Ford.

Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.

Mrs. Page.

And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. 36

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that: I have to show to the contrary.

Mrs. Page.

Faith, but you do, in my mind.

Mrs. Ford.

Well, I do then; yet, I say I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel. 42

Mrs. Page.

What’s the matter, woman?

Mrs. Ford.

O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! 45

Mrs. Page.

Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?—dispense with trifles;—what is it? 48

Mrs. Ford.

If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted.

Mrs. Page.

What? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. 53

Mrs. Ford.

We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking: and yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness, that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of ‘Green Sleeves.’ What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think, the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like? 70

Mrs. Page.

Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin brother of thy letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant, he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names, sure more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a grantess, and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. 83

Mrs. Ford.

Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us?

Mrs. Page.

Nay, I know not: it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.

Mrs. Ford.

Boarding call you it? I’ll be sure to keep him above deck. 93

Mrs. Page.

So will I: if he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him: let’s appoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. 99

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy.

Mrs. Page.

Why, look, where he comes; and my good man too: he’s as far from jealousy, as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance.

Mrs. Ford.

You are the happier woman. 108

Mrs. Page.

Let’s consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.

[They retire.

Enter Ford, Pistol, Page, and Nym.

Ford.

Well, I hope it be not so.

Pist.

Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs: 112

Sir John affects thy wife.

Ford.

Why, sir, my wife is not young.

Pist.

He woos both high and low, both rich and poor,

Both young and old, one with another, Ford. 116

He loves the galimaufry: Ford, perpend.

Ford.

Love my wife!

Pist.

With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,

Like Sir Actæon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.—

O! odious is the name! 121

Ford.

What name, sir?

Pist.

The horn, I say. Farewell:

Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night: 124

Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do sing.

Away, sir Corporal Nym!

Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.

[Exit.

Ford.

[Aside.] I will be patient: I will find out this. 129

Nym.

[To Page.] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter to her, but I have a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak, and I avouch ’tis true: my name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese; and there’s the humour of it. Adieu.

[Exit.

Page.

[Aside.] ‘The humour of it,’ quoth’a! here’s a fellow frights humour out of his wits. 142

Ford.

I will seek out Falstaff.

Page.

I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. 145

Ford.

If I do find it: well.

Page.

I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o’ the town commended him for a true man. 149

Ford.

’Twas a good sensible fellow: well.

Page.

How now, Meg!

Mrs. Page.

Whither go you, George?—Hark you. 153

Mrs. Ford.

How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?

Ford.

I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. 157

Mrs. Ford.

Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress Page?

Mrs. Page.

Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George? [Aside to Mrs. Ford.] Look, who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight.

Mrs. Ford.

Trust me, I thought on her: she’ll fit it. 165

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Mrs. Page.

You are come to see my daughter Anne?

Quick.

Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? 169

Mrs. Page.

Go in with us, and see: we’d have an hour’s talk with you.

[Exeunt Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Mistress Quickly.

Page.

How now, Master Ford! 172

Ford.

You heard what this knave told me, did you not?

Page.

Yes; and you heard what the other told me? 176

Ford.

Do you think there is truth in them?

Page.

Hang ’em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it: but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives, are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.

Ford.

Were they his men?

Page.

Marry, were they. 184

Ford.

I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?

Page.

Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head.

Ford.

I do not misdoubt my wife, but I would be loth to turn them together. A man may be too confident: I would have nothing ‘lie on my head:’ I cannot be thus satisfied. 194

Page.

Look, where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.— 198

Enter Host and Shallow.

How now, mine host!

Host.

How now, bully-rook! thou’rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say! 201

Shal.

I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? we have sport in hand. 204

Host.

Tell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook.

Shal.

Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. 209

Ford.

Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you.

Host.

What sayest thou, my bully-rook? 212

[They go aside.

Shal.

[To Page.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons, and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be.

[They go aside.

Host.

Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavalier? 220

Ford.

None, I protest: but I’ll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.

Host.

My hand, bully: thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?

Shal.

Have with you, mine host. 228

Page.

I have heard, the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.

Shal.

Tut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: ’tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. 236

Host.

Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag?

Page.

Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.

[Exeunt Host, Shallow, and Page.

Ford.

Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there, I know not. Well, I will look further into’t; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff and Pistol.

Fal.

I will not lend thee a penny.

Pist.

Why, then the world’s mine oyster,

Which I with sword will open.

I will retort the sum in equipage. 4

Fal.

Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 14

Pist.

Didst thou not share? hadst thou not fifteen pence?

Fal.

Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou, I’ll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me; I am no gibbet for you: go: a short knife and a throng!—to your manor of Picht-hatch! go. You’ll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!—you stand upon your honour!—Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of mine honour precise. I, I, I, myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you!

Pist.

I do relent: what wouldst thou more of man? 32

Enter Robin.

Rob.

Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you.

Fal.

Let her approach.

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Quick.

Give your worship good morrow. 36

Fal.

Good morrow, good wife.

Quick.

Not so, an’t please your worship.

Fal.

Good maid, then.

Quick.

I’ll be sworn 40

As my mother was, the first hour I was born.

Fal.

I do believe the swearer. What with me?

Quick.

Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? 44

Fal.

Two thousand, fair woman; and I’ll vouchsafe thee the hearing.

Quick.

There is one Mistress Ford, sir,—I pray, come a little nearer this ways:—I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. 49

Fal.

Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,—

Quick.

Your worship says very true:—I pray your worship, come a little nearer this ways. 52

Fal.

I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own people, mine own people.

Quick.

Are they so? God bless them, and make them his servants! 56

Fal.

Well: Mistress Ford; what of her?

Quick.

Why, sir, she’s a good creature. Lord, Lord! your worship’s a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray! 60

Fal.

Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford,—

Quick.

Marry, this is the short and the long of it. You have brought her into such a canaries as ’tis wonderful: the best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary; yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly—all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart; and, I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her.

Fal.

But what says she to me? be brief, my good she Mercury. 83

Quick.

Marry, she hath received your letter; for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. 88

Fal.

Ten and eleven?

Quick.

Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him; he’s a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart.

Fal.

Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. 97

Quick.

Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship: Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too: and let me tell you in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be the other: and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home; but, she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely, I think you have charms, la; yes, in truth. 109

Fal.

Not I, I assure thee: setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.

Quick.

Blessing on your heart for’t! 112

Fal.

But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s wife and Page’s wife acquainted each other how they love me? 115

Quick.

That were a jest indeed! they have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick, indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does: do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will: and, truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy. 128

Fal.

Why, I will.

Quick.

Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another’s mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for ’tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. 137

Fal.

Fare thee well: commend me to them both. There’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor.—Boy, go along with this woman.—[Exeunt Mistress Quickly and Robin.] This news distracts me. 142

Pist.

This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers.

Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights;

Give fire! she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!

[Exit.

Fal.

Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I’ll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. 151

Enter Bardolph, with a cup of Sack.

Bard.

Sir John, there’s one Master Brook below would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you: and hath sent your worship a morning’s draught of sack.

Fal.

Brook is his name? 156

Bard.

Ay, sir.

Fal.

Call him in. [Exit Bardolph.] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? go to; via! 161

Re-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised.

Ford.

Bless your, sir!

Fal.

And you, sir; would you speak with me?

Ford.

I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you. 165

Fal.

You’re welcome. What’s your will?—Give us leave, drawer.

[Exit Bardolph.

Ford.

Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much: my name is Brook. 169

Fal.

Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you.

Ford.

Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something emboldened me to this unseasoned intrusion; for, they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. 177

Fal.

Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.

Ford.

Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me: if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. 183

Fal.

Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter.

Ford.

I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing.

Fal.

Speak, good Master Brook; I shall be glad to be your servant. 189

Ford.

Sir, I hear you are a scholar,—I will be brief with you, and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender. 200

Fal.

Very well, sir; proceed.

Ford.

There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband’s name is Ford.

Fal.

Well, sir. 204

Ford.

I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee’d every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given. Briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none; unless experience be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite rate; and that hath taught me to say this,

Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; 220

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues

Fal.

Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands?

Ford.

Never. 224

Fal.

Have you importuned her to such a purpose?

Ford.

Never.

Fal.

Of what quality was your love, then? 228

Ford.

Like a fair house built upon another man’s ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it.

Fal.

To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? 233

Ford.

When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say, that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations.

Fal.

O, sir! 244

Ford.

Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford’s wife: use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon as any. 251

Fal.

Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. 255

Ford.

O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my soul dares not present itself: she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves: I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too-too strongly embattled against me. What say you to’t, Sir John? 266

Fal.

Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife.

Ford.

O good sir!

Fal.

I say you shall. 272

Ford.

Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none.

Fal.

Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed. 283

Ford.

I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir?

Fal.

Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not. Yet I wrong him, to call him poor: they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer; and there’s my harvest-home. 292

Ford.

I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him, if you saw him.

Fal.

Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o’er the cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt he with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford’s a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night.

[Exit.

Ford.

What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? my wife hath sent to him, the hour is fixed, the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but Cuckold! Wittol!—Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitæ bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself: then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour: I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold!

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Field near Windsor.

Enter Caius and Rugby.

Caius.

Jack Rugby!

Rug.

Sir?

Caius.

Vat is de clock, Jack?

Rug.

’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. 5

Caius.

By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come: he has pray his Pible vell, dat he is no come. By gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. 9

Rug.

He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him, if he came.

Caius.

By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.

Rug.

Alas, sir! I cannot fence.

Caius.

Villany, take your rapier. 16

Rug.

Forbear; here’s company.

Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page.

Host.

Bless thee, bully doctor!

Shal.

Save you, Master Doctor Caius!

Page.

Now, good Master doctor! 20

Slen.

Give you good morrow, sir.

Caius.

Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?

Host.

To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says my Æsculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? ha! is he dead, bully stale? is he dead? 31

Caius.

By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de vorld; he is not show his face.

Host.

Thou art a Castilian King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy! 35

Caius.

I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. 38

Shal.

He is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? 43

Page.

Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace.

Shal.

Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.

Page.

’Tis true, Master Shallow. 52

Shal.

It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master doctor.

Host.

Pardon, guest-justice.—A word, Monsieur Mockwater. 60

Caius.

Mock-vater! vat is dat?

Host.

Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.

Caius.

By gar, den, I have as mush mock-vater as de Englishman. — Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me vill cut his ears.

Host.

He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.

Caius.

Clapper-de-claw! vat is dat? 68

Host.

That is, he will make thee amends.

Caius.

By gar, me do look, he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it.

Host.

And I will provoke him to’t, or let him wag. 73

Caius.

Me tank you for dat.

Host.

And moreover, bully,—But first, Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. 77

[Aside to them.

Page.

Sir Hugh is there, is he?

Host.

He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? 81

Shal.

We will do it.

Page, Shal., and Slen.

Adieu, good Master doctor.

[Exeunt Page, Shal., and Slen.

Caius.

By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 86

Host.

Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler: go about the fields with me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farmhouse a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well? 92

Caius.

By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. 96

Host.

For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well?

Caius.

By gar, ’tis good; vell said.

Host.

Let us wag, then. 100

Caius.

Come at my heels, Jack Rugby.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Field near Frogmore.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple.

Eva.

I pray you now, good Master Slender’s serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic? 4

Sim.

Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the parkward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way.

Eva.

I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. 9

Sim.

I will, sir.

[Exit.

Eva.

Pless my soul! how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave’s costard when I have goot opportunities for the ’ork: pless my soul!

[Sings.

To shallow rivers, to whose falls 17

Melodious birds sing madrigals;

There will we make our peds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant pasies. 20

To shallow—

Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.

[Sings.

Melodious birds sing madrigals,—

When as I sat in Pabylon,— 24

And a thousand vagram posies.

To shallow,—

Re-enter Simple.

Sim.

Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh.

Eva.

He’s welcome.

[Sings.

To shallow rivers, to whose falls— 29

Heaven prosper the right!—what weapons is he?

Sim.

No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. 33

Eva.

Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.

[Reads in a book.

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender.

Shal.

How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful.

Slen.

[Aside.] Ah, sweet Anne Page! 40

Page.

Save you, good Sir Hugh!

Eva.

Pless you from His mercy sake, all of you!

Shal.

What, the sword and the word! do you study them both, Master Parson? 45

Page.

And youthful still in your doublet and hose! this raw rheumatic day?

Eva.

There is reasons and causes for it. 48

Page.

We are come to you to do a good office, Master parson.

Eva.

Fery well: what is it?

Page.

Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. 55

Shal.

I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect.

Eva.

What is he?

Page.

I think you know him; Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. 61

Eva.

Got’s will, and his passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. 64

Page.

Why?

Eva.

He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen,—and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal.

Page.

I warrant you, he’s the man should fight with him.

Slen.

[Aside.] O, sweet Anne Page! 72

Shal.

It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder: here comes Doctor Caius.

Enter Host, Caius, and Rugby.

Page.

Nay, good Master parson, keep in your weapon. 76

Shal.

So do you, good Master doctor.

Host.

Disarm them, and let them question: let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. 80

Caius.

I pray you, let-a me speak a word vit your ear: verefore vill you not meet-a me?

Eva.

[Aside to Caius.] Pray you, use your patience: in good time. 84

Caius.

By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape.

Eva.

[Aside to Caius.] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men’s humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends: [Aloud.] I will knog your urinals about your knave’s cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. 92

Caius.

Diable!—Jack Rugby,—mine host de Jarretierre,—have I not stay for him to kill him? have I not, at de place I did appoint?

Eva.

As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed: I’ll be judgment by mine host of the Garter.

Host.

Peace, I say, Gallia and Guallia; French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer! 100

Caius.

Ay, dat is very good; excellent.

Host.

Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;—give me thy hand celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. 114

Shal.

Trust me, a mad host!—Follow, gentlemen, follow.

Slen.

[Aside.] O, sweet Anne Page!

[Exeunt Shallow, Slender, Page, and Host.

Caius.

Ha! do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? 119

Eva.

This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. 124

Caius.

By gar, vit all my heart. He promise to bring me vere is Anne Page: by gar, he deceive me too.

Eva.

Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Street in Windsor.

Enter Mistress Page and Robin.

Mrs. Page.

Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels? 4

Rob.

I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf.

Mrs. Page.

O! you are a flattering boy: now I see you’ll be a courtier. 8

Enter Ford.

Ford.

Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?

Mrs. Page.

Truly, sir, to see your wife: is she at home? 12

Ford.

Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.

Mrs. Page.

Be sure of that,—two other husbands.

Ford.

Where had you this pretty weathercock?

Mrs. Page.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah?

Rob.

Sir John Falstaff.

Ford.

Sir John Falstaff! 24

Mrs. Page.

He, he; I can never hit on’s name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed?

Ford.

Indeed she is. 28

Mrs. Page.

By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.

[Exeunt Mistress Page and Robin.

Ford.

Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind: and Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots! they are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actæon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes.] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm, that Falstaff is there: I will go. 52

Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby.

Page, Shal., &c.

Well met, Master Ford.

Ford.

Trust me, a good knot. I have good cheer at home; and I pray you all go with me.

Shal.

I must excuse myself, Master Ford. 56

Slen.

And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I’ll speak of.

Shal.

We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

Slen.

I hope I have your good will, father Page. 64

Page.

You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you: but my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether.

Caius.

Ay, by gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 69

Host.

What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will carry’t, he will carry’t; ’tis in his buttons; he will carry’t. 74

Page.

Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild prince and Pointz; he is of too high a region; he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance: if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. 82

Ford.

I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh.

Shal.

Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page’s. 89

[Exeunt Shallow and Slender.

Caius.

Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.

[Exit Rugby.

Host.

Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him.

[Exit Host.

Ford.

[Aside.] I think I shall drink in pipewine first with him; I’ll make him dance. Will you go, gentles? 96

All.

Have with you to see this monster.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Ford’s House.

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Mrs. Ford.

What, John! what, Robert!

Mrs. Page.

Quickly, quickly:—Is the buckbasket—

Mrs. Ford.

I warrant. What, Robin, I say! 4

Enter Servants with a Basket.

Mrs. Page.

Come, come, come.

Mrs. Ford.

Here, set it down.

Mrs. Page.

Give your men the charge; we must be brief. 8

Mrs. Ford.

Marry, as I told you before, John, and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brewhouse; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch, close by the Thames side. 16

Mrs. Page.

You will do it?

Mrs. Ford.

I have told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called.

[Exeunt Servants.

Mrs. Page.

Here comes little Robin. 21

Enter Robin.

Mrs. Ford.

How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?

Rob.

My master, Sir John, is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

Mrs. Page

You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? 28

Rob.

Ay, I’ll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he’ll turn me away. 32

Mrs. Page.

Thou’rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I’ll go hide me.

Mrs. Ford.

Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. 38

Mrs. Page.

I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.

[Exit.

Mrs. Ford.

Go to, then: we’ll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we’ll teach him to know turtles from jays. 44

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

‘Have I caught my heavenly jewel?’ Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed hour! 48

Mrs. Ford.

O, sweet Sir John!

Fal.

Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would thy husband were dead. I’ll speak it before the best lord, I would make thee my lady.

Mrs. Ford.

I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should be a pitiful lady. 56

Fal.

Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. 61

Mrs. Ford.

A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither. 64

Fal.

By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. 71

Mrs. Ford.

Believe me, there’s no such thing in me.

Fal.

What made me love thee? let that persuade thee there’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthornbuds, that come like women in men s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple-time; I cannot; but I love thee; none but thee; and thou deservest it. 81

Mrs. Ford.

Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page.

Fal.

Thou mightst as well say, I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.

Mrs. Ford.

Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it. 88

Fal.

Keep in that mind; I’ll deserve it.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, I must tell you, so you do, or else I could not be in that mind.

Rob.

[Within.] Mistress Ford! Mistress Ford! here’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.

Fal.

She shall not see me: I will ensconce me behind the arras. 97

Mrs. Ford.

Pray you, do so: she’s a very tattling woman.

[Falstaff hides himself.

Re-enter Mistress Page and Robin.

What’s the matter? how now! 100

Mrs. Page.

O Mistress Ford! what have you done? You’re shamed, you are overthrown, you’re undone for ever!

Mrs. Ford.

What’s the matter, good Mistress Page? 105

Mrs. Page.

O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! 108

Mrs. Ford.

What cause of suspicion?

Mrs. Page.

What cause of suspicion! Out upon you! how am I mistook in you!

Mrs. Ford.

Why, alas, what’s the matter? 112

Mrs. Page.

Your husband’s coming hither, woman, with all the officers of Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence: you are undone. 117

Mrs. Ford.

[Aside.] Speak louder.—’Tis not so, I hope.

Mrs. Page.

Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! but ’tis most certain your husband’s coming with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you: defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. 128

Mrs. Ford.

What shall I do?—There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. 132

Mrs. Page.

For shame! never stand ‘you had rather’ and ‘you had rather:’ your husband’s here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance: in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men to Datchet-mead.

Mrs. Ford.

He’s too big to go in there. What shall I do? 144

Fal.

[Coming forward.] Let me see’t, let me see’t, O, let me see’t! I’ll in, I’ll in. Follow your friend’s counsel. I’ll in.

Mrs. Page.

What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight? 149

Fal.

I love thee, and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here. I’ll never—

[He gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen.

Mrs. Page.

Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! 154

Mrs. Ford.

What, John! Robert! John!

[Exit Robin.

Re-enter Servants.

Go take up these clothes here quickly; where’s the cowl-staff? look, how you drumble! carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead; quickly, come.

Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Ford.

Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now! what goes here? whither bear you this?

Serv.

To the laundress, forsooth. 163

Mrs. Ford.

Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing.

Ford.

Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [Exeunt Servants with the basket.] Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I’ll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out: I’ll warrant we’ll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.] So, now uncape.

Page.

Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much. 177

Ford.

True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen; you shall see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen.

[Exit.

Eva.

This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. 181

Caius.

By gar, ’tis no de fashion of France; it is not jealous in France.

Page.

Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. 185

[Exeunt Page, Caius, and Evans.

Mrs. Page.

Is there not a double excellency in this?

Mrs. Ford.

I know not which pleases me better; that my husband is deceived, or Sir John.

Mrs. Page.

What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket! 191

Mrs. Ford.

I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.

Mrs. Page.

Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. 197

Mrs. Ford.

I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.

Mrs. Page.

I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine.

Mrs. Ford.

Shall we send that foolish carrion Mistress Quickly to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? 207

Mrs. Page.

We will do it: let him be sent for to-morrow, eight o’clock, to have amends. 209

Re-enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Ford.

I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not compass.

Mrs. Page.

[Aside to Mrs. Ford.] Heard you that? 213

Mrs. Ford.

[Aside to Mrs. Page.] Ay, ay, peace.—You use me well, Master Ford, do you?

Ford.

Ay, I do so. 216

Mrs. Ford.

Heaven make you better than your thoughts!

Ford.

Amen!

Mrs. Page.

You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. 221

Ford.

Ay, ay; I must bear it.

Eva.

If there pe any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! 226

Caius

By gar, nor I too, dere is no bodies.

Page.

Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle.

Ford.

’Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it.

Eva.

You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. 235

Caius.

By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman.

Ford.

Well; I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me.

Page.

Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we’ll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we’ll a-birding together: I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so? 246

Ford.

Any thing.

Eva.

If there is one, I shall make two in the company.

Caius.

If dere be one or two, I shall make-a de turd.

Ford.

Pray you go, Master Page. 252

Eva.

I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host.

Caius.

Dat is good; by gar, vit all my heart.

Eva.

A lousy knave! to have his gibes and his mockeries!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Page’s House.

Enter Fenton, Anne Page, and Mistress Quickly. Mistress Quickly stands apart.

Fent.

I see I cannot get thy father’s love;

Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.

Anne.

Alas! how then?

Fent.

Why, thou must be thyself.

He doth object, I am too great of birth, 4

And that my state being gall’d with my expense,

I seek to heal it only by his wealth.

Besides these, other bars he lays before me,

My riots past, my wild societies; 8

And tells me ’tis a thing impossible

I should love thee but as a property.

Anne.

May be he tells you true.

Fent.

No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! 12

Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth

Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne:

Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value

Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags; 16

And ’tis the very riches of thyself

That now I aim at.

Anne.

Gentle Master Fenton,

Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir:

If opportunity and humblest suit 20

Cannot attain it, why, then,—hark you hither.

[They converse apart.

Enter Shallow and Slender.

Shal.

Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself.

Slen.

I’ll make a shaft or a bolt on’t. ’Slid, ’tis but venturing. 25

Shal.

Be not dismayed.

Slen.

No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for that, but that I am afeard. 28

Quick.

Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you.

Anne.

I come to him. [Aside.] This is my father’s choice.

O, what a world of vile ill-favour’d faults 32

Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

Quick.

And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you.

Shal.

She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! 37

Slen.

I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. 41

Shal.

Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.

Slen.

Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Glostershire. 44

Shal.

He will maintain you like a gentlewoman.

Slen.

Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire. 48

Shal.

He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure.

Anne.

Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself. 52

Shal.

Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz: I’ll leave you.

Anne.

Now, Master Slender. 56

Slen.

Now, good Mistress Anne.—

Anne.

What is your will? 58

Slen.

My will? od’s heartlings! that’s a pretty jest, indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise.

Anne.

I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me? 64

Slen.

Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle have made motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can: you may ask your father; here he comes. 70

Enter Page and Mistress Page.

Page.

Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.

Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here?

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:

I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos’d of.

Fent.

Nay, Master Page, be not impatient.

Mrs. Page.

Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. 76

Page.

She is no match for you.

Fent.

Sir, will you hear me?

Page.

No, good Master Fenton.

Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.

Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. 80

[Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender.

Quick.

Speak to Mistress Page.

Fent.

Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter

In such a righteous fashion as I do,

Perforce, against all checks, rebukes and manners, 84

I must advance the colours of my love

And not retire: let me have your good will.

Anne.

Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

Mrs. Page.

I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. 88

Quick.

That’s my master, Master doctor.

Anne.

Alas! I had rather be set quick i’ the earth,

And bowl’d to death with turnips.

Mrs. Page.

Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton, 92

I will not be your friend nor enemy:

My daughter will I question how she loves you,

And as I find her, so am I affected.

’Till then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in;

Her father will be angry. 97

Fent

Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan.

[Exeunt Mistress Page and Anne.

Quick.

This is my doing, now: ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.’ This is my doing. 102

Fent.

I thank thee: and I pray thee, once to-night

Give my sweet Nan this ring. There’s for thy pains. 104

Quick.

Now heaven send thee good fortune! [Exit Fenton.] A kind heart he hath: a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her. I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised, and I’ll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!

[Exit.

Scene V.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

Bardolph, I say,—

Bard.

Here, sir.

Fal.

Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in’t. [Exit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the Thames like a barrow of butcher’s offal? Well, if I be served such another trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out, and buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year’s gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man, and what a thing should I have been when I had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy. 19

Re-enter Bardolph, with the sack.

Bard.

Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. 21

Fal.

Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water, for my belly’s as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. 25

Bard.

Come in, woman.

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Quick.

By your leave. I cry you mercy: give your worship good morrow. 28

Fal.

Take away these chalices. Go brew me a pottle of sack finely.

Bard.

With eggs, sir?

Fal.

Simple of itself; I’ll no pullet-sperm in my brewage. [Exit Bardolph.]—How now! 33

Quick.

Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford.

Fal.

Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford. 38

Quick.

Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection. 41

Fal.

So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman’s promise.

Quick.

Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding: she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine. I must carry her word quickly: she’ll make you amends, I warrant you. 49

Fal.

Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her think what a man is: let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit. 52

Quick.

I will tell her.

Fal.

Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou?

Quick.

Eight and nine, sir.

Fal.

Well, be gone: I will not miss her. 56

Quick.

Peace be with you, sir.

[Exit.

Fal.

I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within. I like his money well. O! here he comes. 60

Enter Ford.

Ford.

Bless you, sir!

Fal.

Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife? 64

Ford.

That, indeed, Sir John, is my business.

Fal.

Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour she appointed me. 68

Ford.

And how sped you, sir?

Fal.

Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook.

Ford.

How so, sir? did she change her determination? 72

Fal.

No, Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual ’larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife’s love. 81

Ford.

What! while you were there?

Fal.

While I was there.

Ford.

And did he search for you, and could not find you? 85

Fal.

You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford’s approach; and in her invention, and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket. 90

Ford.

A buck-basket!

Fal.

By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villanous smell that ever offended nostril. 96

Ford.

And how long lay you there?

Fal.

Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well; on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable-fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of that, a man of my kidney, think of that, that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a miracle to ’scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook! 127

Ford.

In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit then is desperate; you’ll undertake her no more?

Fal.

Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding: I have received from her another embassy of meeting; ’twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. 136

Ford.

’Tis past eight already, sir.

Fal.

Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed, and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her: adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford.

[Exit.

Ford.

Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford! there’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married: this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am: I will now take the lecher; he is at my house; he cannot ’scape me; ’tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepper-box; but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame: if I have horns to make me mad, let the proverb go with me; I’ll be horn-mad.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Street.

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, and William.

Mrs. Page.

Is he at Master Ford’s already, thinkest thou? 2

Quick.

Sure he is by this, or will be presently; but truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. 6

Mrs. Page.

I’ll be with her by and by: I’ll but bring my young man here to school. Look, where his master comes; ’tis a playing-day, I see. 10

Enter Sir Hugh Evans.

How now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day?

Eva.

No; Master Slender is get the boys leave to play. 13

Quick.

Blessing of his heart!

Mrs. Page.

Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book: I pray you, ask him some questions in his accidence.

Eva.

Come hither, William; hold up your head; come. 20

Mrs. Page.

Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master, be not afraid.

Eva.

William, how many numbers is in nouns?

Will.

Two. 24

Quick.

Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say, ‘Od’s nouns.’

Eva.

Peace your tattlings! What is fair, William? 28

Will.

Pulcher.

Quick.

Polecats! there are fairer things than polecats, sure.

Eva.

You are a very simplicity ’oman: I pray you peace. What is lapis, William? 33

Will.

A stone.

Eva.

And what is a stone, William?

Will.

A pebble. 36

Eva.

No, it is lapis: I pray you remember in your prain.

Will.

Lapis.

Eva.

That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles? 41

Will.

Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, hæc, hoc. 44

Eva.

Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case?

Will.

Accusativo, hinc. 48

Eva.

I pray you, have your remembrance, child; accusativo, hung, hang, hog.

Quick.

Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. 52

Eva.

Leave your prabbles, ’oman. What is the focative case, William?

Will.

O vocativo, O.

Eva.

Remember, William; focative is caret.

Quick.

And that’s a good root. 57

Eva.

’Oman, forbear.

Mrs. Page.

Peace!

Eva.

What is your genitive case plural, William? 61

Will.

Genitive case?

Eva.

Ay.

Will.

Genitive, horum, harum, horum. 64

Quick.

Vengeance of Jenny’s case! fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore.

Eva.

For shame, ’oman!

Quick.

You do ill to teach the child such words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they’ll do fast enough of themselves, and to call ‘horum?’ fie upon you! 71

Eva.

’Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no understandings for thy cases and the numbers and the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires.

Mrs. Page.

Prithee, hold thy peace. 76

Eva.

Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns.

Will.

Forsooth, I have forgot.

Eva.

It is qui, quæ, quod; if you forget your quis, your quæs, and your quods, you must be preeches. Go your ways and play; go.

Mrs. Page.

He is a better scholar than I thought he was. 84

Eva.

He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page.

Mrs. Page.

Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit Sir Hugh.] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Ford’s House.

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford.

Fal.

Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now?

Mrs. Ford.

He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John. 8

Mrs. Page.

[Within.] What ho! gossip Ford! what ho!

Mrs. Ford.

Step into the chamber, Sir John.

[Exit Falstaff.

Enter Mistress Page.

Mrs. Page.

How now, sweetheart! who’s at home besides yourself? 13

Mrs. Ford.

Why, none but mine own people.

Mrs. Page.

Indeed!

Mrs. Ford.

No, certainly.—[Aside to her.] Speak louder. 17

Mrs. Page.

Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here.

Mrs. Ford.

Why? 20

Mrs. Page.

Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again: he so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, ‘Peer out, peer out!’ that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. 30

Mrs. Ford.

Why, does he talk of him?

Mrs. Page.

Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket: protests to my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.

Mrs. Ford.

How near is he, Mistress Page? 40

Mrs. Page.

Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon.

Mrs. Ford.

I am undone! the knight is here.

Mrs. Page.

Why then you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder. 47

Mrs. Ford.

Which way should he go? how should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again?

Re-enter Falstaff.

Fal.

No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come? 52

Mrs. Page.

Alas! three of Master Ford’s brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? 56

Fal.

What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the chimney.

Mrs. Ford.

There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. 60

Mrs. Page.

Creep into the kiln-hole.

Fal.

Where is it?

Mrs. Ford.

He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.

Fal.

I’ll go out, then. 68

Mrs. Page.

If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised,—

Mrs. Ford.

How might we disguise him? 72

Mrs. Page.

Alas the day! I know not. There is no woman’s gown big enough for him; otherwise, he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. 76

Fal.

Good hearts, devise something: any extremity rather than a mischief.

Mrs. Ford.

My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brainford, has a gown above. 80

Mrs. Page.

On my word, it will serve him; she’s as big as he is: and there’s her thrummed hat and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John.

Mrs. Ford.

Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head.

Mrs. Page.

Quick, quick! we’ll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while. 87

[Exit Falstaff.

Mrs. Ford.

I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of Brainford; he swears she’s a witch; forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her.

Mrs. Page.

Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! 94

Mrs. Ford.

But is my husband coming?

Mrs. Page.

Ay, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.

Mrs. Ford.

We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as they did last time. 101

Mrs. Page.

Nay, but he’ll be here presently: let’s go dress him like the witch of Brainford.

Mrs. Ford.

I’ll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I’ll bring linen for him straight.

[Exit.

Mrs. Page.

Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough. 108

We’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do,

Wives may be merry, and yet honest too:

We do not act that often jest and laugh;

’Tis old, but true, ‘Still swine eats all the draff.’

[Exit.

Re-enter Mistress Ford, with two Servants.

Mrs. Ford.

Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders: your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly; dispatch.

[Exit.

First Serv.

Come, come, take it up. 117

Sec. Serv.

Pray heaven, it be not full of knight again.

First Serv.

I hope not; I had as lief bear so much lead. 121

Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Ford.

Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villains. Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there’s a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching! 130

Page.

Why, this passes! Master Ford, you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. 133

Eva.

Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog!

Shal.

Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed. 137

Ford.

So say I too, sir.—

Re-enter Mistress Ford.

Come hither, Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I?

Mrs. Ford.

Heaven by my witness, you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. 144

Ford.

Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah!

[Pulls the clothes out of the basket.

Page.

This passes!

Mrs. Ford.

Are you not ashamed? let the clothes alone. 149

Ford.

I shall find you anon.

Eva.

’Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife’s clothes? Come away. 152

Ford.

Empty the basket, I say!

Mrs. Ford.

Why, man, why?

Ford.

Master Page, as I am an honest man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is; my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. 160

Mrs. Ford.

If you find a man there he shall die a flea’s death.

Page.

Here’s no man.

Shal.

By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you. 165

Eva.

Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies. 168

Ford.

Well, he’s not here I seek for.

Page.

No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.

[Servants carry away the basket.

Ford.

Help to search my house this one time: if I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me, ‘As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.’ Satisfy me once more; once more search with me. 177

Mrs. Ford.

What ho, Mistress Page! come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber. 180

Ford.

Old woman! What old woman’s that?

Mrs. Ford.

Why, it is my maid’s aunt of Brainford. 183

Ford.

A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element: we know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag, you; come down, I say! 192

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, good, sweet husband! good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman.

Enter Falstaff in women’s clothes, led by Mistress Page.

Mrs. Page.

Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. 196

Ford.

I’ll ‘prat’ her.—[Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you.

[Exit Falstaff.

Mrs. Page.

Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you. 204

Ford.

Hang her, witch!

Eva.

By yea and no, I think the ’oman is a witch indeed: I like not when a ’oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler. 209

Ford.

Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow: see but the issue of my jealousy. If I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. 213

Page.

Let’s obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen.

[Exeunt Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and Evans.

Mrs. Page.

Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. 217

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully methought.

Mrs. Page.

I’ll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar: it hath done meritorious service. 222

Mrs. Ford.

What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? 226

Mrs. Page.

The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him: if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again.

Mrs. Ford.

Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him? 232

Mrs. Page.

Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. 237

Mrs. Ford.

I’ll warrant they’ll have him publicly shamed, and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed. 241

Mrs. Page.

Come, to the forge with it then; shape it: I would not have things cool.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Host and Bardolph.

Bard.

Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. 3

Host.

What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English?

Bard.

Ay, sir; I’ll call them to you. 8

Host.

They shall have my horses, but I’ll make them pay; I’ll sauce them: they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests: they must come off; I’ll sauce them. Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Ford’s House.

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Eva.

’Tis one of the pest discretions of a ’oman as ever I did look upon.

Page.

And did he send you both these letters at an instant? 4

Mrs. Page.

Within a quarter of an hour.

Ford.

Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou wilt;

I rather will suspect the sun with cold

Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand, 8

In him that was of late an heretic,

As firm as faith.

Page.

’Tis well, ’tis well; no more.

Be not as extreme in submission

As in ofrence; 12

But let our plot go forward: let our wives

Yet once again, to make us public sport,

Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,

Where we may take him and disgrace him for it.

Ford.

There is no better way than that they spoke of. 17

Page.

How? to send him word they’ll meet him in the Park at midnight? Fie, fie! he’ll never come. 20

Eva.

You say he has been thrown into the rivers, and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman: methinks there should be terrors in him that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall have no desires. 25

Page.

So think I too.

Mrs. Ford.

Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes,

And let us two devise to bring him thither. 28

Mrs. Page.

There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,

Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,

Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,

Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns; 32

And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,

And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain

In a most hideous and dreadful manner:

You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know 36

The superstitious idle-headed eld

Receiv’d and did deliver to our age

This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

Page.

Why, yet there want not many that do fear 40

In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak.

But what of this?

Mrs. Ford.

Marry, this is our device;

That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us,

Disguis’d like Herne with huge horns on his head. 44

Page.

Well, let it not be doubted but he’ll come,

And in this shape when you have brought him thither,

What shall be done with him? what is your plot?

Mrs. Page.

That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: 48

Nan Page my daughter, and my little son,

And three or four more of their growth, we’ll dress

Like urchins, ouphs and fairies, green and white,

With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, 52

And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden,

As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met,

Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once

With some diffused song: upon their sight, 56

We two in great amazedness will fly:

Then let them all encircle him about,

And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight;

And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, 60

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread

In shape profane.

Mrs. Ford.

And till he tell the truth,

Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound

And burn him with their tapers.

Mrs. Page.

The truth being known, 64

We’ll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit,

And mock him home to Windsor.

Ford.

The children must

Be practis’d well to this, or they’ll ne’er do’t.

Eva.

I will teach the children their behaviours; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber.

Ford.

That will be excellent. I’ll go buy them vizards. 72

Mrs. Page.

My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies,

Finely attired in a robe of white.

Page.

That silk will I go buy:—[Aside] and in that time

Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, 76

And marry her at Eton. Go, send to Falstaff straight.

Ford.

Nay, I’ll to him again in name of Brook;

He’ll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he’ll come.

Mrs. Page.

Fear not you that. Go, get us properties, 80

And tricking for our fairies.

Eva.

Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries.

[Exeunt Page, Ford, and Evans.

Mrs. Page.

Go, Mistress Ford, 84

Send Quickly to Sir John, to know his mind.

[Exit Mistress Ford.

I’ll to the doctor: he hath my good will,

And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.

That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; 88

And him my husband best of all affects:

The doctor is well money’d, and his friends

Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,

Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.

[Exit.

Scene V.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Host and Simple.

Host.

What wouldst thou have, boor? what, thick-skin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap.

Sim.

Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. 5

Host.

There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed: ’tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call: he’ll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee: knock, I say. 11

Sim.

There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber: I’ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed. 15

Host.

Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be robbed: I’ll call. Bully knight! Bully Sir John! speak from thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls.

Fal.

[Above.] How now, mine host! 20

Host.

Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully; let her descend; my chambers are honourable: fie! privacy? fie! 24

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with me, but she’s gone.

Sim.

Pray you, sir, was’t not the wise woman of Brainford? 28

Fal.

Ay, marry, was it, muscle-shell: what would you with her?

Sim.

My Master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. 34

Fal.

I spake with the old woman about it.

Sim.

And what says she, I pray, sir? 36

Fal.

Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it.

Sim.

I would I could have spoken with the woman herself: I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him.

Fal.

What are they? let us know.

Host.

Ay, come; quick. 44

Sim.

I may not conceal them, sir.

Host.

Conceal them, or thou diest.

Sim.

Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page; to know if it were my master’s fortune to have her or no. 49

Fal.

’Tis, ’tis his fortune.

Sim.

What, sir?

Fal.

To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so. 53

Sim.

May I be bold to say so, sir?

Fal.

Ay, Sir Tike; who more bold?

Sim.

I thank your worship: I shall make my master glad with these tidings.

[Exit.

Host.

Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee? 59

Fal.

Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life: and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. 63

Enter Bardolph.

Bard.

Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!

Host.

Where be my horses? speak well of them, varletto. 66

Bard.

Run away, with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off, from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. 71

Host.

They are gone but to meet the duke, villain. Do not say they be fled: Germans are honest men.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans.

Eva.

Where is mine host?

Host.

What is the matter, sir? 76

Eva.

Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you: you are wise and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and ’tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.

[Exit.

Enter Doctor Caius.

Caius.

Vere is mine host de Jarteer? 85

Host.

Here, Master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.

Caius.

I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany: by my trot, dere is no duke dat de court is know to come. I tell you for good vill: adieu.

[Exit.

Host.

Hue and cry, villain! go. Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone! 95

[Exeunt Host and Bardolph.

Fal.

I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop, and liquor fishermen’s boots with me: I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. 107

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Now, whence come you?

Quick.

From the two parties, forsooth.

Fal.

The devil take one party and his dam the other! and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villanous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear. 114

Quick.

And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them: Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. 118

Fal.

What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow; and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brainford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. 126

Quick.

Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber; you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts! what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed.

Fal.

Come up into my chamber.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Fenton and Host.

Host.

Master Fenton, talk not to me: my mind is heavy; I will give over all.

Fent.

Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,

And, as I am a gentleman, I’ll give thee 4

A hundred pound in gold more than your loss.

Host.

I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel.

Fent.

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page; 9

Who, mutually hath answer’d my affection,

So far forth as herself might be her chooser,

Even to my wish. I have a letter from her 12

Of such contents as you will wonder at;

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,

That neither singly can be manifested,

Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff

Hath a great scare: the image of the jest 17

I’ll show you here at large [Pointing to the Letter]. Hark, good mine host:

To-night at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one,

Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;

The purpose why, is here: in which disguise, 21

While other jests are something rank on foot,

Her father hath commanded her to slip

Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 24

Immediately to marry: she hath consented:

Now, sir,

Her mother, even strong against that match

And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 28

That he shall likewise shuffle her away,

While other sports are tasking of their minds;

And at the deanery, where a priest attends,

Straight marry her: to this her mother’s plot

She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 33

Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests:

Her father means she shall be all in white,

And in that habit, when Slender sees his time

To take her by the hand and bid her go, 37

She shall go with him: her mother hath intended,

The better to denote her to the doctor,—

For they must all be mask’d and vizarded— 40

That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob’d,

With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head;

And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,

To pinch her by the hand; and on that token 44

The maid hath given consent to go with him.

Host.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

Fent.

Both, my good host, to go along with me:

And here it rests, that you’ll procure the vicar

To stay for me at church ’twixt twelve and one,

And, in the lawful name of marrying, 51

To give our hearts united ceremony.

Host.

Well, husband your device; I’ll to the vicar.

Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.

Fent.

So shall I evermore be bound to thee;

Besides, I’ll make a present recompense. 56

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly.

Fal.

Prithee, no more prattling; go: I’ll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance or death. Away! 5

Quick.

I’ll provide you a chain, and I’ll do what I can to get you a pair of horns.

Fal.

Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince.

[Exit Mistress Quickly.

Enter Ford.

How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall see wonders. 13

Ford.

Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed?

Fal.

I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man; but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of a man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste: go along with me; I’ll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played traunt, and whipped top, I knew not what it was to be beaten till lately. Follow me: I’ll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Windsor Park.

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender.

Page.

Come, come; we’ll couch i’ the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter. 3

Slen.

Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her and we have a nayword how to know one another. I come to her in white, and cry, ‘mum;’ she cries, ‘budget;’ and by that we know one another. 8

Shal.

That’s good too: but what needs either your ‘mum,’ or her ‘budget?’ the white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o’clock. 12

Page.

The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Street in Windsor.

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Dr. Caius.

Mrs. Page.

Master Doctor, my daughter is in green: when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park: we two must go together. 5

Caius.

I know vat I have to do. Adieu.

Mrs. Page.

Fare you well, sir. [Exit Caius.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff, as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter: but ’tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heart break.

Mrs. Ford.

Where is Nan now and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil, Hugh? 13

Mrs. Page.

They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. 17

Mrs. Ford.

That cannot choose but amaze him.

Mrs. Page.

If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked.

Mrs. Ford.

We’ll betray him finely.

Mrs. Page.

Against such lewdsters and their lechery, 24

Those that betray them do no treachery.

Mrs. Ford.

The hour draws on: to the oak, to the oak!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Windsor Park.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised, and others as Fairies.

Eva.

Trib, trib, fairies: come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit, and when I give the watch-ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another part of the Park.

Enter Falstaff disguised as Herne, with a buck’s head on.

Fal.

The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other, a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda; O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl: think on ’t, Jove; a foul fault! When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest: send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe? 17

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Mrs. Ford.

Sir John! art thou there, my deer? my male deer?

Fal.

My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of ‘Green Sleeves;’ hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.

[Embracing her.

Mrs. Ford.

Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart. 26

Fal.

Divide me like a brib’d buck, each a haunch: I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!

[Noise within.

Mrs. Page.

Alas! what noise?

Mrs. Ford.

Heaven forgive our sins! 36

Fal.

What should this be?

Mrs. Ford.

Away, away!

Mrs. Page.

Away, away!

[They run off.

Fal.

I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that is in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, like a Satyr: Pistol as Hobgoblin; Anne Page, as the Fairy Queen, attended by her Brother and Others, as Fairies, with waxen tapers on their heads.

Anne.

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,

You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 44

You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,

Attend your office and your quality.

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

Pist.

Elves, list your names: silence, you airy toys! 48

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:

Where fires thou find’st unrak’d and hearths unswept,

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:

Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. 52

Fal.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:

I’ll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.

[Lies down upon his face.

Eva.

Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,

Rein up the organs of her fantasy, 57

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy;

But those that sleep and think not on their sins,

Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. 60

Anne.

About, about!

Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphs, on every sacred room,

That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 64

In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit,

Worthy the owner, and the owner it.

The several chairs of order look you scour

With juice of balm and every precious flower: 68

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, ever more be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,

Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring: 72

The expressure that it bears, green let it be,

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;

And, Honi soit qui mal y pense write

In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white;

Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 77

Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee:

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Away! disperse! But, till ’tis one o’clock, 80

Our dance of custom round about the oak

Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

Eva.

Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set;

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanthorns be,

To guide our measure round about the tree. 85

But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

Fal.

Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

Pist.

Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy birth.

Anne.

With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:

If he be chaste, the flame will back descend

And turn him to no pain; but if he start, 92

It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

Pist.

A trial! come.

Eva.

Come, will this wood take fire?

[They burn him with their tapers.

Fal.

Oh, oh, oh!

Anne.

Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! 96

About him, fairies, sing a scornful rime;

And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

SONG.

Fie on sinful fantasy!

Fie on lust and luxury! 100

Lust is but a bloody fire,

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire,

As thoughts do blow them higher and higher. 104

Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villany;

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,

Till candles and star-light and moonshine be out.

During this song, the Fairies pinch Falstaff. Doctor Caius comes one way, and steals away a Fairy in green; Slender another way, and takes off a Fairy in white; and Fenton comes, and steals away Anne Page. A noise of hunting is heard within. The Fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off his buck’s head, and rises.

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. They lay hold on Falstaff.

Page.

Nay, do not fly: I think we have watch’d you now: 109

Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

Mrs. Page.

I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher.

Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? 112

See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes

Become the forest better than the town?

Ford.

Now sir, who’s a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his horns, Master Brook: and, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid too, Master Brook; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. 121

Mrs. Ford.

Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again, but I will always count you my deer. 125

Fal.

I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.

Ford.

Ay, and an ox too; both the proofs are extant. 129

Fal.

And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rime and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-lent, when ’tis upon ill employment!

Eva.

Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. 140

Ford.

Well said, fairy Hugh.

Eva.

And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you.

Ford.

I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. 145

Fal.

Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I have a coxcomb of frize? ’Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese.

Eva.

Seese is not goot to give putter: your pelly is all putter. 153

Fal.

‘Seese’ and ‘putter!’ have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. 157

Mrs. Page.

Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight?

Ford.

What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax?

Mrs. Page.

A puffed man? 164

Page.

Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails?

Ford.

And one that is as slanderous as Satan?

Page.

And as poor as Job? 168

Ford.

And as wicked as his wife?

Eva.

And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack and wine and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles? 173

Fal.

Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o’er me: use me as you will. 177

Ford.

Marry, sir, we’ll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffered, I think, to repay that money will be a biting affliction.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, husband, let that go to make amends;

Forgive that sum, and so we’ll all be friends. 184

Ford.

Well, here’s my hand: all is forgiven at last.

Page.

Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her, Master Slender hath married her daughter.

Mrs. Page.

[Aside.] Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this Doctor Caius’ wife. 193

Enter Slender.

Slen.

Whoa, ho! ho! father Page!

Page.

Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched? 196

Slen.

Dispatched! I’ll make the best in Gloster-shire know on ’t; would I were hanged, la, else!

Page.

Of what, son? 200

Slen.

I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy: if it had not been i’ the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir! and ’tis a postmaster’s boy. 206

Page.

Upon my life, then, you took the wrong.

Slen.

What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him. 211

Page.

Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments?

Slen.

I went to her in white, and cried, ‘mum,’ and she cried ‘budget,’ as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster’s boy.

Eva.

Jeshu! Master Slender, cannot you see put marry poys? 220

Page.

O I am vexed at heart: what shall I do?

Mrs. Page.

Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. 226

Enter Doctor Caius.

Caius.

Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened: I ha’ married un garçon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am cozened. 230

Mrs. Page.

Why, did you not take her in green?

Caius.

Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy: by gar, I’ll raise all Windsor.

[Exit.

Ford.

This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? 235

Page.

My heart misgives me: here comes Master Fenton.

Enter Fenton and Anne Page.

How now, Master Fenton!

Anne.

Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon! 240

Page.

Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender?

Mrs. Page.

Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? 244

Fent.

You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.

You would have married her most shamefully,

Where there was no proportion held in love.

The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, 248

Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us.

The offence is holy that she hath committed,

And this deceit loses the name of craft,

Of disobedience, or unduteous title, 252

Since therein she doth evitate and shun

A thousand irreligious cursed hours,

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.

Ford.

Stand not amaz’d: here is no remedy:

In love the heavens themselves do guide the state: 257

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

Fal.

I am glad, though you have ta’en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. 261

Page.

Well, what remedy?—Fenton, heaven give thee joy!

What cannot be eschew’d must be embrac’d.

Fal.

When night dogs run all sorts of deer are chas’d. 264

Mrs. Page.

Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,

Heaven give you many, many merry days!

Good husband, let us every one go home,

And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire; 268

Sir John and all.

Ford.

Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word;

For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford. 272

[Exeunt.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Vincentio,	the Duke.
Angelo,	Lord Deputy in the Duke’s absence.
Escalus,	an Ancient Lord, joined with Angelo in the deputation.
Claudio,	a young Gentleman.
Lucio,	a Fantastic.
Two other like Gentlemen.
Varrius,	a Gentleman attending on the Duke.
Provost.
Thomas, }	two Friars.
Peter, }	two Friars.
A Justice.
Elbow,	a simple Constable.
Froth,	a foolish Gentleman.
Pompey,	Tapster to Mistress Overdone.
Abhorson,	an Executioner.
Barnardine,	a dissolute Prisoner.
Isabella,	sister to Claudio.
Mariana,	betrothed to Angelo.
Juliet,	beloved of Claudio.
Francisca,	a Nun.
Mistress Overdone,	a Bawd.
Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants.

Scene.—Vienna.

ACT I.

Scene I.— An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke.

Escalus.

Escal.

My lord?

Duke.

Of government the properties to unfold,

Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,

Since I am put to know that your own science 5

Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

My strength can give you: then no more remains,

But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work. The nature of our people, 9

Our city’s institutions, and the terms

For common justice, you’re as pregnant in,

As art and practice hath enriched any 12

That we remember. There is our commission,

[Giving it.

From which we would not have you warp. Call hither,

I say, bid come before us Angelo.

[Exit an Attendant.

What figure of us think you he will bear? 16

For you must know, we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply,

Lent him our terror, drest him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs 20

Of our own power: what think you of it?

Escal.

If any in Vienna be of worth

To undergo such ample grace and honour,

It is Lord Angelo.

Duke.

Look where he comes. 24

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

Always obedient to your Grace’s will,

I come to know your pleasure.

Duke.

Angelo,

There is a kind of character in thy life,

That, to th’ observer doth thy history 28

Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper, as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, 32

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d

But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends 36

The smallest scruple of her excellence,

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech

To one that can my part in him advertise; 41

Hold, therefore, Angelo:

[Tendering his commission.

In our remove be thou at full ourself;

Mortality and mercy in Vienna 44

Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,

Though first in question, is thy secondary.

Take thy commission.

[Giving it.

Ang.

Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,

Before so noble and so great a figure 49

Be stamp’d upon it.

Duke.

No more evasion:

We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice

Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

Our haste from hence is of so quick condition 53

That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion’d

Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,

As time and our concernings shall importune, 56

How it goes with us; and do look to know

What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:

To the hopeful execution do I leave you

Of your commissions.

Ang.

Yet, give leave, my lord, 60

That we may bring you something on the way.

Duke.

My haste may not admit it;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple: your scope is as mine own, 64

So to enforce or qualify the laws

As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

I’ll privily away: I love the people,

But do not like to stage me to their eyes. 68

Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause and Aves vehement,

Nor do I think the man of safe discretion

That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 72

Ang.

The heavens give safety to your purposes!

Escal.

Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!

Duke.

I thank you. Fare you well.

[Exit.

Escal.

I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave

To have free speech with you; and it concerns me

To look into the bottom of my place:

A power I have, but of what strength and nature

I am not yet instructed. 80

Ang.

’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,

And we may soon our satisfaction have

Touching that point.

Escal.

I’ll wait upon your honour.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Street.

Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.

Lucio.

If the Duke with the other dukes come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then, all the dukes fall upon the king.

First Gent.

Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary’s! 5

Second Gent.

Amen.

Lucio.

Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table.

Second Gent.

‘Thou shalt not steal?’ 10

Lucio.

Ay, that he razed.

First Gent.

Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, doth relish the petition well that prays for peace. 17

Second Gent.

I never heard any soldier dislike it.

Lucio.

I believe thee, for I think thou never wast where grace was said. 21

Second Gent.

No? a dozen times at least.

First Gent.

What, in metre?

Lucio.

In any proportion or in any language.

First Gent.

I think, or in any religion. 25

Lucio.

Ay; why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. 28

First Gent.

Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.

Lucio.

I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet: thou art the list. 32

First Gent.

And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou art a three-piled piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? 37

Lucio.

I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.

First Gent.

I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? 44

Second Gent.

Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.

Lucio.

Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to— 49

Second Gent.

To what, I pray?

Lucio.

Judge.

Second Gent.

To three thousand dolours a year. 53

First Gent.

Ay, and more.

Lucio.

A French crown more.

First Gent.

Thou art always figuring diseases in me; but thou art full of error: I am sound. 57

Lucio.

Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee. 61

Enter Mistress Overdone.

First Gent.

How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?

Mrs. Ov.

Well, well; there’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. 66

Second Gent.

Who’s that, I pray thee?

Mrs. Ov.

Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio.

First Gent.

Claudio to prison! ’tis not so. 70

Mrs. Ov.

Nay, but I know ’tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.

Lucio.

But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? 76

Mrs. Ov.

I am too sure of it; and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child.

Lucio.

Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. 81

Second Gent.

Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. 84

First Gent.

But most of all, agreeing with the proclamation.

Lucio.

Away! let’s go learn the truth of it.

[Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen.

Mrs. Ov.

Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk.

Enter Pompey.

How now! what’s the news with you?

Pom.

Yonder man is carried to prison. 92

Mrs. Ov.

Well: what has he done?

Pom.

A woman.

Mrs. Ov.

But what’s his offence?

Pom.

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

Mrs. Ov.

What, is there a maid with child by him?

Pom.

No; but there’s a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? 101

Mrs. Ov.

What proclamation, man?

Pom.

All houses of resort in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down 104

Mrs. Ov.

And what shall become of those in the city?

Pom.

They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. 109

Mrs. Ov.

But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?

Pom.

To the ground, mistress. 112

Mrs. Ov.

Why, here’s a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me?

Pom.

Come; fear not you: good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place, you need not change your trade; I’ll be your tapster still. Courage! there will be pity taken on you; you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. 120

Mrs. Ov.

What’s to do here, Thomas tapster?

Let’s withdraw.

Pom.

Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there’s Madam Juliet.

[Exeunt.

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Officers.

Claud.

Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

Prov.

I do it not in evil disposition,

But from Lord Angelo by special charge. 128

Claud.

Thus can the demi-god Authority

Make us pay down for our offence’ by weight.

The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will;

On whom it will not, so: yet still ’tis just. 132

Re-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.

Lucio.

Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint?

Claud.

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:

As surfeit is the father of much fast,

So every scope by the immoderate use 136

Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue—

Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,—

A thirsty evil, and when we drink we die.

Lucio.

If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors. And yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s thy offence, Claudio? 144

Claud.

What but to speak of would offend again.

Lucio.

What, is’t murder?

Claud.

No. 148

Lucio.

Lechery?

Claud.

Call it so.

Prov.

Away, sir! you must go.

Claud.

One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.

Lucio.

A hundred, if they’ll do you any good.

Is lechery so looked after?

Claud.

Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract

I got possession of Julietta’s bed: 156

You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

Save that we do the denunciation lack

Of outward order: this we came not to,

Only for propagation of a dower 160

Remaining in the coffer of her friends,

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

Till time had made them for us. But it chances

The stealth of our most mutual entertainment

With character too gross is writ on Juliet. 165

Lucio.

With child, perhaps?

Claud.

Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the duke,—

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, 168

Or whether that the body public be

A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur;

Whether the tyranny be in his place, 173

Or in his eminence that fills it up,

I stagger in:—but this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties 176

Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the wall

So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round,

And none of them been worn; and, for a name,

Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 180

Freshly on me: ’tis surely for a name.

Lucio.

I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal to him. 185

Claud.

I have done so, but he’s not to be found.

I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service.

This day my sister should the cloister enter, 188

And there receive her approbation:

Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him: 192

I have great hope in that; for in her youth

There is a prone and speechless dialect,

Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art

When she will play with reason and discourse,

And well she can persuade. 197

Lucio.

I pray she may: as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her.

Claud.

I thank you, good friend Lucio.

Lucio.

Within two hours.

Claud.

Come, officer, away!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Monastery.

Enter Duke and Friar Thomas.

Duke.

No, holy father; throw away that thought:

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee

To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 4

More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

Of burning youth.

Fri. T.

May your Grace speak of it?

Duke.

My holy sir, none better knows than you

How I have ever lov’d the life remov’d, 8

And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.

I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo—

A man of stricture and firm abstinence— 12

My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

And he supposes me travell’d to Poland;

For so I have strew’d it in the common ear,

And so it is receiv’d. Now, pious sir, 16

You will demand of me why I do this?

Fri. T.

Gladly, my lord.

Duke.

We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds,— 20

Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep;

Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,

Only to stick it in their children’s sight 25

For terror, not to use, in time the rod

Becomes more mock’d than fear’d; so our decrees,

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead, 28

And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

Goes all decorum.

Fri. T.

It rested in your Grace

T’ unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas’d;

And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d

Than in Lord Angelo.

Duke.

I do fear, too dreadful:

Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope, 35

’Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,

When evil deeds have their permissive pass

And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

I have on Angelo impos’d the office, 40

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet my nature never in the sight

To do it slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as ’twere a brother of your order, 44

Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee,

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

How I may formally in person bear me

Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

At our more leisure shall I render you; 49

Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite 52

Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Nunnery.

Enter Isabella and Francisca.

Isab.

And have you nuns no further privileges?

Fran.

Are not these large enough?

Isab.

Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more,

But rather wishing a more strict restraint 4

Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.

Lucto.

[Within.] Ho! Peace be in this place!

Isab.

Who’s that which calls?

Fran.

It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella,

Turn you the key, and know his business of him:

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. 9

When you have vow’d, you must not speak with men

But in the presence of the prioress:

Then, if you speak, you must not show your face,

Or, if you show your face, you must not speak.

He calls again; I pray you, answer him.

[Exit.

Isab.

Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls?

Enter Lucio.

Lucio.

Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses 16

Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me

As bring me to the sight of Isabella,

A novice of this place, and the fair sister

To her unhappy brother Claudio? 20

Isab.

Why ‘her unhappy brother?’ let me ask;

The rather for I now must make you know

I am that Isabella and his sister.

Lucio.

Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you: 24

Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.

Isab.

Woe me! for what?

Lucio.

For that which, if myself might be his judge,

He should receive his punishment in thanks: 28

He hath got his friend with child.

Isab.

Sir, make me not your story.

Lucio.

It is true.

I would not, though ’tis my familiar sin

With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, 32

Tongue far from heart, play with all virgins so:

I hold you as a thing ensky’d and sainted;

By your renouncement an immortal spirit,

And to be talk’d with in sincerity, 36

As with a saint.

Isab.

You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.

Lucio.

Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus:

Your brother and his lover have embrac’d: 40

As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time

That from the seedness the bare fallow brings

To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb

Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. 44

Isab.

Some one with child by him? My cousin Juliet?

Lucio.

Is she your cousin?

Isab.

Adoptedly; asschool-maids change their names

By vain, though apt affection.

Lucio.

She it is. 48

Isab.

O! let him marry her.

Lucio.

This is the point.

The duke is very strangely gone from hence;

Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

In hand and hope of action; but we do learn 52

By those that know the very nerves of state,

His givings out were of an infinite distance

From his true-meant design. Upon his place,

And with full line of his authority, 56

Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood

Is very snow-broth; one who never feels

The wanton stings and motions of the sense,

But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 60

With profits of the mind, study and fast.

He,—to give fear to use and liberty,

Which have for long run by the hideous law,

As mice by lions, hath pick’d out an act, 64

Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life

Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it,

And follows close the rigour of the statute,

To make him an example. All hope is gone, 68

Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer

To soften Angelo; and that’s my pith of business

Twixt you and your poor brother.

Isab.

Doth he so seek his life?

Lucio.

He’s censur’d him 72

Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath

A warrant for his execution.

Isab.

Alas! what poor ability’s in me

To do him good?

Lucio.

Assay the power you have. 76

Isab.

My power? alas! I doubt—

Lucio.

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,

By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,

And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 80

Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

All their petitions are as freely theirs

As they themselves would owe them.

Isab.

I’ll see what I can do.

Lucio.

But speedily. 84

Isab.

I will about it straight;

No longer staying but to give the Mother

Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you:

Commend me to my brother; soon at night 88

I’ll send him certain word of my success.

Lucio.

I take my leave of you.

Isab.

Good sir, adieu.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Hall in Angelo’s House.

Enter Angelo, Escalus, a Justice, Provost, Officers, and other Attendants.

Ang.

We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,

And let it keep one shape, till custom make it

Their perch and not their terror.

Escal.

Ay, but yet 4

Let us be keen and rather cut a little,

Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman,

Whom I would save, had a most noble father.

Let but your honour know,— 8

Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,—

That, in the working of your own affections,

Had time coher’d with place or place with wishing,

Or that the resolute acting of your blood 12

Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose,

Whether you had not, some time in your life,

Err’d in this point which now you censure him,

And pull’d the law upon you. 16

Ang.

’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,

Another thing to fall. I not deny,

The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two 20

Guiltier than him they try; what’s open made to justice,

That justice seizes: what know the laws

That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant,

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it 24

Because we see it; but what we do not see

We tread upon, and never think of it.

You may not so extenuate his offence

For I have had such faults; but rather tell me,

When I, that censure him, do so offend, 29

Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,

And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

Escal.

Be it as your wisdom will.

Ang.

Where is the provost?

Prov.

Here, if it like your honour.

Ang.

See that Claudio

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:

Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar’d;

For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. 36

[Exit Provost.

Escal.

Well, heaven forgive him, and forgive us all!

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:

Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none,

And some condemned for a fault alone. 40

Enter Elbow and Officers, with Froth and Pompey.

Elb.

Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a common-weal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away. 44

Ang.

How now, sir! What’s your name, and what’s the matter?

Elb.

If it please your honour, I am the poor duke’s constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon justice, sir; and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors. 51

Ang.

Benefactors! Well; what benefactors are they? are they not malefactors?

Elb.

If it please your honour, I know not well what they are; but precise villains they are, that I am sure of, and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have. 57

Escal.

This comes off well: here’s a wise officer.

Ang.

Go to: what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? why dost thou not speak, Elbow?

Pom.

He cannot, sir: he’s out at elbow. 62

Ang.

What are you, sir?

Elb.

He, sir! a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman, whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too. 68

Escal.

How know you that?

Elb.

My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour,—

Escal.

How! thy wife? 72

Elb.

Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest woman,—

Escal.

Dost thou detest her therefore?

Elb.

I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house. 79

Escal.

How dost thou know that, constable?

Elb.

Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. 84

Escal.

By the woman’s means?

Elb.

Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means; but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.

Pom.

Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. 89

Elb.

Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it.

Escal.

[To Angelo.] Do you hear how he misplaces? 93

Pom.

Sir, she came in, great with child, and longing,—saving your honour’s reverence,—for stewed prunes. Sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes.

Escal.

Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir.

Pom.

No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right: but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes, and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence again.

Froth.

No, indeed. 112

Pom.

Very well: you being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,—

Froth.

Ay, so I did, indeed. 116

Pom.

Why, very well: I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you,— 120

Froth.

All this is true.

Pom.

Why, very well then.—

Escal.

Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife, that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.

Pom.

Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. 128

Escal.

No, sir, nor I mean it not.

Pom.

Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year, whose father died at Hallowmas. Was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth? 134

Froth.

All-hallownd eve.

Pom.

Why, very well: I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; ’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not? 139

Froth.

I have so, because it is an open room and good for winter.

Pom.

Why, very well then: I hope here be truths.

Ang.

This will last out a night in Russia, 144

When nights are longest there: I’ll take my leave,

And leave you to the hearing of the cause,

Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all.

Escal.

I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.

[Exit Angelo.

Now, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow’s wife, once more?

Pom.

Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once. 152

Elb.

I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.

Pom.

I beseech your honour, ask me.

Escal.

Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her? 157

Pom.

I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; ’tis for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face? 161

Escal.

Ay, sir, very well.

Pom.

Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.

Escal.

Well, I do so. 164

Pom.

Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

Escal.

Why, no.

Pom.

I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your honour. 172

Escal.

He’s in the right. Constable, what say you to it?

Elb.

First, an’ it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow, and his mistress is a respected woman. 177

Pom.

By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all.

Elb.

Varlet, thou liest: thou liest, wicked varlet. The time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child. 182

Pom.

Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.

Escal.

Which is the wiser here? Justice, or Iniquity? Is this true? 186

Elb.

O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her? If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor duke’s officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery on thee. 193

Escal.

If he took you a box o’ th’ ear, you might have your action of slander too.

Elb.

Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff? 198

Escal.

Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldest discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are. 202

Elb.

Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s come upon thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet, thou art to continue.

Escal.

Where were you born, friend?

Froth.

Here in Vienna, sir. 208

Escal.

Are you of fourscore pounds a year?

Froth.

Yes, an’t please you, sir.

Escal.

So. [To Pompey.] What trade are you of, sir? 212

Pom.

A tapster; a poor widow’s tapster.

Escal.

Your mistress’ name?

Pom.

Mistress Overdone.

Escal.

Hath she had any more than one husband?

Pom.

Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. 218

Escal.

Nine!—Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters; they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

Froth.

I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse, but I am drawn in. 226

Escal.

Well: no more of it, Master Froth: farewell. [Exit Froth.]—Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Master tapster?

Pom.

Pompey.

Escal.

What else? 232

Pom.

Bum, sir.

Escal.

Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you, so that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be the better for you. 239

Pom.

Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

Escal.

How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade? 244

Pom.

If the law would allow it, sir.

Escal.

But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

Pom.

Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?

Escal.

No, Pompey. 250

Pom.

Truly, sir, in my humble opinion, they will to’t then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

Escal.

There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell you: it is but heading and hanging. 256

Pom.

If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you’ll be glad to give out a commission for more heads. If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I’ll rent the fairest house in it after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say, Pompey told you so. 263

Escal.

Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Cæsar to you. In plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt. So, for this time, Pompey, fare you well. 272

Pom.

I thank your worship for your good counsel;—[Aside.] but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine.

Whip me! No, no; let carman whip his jade;

The valiant heart’s not whipt out of his trade.

[Exit.

Escal.

Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable? 280

Elb.

Seven year and a half, sir.

Escal.

I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say, seven years together? 284

Elb.

And a half, sir.

Escal.

Alas! it hath been great pains to you! They do you wrong to put you so oft upon ’t. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? 289

Elb.

Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them: I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. 293

Escal.

Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. 296

Elb.

To your worship’s house, sir?

Escal.

To my house. Fare you well.

[Exit Elbow.

What’s o’clock, think you?

Just.

Eleven, sir. 300

Escal.

I pray you home to dinner with me.

Just.

I humbly thank you.

Escal.

It grieves me for the death of Claudio;

But there is no remedy. 304

Just.

Lord Angelo is severe.

Escal.

It is but needful:

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so;

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.

But yet, poor Claudio! There’s no remedy. 308

Come, sir.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Provost and a Servant.

Serv.

He’s hearing of a cause: he will come straight:

I’ll tell him of you.

Prov.

Pray you, do. [Exit Serv.] I’ll know

His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas!

He hath but as offended in a dream: 4

All sects, all ages smack of this vice, and he

To die for it!

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

Now, what’s the matter, provost?

Prov.

Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow?

Ang.

Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order? 8

Why dost thou ask again?

Prov.

Lest I might be too rash.

Under your good correction, I have seen,

When, after execution, Judgment hath

Repented o’er his doom.

Ang

Go to; let that be mine: 12

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spar’d.

Prov.

I crave your honour’s pardon.

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

She’s very near her hour.

Ang.

Dispose of her 16

To some more fitter place; and that with speed.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

Here is the sister of the man condemn’d

Desires access to you.

Ang.

Hath he a sister?

Prov.

Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, 20

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

If not already.

Ang.

Well, let her be admitted.

[Exit Servant.

See you the fornicatress be remov’d:

Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; 24

There shall be order for’t.

Enter Isabella and Lucio.

Prov.

God save your honour!

[Offering to retire.

Ang.

Stay a little while.—[To Isab.] You’re welcome: what’s your will?

Isab.

I am a woful suitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

Ang.

Well; what’s your suit? 28

Isab.

There is a vice that most I do abhor,

And most desire should meet the blow of justice,

For which I would not plead, but that I must;

For which I must not plead, but that I am 32

At war ’twixt will and will not.

Ang.

Well; the matter?

Isab.

I have a brother is condemn’d to die:

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Prov.

[Aside.] Heaven give thee moving graces! 36

Ang.

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Why, every fault’s condemn’d ere it be done.

Mine were the very cipher of a function,

To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, 40

And let go by the actor.

Isab.

O just, but severe law!

I had a brother, then.—Heaven keep your honour!

[Retiring.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Give’t not o’er so: to him again, entreat him;

Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;

You are too cold; if you should need a pin, 45

You could not with more tame a tongue desire it.

To him. I say!

Isab.

Must he needs die?

Ang.

Maiden, no remedy.

Isab.

Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, 49

And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.

Ang.

I will not do’t.

Isab.

But can you, if you would?

Ang.

Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.

Isab.

But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong, 53

If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse

As mine is to him?

Ang.

He’s sentenc’d: ’tis too late.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] You are too cold. 56

Isab.

Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word,

May call it back again. Well, believe this,

No ceremony that to great ones ’longs,

Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 60

The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,

Become them with one half so good a grace

As mercy does.

If he had been as you, and you as he, 64

You would have slipt like him; but he, like you,

Would not have been so stern.

Ang.

Pray you, be gone.

Isab.

I would to heaven I had your potency,

And you were Isabel! should it then be thus? 68

No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge,

And what a prisoner.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.

Ang.

Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

And you but waste your words.

Isab.

Alas! alas! 72

Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once;

And He that might the vantage best have took,

Found out the remedy. How would you be,

If He, which is the top of judgment, should 76

But judge you as you are? O! think on that,

And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

Ang.

Be you content, fair maid;

It is the law, not I, condemn your brother: 80

Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,

It should be thus with him: he must die to-morrow.

Isab.

To-morrow! O! that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!

He’s not prepar’d for death. Even for our kitchens 84

We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven

With less respect than we do minister

To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:

Who is it that hath died for this offence? 88

There’s many have committed it.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Ay, well said.

Ang.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:

Those many had not dar’d to do that evil,

If that the first that did th’ edict infringe 92

Had answer’d for his deed: now ’tis awake,

Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,

Either new, or by remissness new-conceiv’d, 96

And so in progress to be hatch’d and born,

Are now to have no successive degrees,

But, ere they live, to end.

Isab.

Yet show some pity.

Ang.

I show it most of all when I show justice;

For then I pity those I do not know, 101

Which a dismiss’d offence would after gall,

And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,

Lives not to act another. Be satisfied: 104

Your brother dies to-morrow: be content.

Isab.

So you must be the first that gives this sentence,

And he that suffers. O! it is excellent

To have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] That’s well said. 109

Isab.

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,

For every pelting, petty officer 112

Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder.

Merciful heaven!

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt

Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 116

Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 120

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent: 124

He’s coming: I perceive’t.

Prov.

[Aside.] Pray heaven she win him!

Isab.

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:

Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them,

But, in the less foul profanation. 128

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Thou’rt in the right, girl: more o’ that.

Isab.

That in the captain’s but a choleric word,

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Art advis’d o’ that? more on ’t. 132

Ang.

Why do you put these sayings upon me?

Isab.

Because authority, though it err like others,

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,

That skins the vice o’ the top. Go to your bosom;

Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 137

That’s like my brother’s fault: if it confess

A natural guiltiness such as is his,

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 140

Against my brother’s life.

Ang.

She speaks, and ’tis

Such sense that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.

Isab.

Gentle my lord, turn back.

Ang.

I will bethink me. Come again to-morrow. 144

Isab.

Hark how I’ll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back.

Ang.

How! bribe me?

Isab.

Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] You had marr’d all else. 148

Isab.

Not with fond sicles of the tested gold,

Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor

As fancy values them; but with true prayers

That shall be up at heaven and enter there 152

Ere sun-rise: prayers from preserved souls,

From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate

To nothing temporal.

Ang.

Well; come to me to-morrow.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Go to; ’tis well: away!

Isab.

Heaven keep your honour safe!

Ang.

[Aside.] Amen:

For I am that way going to temptation,

Where prayers cross.

Isab.

At what hour to-morrow

Shall I attend your lordship?

Ang.

At any time ’fore noon. 160

Isab.

Save your honour!

[Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost.

Ang.

From thee; even from thy virtue!

What’s this? what’s this? Is this her fault or mine?

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?

Ha! 164

Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I,

That, lying by the violet in the sun,

Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,

Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be 168

That modesty may more betray our sense

Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! 172

What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, let her brother live!

Thieves for their robbery have authority 176

When judges steal themselves. What! do I love her,

That I desire to hear her speak again,

And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on?

O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 180

With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous

Is that temptation that doth goad us on

To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet,

With all her double vigour, art and nature, 184

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite. Ever till now,

When men were fond, I smil’d and wonder’d how.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in a Prison.

Enter Duke, disguised as a friar, and Provost.

Duke.

Hail to you, provost! so I think you are.

Prov.

I am the provost. What’s your will, good friar?

Duke.

Bound by my charity and my bless’d order,

I come to visit the afflicted spirits 4

Here in the prison: do me the common right

To let me see them and to make me know

The nature of their crimes, that I may minister

To them accordingly. 8

Prov.

I would do more than that, if more were needful.

Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine,

Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,

Hath blister’d her report. She is with child, 12

And he that got it, sentenc’d; a young man

More fit to do another such offence,

Than die for this.

Enter Juliet.

Duke.

When must he die?

Prov.

As I do think, to-morrow.

[To Juliet.] I have provided for you: stay a while, 17

And you shall be conducted.

Duke.

Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

Juliet.

I do, and bear the shame most patiently. 20

Duke.

I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,

And try your penitence, if it be sound,

Or hollowly put on.

Juliet.

I’ll gladly learn.

Duke.

Love you the man that wrong’d you?

Juliet.

Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d him.

Duke.

So then it seems your most offenceful act

Was mutually committed?

Juliet.

Mutually.

Duke.

Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. 28

Juliet.

I do confess it, and repent it, father.

Duke.

’Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,

As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,

Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven, 32

Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,

But as we stand in fear,—

Juliet.

I do repent me, as it is an evil,

And take the shame with joy.

Duke.

There rest. 36

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,

And I am going with instruction to him.

God’s grace go with you! Benedicite!

[Exit.

Juliet.

Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,

That respites me a life, whose very comfort 41

Is still a dying horror!

Prov.

’Tis pity of him.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Angelo’s House.

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

When I would pray and think, I think and pray

To several subjects: heaven hath my empty words,

Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,

Anchors on Isabel: heaven in my mouth, 4

As if I did but only chew his name,

And in my heart the strong and swelling evil

Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied,

Is like a good thing, being often read, 8

Grown fear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity,

Wherein, let no man hear me, I take pride,

Could I with boot change for an idle plume,

Which the air beats for vain. O place! O form!

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, 13

Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls

To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:

Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn, 16

’Tis not the devil’s crest.

Enter a Servant.

How now! who’s there?

Serv.

One Isabel, a sister,

Desires access to you.

Ang.

Teach her the way.

[Exit Servant.

O heavens! 20

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

Making both it unable for itself,

And dispossessing all my other parts

Of necessary fitness? 24

So play the foolish throngs with one that swounds;

Come all to help him, and so stop the air

By which he should revive: and even so

The general, subject to a well-wish’d king, 28

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

Must needs appear offence.

Enter Isabella.

How now, fair maid!

Isab.

I am come to know your pleasure. 32

Ang.

That you might know it, would much better please me,

Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live.

Isab.

Even so. Heaven keep your honour!

Ang.

Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be,

As long as you or I: yet he must die. 37

Isab.

Under your sentence?

Ang.

Yea.

Isab.

When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, 40

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

That his soul sicken not.

Ang.

Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 44

A man already made, as to remit

Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image

In stamps that are forbid: ’tis all as easy

Falsely to take away a life true made, 48

As to put metal in restrained means

To make a false one.

Isab.

’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

Ang.

Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly. 52

Which had you rather, that the most just law

Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him,

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

As she that he hath stain’d?

Isab.

Sir, believe this, 56

I had rather give my body than my soul.

Ang.

I talk not of your soul. Our compell’d sins

Stand more for number than for accompt.

Isab.

How say you?

Ang.

Nay, I’ll not warrant that; for I can speak 60

Against the thing I say. Answer to this:

I, now the voice of the recorded law,

Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life:

Might there not be a charity in sin 64

To save this brother’s life?

Isab.

Please you to do’t,

I’ll take it as a peril to my soul;

It is no sin at all, but charity.

Ang.

Pleas’d you to do’t, at peril of your soul,

Were equal poise of sin and charity.

Isab.

That I do beg his life, if it be sin,

Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit,

If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn prayer 72

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

Ang.

Nay, but hear me.

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,

Or seem so craftily; and that’s not good. 76

Isab.

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

But graciously to know I am no better.

Ang.

Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

When it doth tax itself; as these black masks 80

Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder

Than beauty could, display’d. But mark me;

To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross:

Your brother is to die. 84

Isab.

So.

Ang.

And his offence is so, as it appears

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

Isab.

True. 88

Ang.

Admit no other way to save his life,—

As I subscribe not that, nor any other,

But in the loss of question,—that you, his sister,

Finding yourself desir’d of such a person, 92

Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,

Could fetch your brother from the manacles

Of the all-building law; and that there were

No earthly mean to save him, but that either 96

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this suppos’d, or else to let him suffer;

What would you do?

Isab.

As much for my poor brother, as myself:

That is, were I under the terms of death, 101

Th’ impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,

And strip myself to death, as to a bed

That, longing, have been sick for, ere I’d yield

My body up to shame.

Ang.

Then must your brother die.

Isab.

And ’twere the cheaper way:

Better it were a brother died at once,

Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 108

Should die for ever.

Ang.

Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

That you have slander’d so?

Isab.

Ignomy in ransom and free pardon 112

Are of two houses: lawful mercy

Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

Ang.

You seem’d of late to make the law a tyrant;

And rather prov’d the sliding of your brother 116

A merriment than a vice.

Isab.

O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,

To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.

I something do excuse the thing I hate, 120

For his advantage that I dearly love.

Ang.

We are all frail.

Isab.

Else let my brother die,

If not a feodary, but only he

Owe and succeed thy weakness. 124

Ang.

Nay, women are frail too.

Isab.

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves,

Which are as easy broke as they make forms.

Women! Help heaven! men their creation mar

In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail,

For we are soft as our complexions are,

And credulous to false prints.

Ang.

I think it well:

And from this testimony of your own sex,— 132

Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger

Than faults may shake our frames,—let me be bold;

I do arrest your words. Be that you are,

That is, a woman; if you be more, you’re none;

If you be one, as you are well express’d 137

By all external warrants, show it now,

By putting on the destin’d livery.

Isab.

I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, 140

Let me entreat you speak the former language.

Ang.

Plainly conceive, I love you.

Isab.

My brother did love Juliet; and you tell me

That he shall die for’t. 144

Ang.

He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.

Isab.

I know your virtue hath a licence in’t.

Which seems a little fouler than it is,

To pluck on others.

Ang.

Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose. 149

Isab.

Ha! little honour to be much believ’d,

And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t: 152

Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud

What man thou art.

Ang.

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life, 156

My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state,

Will so your accusation overweigh,

That you shall stifle in your own report

And smell of calumny. I have begun; 160

And now I give my sensual race the rein:

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,

That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother 164

By yielding up thy body to my will,

Or else he must not only die the death,

But thy unkindness shall his death draw out

To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,

Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 170

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

[Exit.

Isab.

To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, 172

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths!

That bear in them one and the self-same tongue,

Either of condemnation or approof,

Bidding the law make curt’sy to their will; 176

Hooking both right and wrong to th’ appetite,

To follow as it draws. I’ll to my brother:

Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,

Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour, 180

That, had he twenty heads to tender down

On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up,

Before his sister should her body stoop

To such abhorr’d pollution. 184

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:

More than our brother is our chastity.

I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request,

And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. 188

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Prison.

Enter Duke, as a friar, Claudio, and Provost.

Duke.

So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

Claud.

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope:

I have hope to live, and am prepar’d to die. 4

Duke.

Be absolute for death; either death or life

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, 8

Servile to all the skyey influences,

That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st,

Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool;

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun, 12

And yet run’st toward him still. Thou art not noble:

For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st

Are nurs’d by baseness. Thou art by no means valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 16

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provok’st; yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains 20

That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get,

And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 24

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;

For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,

The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age; 32

But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 37

To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life

Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.

Claud.

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die,

And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

Isab.

[Within.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company! 44

Prov.

Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

Duke.

Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

Claud.

Most holy sir, I thank you. 47

Enter Isabella.

Is.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

Prov.

And very welcome. Look, signior; here’s your sister.

Duke.

Provost, a word with you.

Prov.

As many as you please.

Duke.

Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal’d. 52

[Exeunt Duke and Provost.

Claud.

Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

Isab.

Why, as all comforts are; most good, most good indeed.

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

Intends you for his swift ambassador, 56

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:

Therefore, your best appointment make with speed;

To-morrow you set on.

Claud.

Is there no remedy?

Isab.

None, but such remedy, as to save a head 60

To cleave a heart in twain.

Claud.

But is there any?

Isab.

Yes, brother, you may live:

There is a devilish mercy in the judge,

If you’ll implore it, that will free your life, 64

But fetter you till death.

Claud.

Perpetual durance?

Isab.

Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint,

Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

To a determin’d scope.

Claud.

But in what nature? 68

Isab.

In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

Claud.

Let me know the point.

Isab.

O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,

And six or seven winters more respect

Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension, 76

And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

Claud.

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch 80

From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

Isab.

There spake my brother: there my father’s grave 84

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,

Whose settled visage and deliberate word 88

Nips youth i’ the head, and follies doth enmew

As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil;

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

Claud.

The prenzie Angelo? 92

Isab.

O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,

The damned’st body to invest and cover

In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio?

If I would yield him my virginity, 96

Thou mightst be freed.

Claud.

O heavens! it cannot be.

Isab.

Yes, he would give’t thee, from this rank offence,

So to offend him still. This night’s the time

That I should do what I abhor to name, 100

Or else thou diest to-morrow.

Claud.

Thou shalt not do’t.

Isab.

O! were it but my life,

I’d throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Claud.

Thanks, dear Isabel. 104

Isab.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

Claud.

Yes. Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,

When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin; 108

Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isab.

Which is the least?

Claud.

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick 112

Be perdurably fin’d? O Isabel!

Isab.

What says my brother?

Claud.

Death is a fearful thing.

Isab.

And shamed life a hateful.

Claud.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; 116

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 120

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendant world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts

Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury and imprisonment 128

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Isab.

Alas! alas!

Claud.

Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother’s life, 132

Nature dispenses with the deed so far

That it becomes a virtue.

Isab.

O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? 136

Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life

From thine own sister’s shame? What should I think?

Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair;

For such a warped slip of wilderness 140

Ne’er issu’d from his blood. Take my defiance;

Die, perish! Might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.

I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 144

No word to save thee.

Claud.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

Isab.

O, fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd: 148

’Tis best that thou diest quickly.

[Going.

Claud.

O hear me, Isabella.

Re-enter Duke.

Duke.

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

Isab.

What is your will? 151

Duke.

Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit.

Isab.

I have no superfluous leisure: my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you a while. 158

Duke.

[Aside to Claudio.] Son, I have overheard what hath past between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures. She, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive: I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible: to-morrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready. 170

Claud.

Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it.

Duke.

Hold you there: farewell. 174

[Exit Claudio.

Re-enter Provost.

Provost, a word with you.

Prov.

What’s your will, father?

Duke.

That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company. 180

Prov.

In good time.

[Exit.

Duke.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How would you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother? 192

Isab.

I am now going to resolve him; I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But O, how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I can speak to him. I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government. 198

Duke.

That shall not be much amiss: yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation; ‘he made trial of you only.’ Therefore, fasten your ear on my advisings: to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, do no stain to your own gracious person, and much please the absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. 210

Isab.

Let me hear you speak further. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

Duke.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at sea?

Isab.

I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. 219

Duke.

She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract, and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wracked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. 231

Isab.

Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?

Duke.

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. 239

Isab.

What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail? 243

Duke.

It is a rupture that you may easily heal; and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.

Isab.

Show me how, good father. 248

Duke.

This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo: answer his requiring with a plausible obedience: agree with his demands to the point; only refer yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with him may not be long, that the time may have all shadow and silence in it, and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course, and now follows all, we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense; and here by this is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this, as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it? 271

Isab.

The image of it gives me content already, and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

Duke.

It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to St. Luke’s; there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana: at that place call upon me, and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly. 281

Isab.

I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Street before the Prison.

Enter Duke, as a friar; to him Elbow, Pompey, and Officers.

Elb.

Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard. 4

Duke.

O heavens! what stuff is here?

Pom.

’Twas never merry world, since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox and lamb skins too, to signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.

Elb.

Come your way, sir. Bless you, good father friar. 13

Duke.

And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?

Elb.

Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.

Duke.

Fie, sirrah: a bawd, a wicked bawd! 20

The evil that thou causest to be done,

That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back

From such a filthy vice: say to thyself, 24

From their abominable and beastly touches

I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend. 28

Pom.

Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove—

Duke.

Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer; 32

Correction and instruction must both work

Ere this rude beast will profit.

Elb.

He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.

Duke.

That we were all, as some would seem to be, 40

From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!

Elb.

His neck will come to your waist,—a cord, sir.

Pom.

I spy comfort: I cry, bail. Here’s a gentleman and a friend of mine. 45

Enter Lucio.

Lucio.

How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Cæsar? Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to he had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply? ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter and method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain, ha? What sayest thou Trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words, or how? The trick of it? 56

Duke.

Still thus, and thus, still worse!

Lucio.

How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

Pom.

Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub. 61

Lucio.

Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

Pom.

Yes, faith, sir. 66

Lucio.

Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

Elb.

For being a bawd, for being a bawd. 70

Lucio.

Well, then, imprison him. If imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: bawd is he, doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house. 77

Pom.

I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

Lucio.

No, indeed will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: if you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. Bless you, friar. 84

Duke.

And you.

Lucio.

Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

Elb.

Come your ways, sir; come.

Pom.

You will not bail me then, sir? 88

Lucio.

Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? What news?

Elb.

Come your ways, sir; come.

Lucio.

Go to kennel, Pompey; go. 92

[Exeunt Elbow, Pompey and Officers.

What news, friar, of the duke?

Duke.

I know none. Can you tell me of any?

Lucio.

Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you? 97

Duke.

I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.

Lucio.

It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to’t.

Duke.

He does well in’t. 104

Lucio.

A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

Duke.

It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it. 109

Lucio.

Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied; but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?

Duke.

How should he be made, then? 116

Lucio.

Some report a sea-maid spawn’d him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true; and he is a motion generative; that’s infallible.

Duke.

You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.

Lucio.

Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a cod-piece to take away the life of a man! Would the duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand: he had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy. 131

Duke.

I never heard the absent duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.

Lucio.

O, sir, you are deceived.

Duke.

’Tis not possible. 136

Lucio.

Who? not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty, and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish; the duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too; that let me inform you. 140

Duke.

You do him wrong, surely.

Lucio.

Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the duke; and, I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing. 144

Duke.

What, I prithee, might be the cause?

Lucio.

No, pardon; ’tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips; but this I can let you understand, the greater file of the subject held the duke to be wise.

Duke.

Wise! why, no question but he was.

Lucio.

A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow. 152

Duke.

Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking: the very stream of his life and the business he hath helmed must, upon a warranted need, give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.

Lucio.

Sir, I know him, and I love him. 162

Duke.

Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

Lucio.

Come, sir, I know what I know.

Duke.

I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return,—as our prayers are he may,—let me desire you to make your answer before him: if it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name? 172

Lucio.

Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the duke.

Duke.

He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you. 176

Lucio.

I fear you not.

Duke.

O! you hope the duke will return no more, or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed I can do you little harm; you’ll forswear this again.

Lucio.

I’ll be hanged first: thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no? 184

Duke.

Why should he die, sir?

Lucio.

Why? for filling a bottle with a tundish. I would the duke we talk of were returned again: this ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would never bring them to light: would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar; I prithee, pray for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He’s not past it yet, and I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown bread and garlic: say that I said so. Farewell.

[Exit.

Duke.

No might nor greatness in mortality

Can censure ’scape: back-wounding calumny

The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong

Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

But who comes here? 204

Enter Escalus, Provost, and Officers with Mistress Overdone.

Escal.

Go; away with her to prison!

Mrs. Ov.

Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord. 208

Escal.

Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This would make mercy swear, and play the tyrant.

Prov.

A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it please your honour. 213

Mrs. Ov.

My lord, this is one Lucio’s information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the duke’s time; he promised her marriage; his child is a year and a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob: I have kept it myself, and see how he goes about to abuse me! 220

Escal.

That fellow is a fellow of much licence: let him be called before us. Away with her to prison! Go to; no more words. [Exeunt Officers with Mistress Overdone.] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow. Let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation: if my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him. 229

Prov.

So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for the entertainment of death. 232

Escal.

Good even, good father.

Duke.

Bliss and goodness on you!

Escal.

Of whence are you?

Duke.

Not of this country, though my chance is now 236

To use it for my time: I am a brother

Of gracious order, late come from the See,

In special business from his Holiness.

Escal.

What news abroad i’ the world? 240

Duke.

None, but there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking: there is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure, but security enough to make fellowships accursed. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke? 251

Escal.

One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself.

Duke.

What pleasure was he given to? 254

Escal.

Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which professed to make him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand, that you have lent him visitation. 262

Duke.

He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice; yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life, which I, by my good leisure have discredited to him, and now is he resolved to die. 269

Escal.

You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty; but my brother justice have I found so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice. 276

Duke.

If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.

Escal.

I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well.

Duke.

Peace be with you!

[Exeunt Escalus and Provost.

He, who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe; 284

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self offences weighing. 288

Shame to him whose cruel striking

Kills for faults of his own liking!

Twice treble shame on Angelo,

To weed my vice and let his grow! 292

O, what may man within him hide,

Though angel on the outward side!

How many likeness made in crimes,

Making practice on the times, 296

To draw with idle spiders’ strings

Most pond’rous and substantial things!

Craft against vice I must apply:

With Angelo to-night shall lie 300

His old betrothed but despis’d:

So disguise shall, by the disguis’d,

Pay with falsehood false exacting,

And perform an old contracting.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The moated Grange at St. Luke’s.

Enter Mariana and a Boy: Boy sings.

Take, O take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn: 4

But my kisses bring again,

bring again,

Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,

seal’d in vain. 8

Mari.

Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away:

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

Hath often still’d my brawling discontent.

[Exit Boy.

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish 12

You had not found me here so musical:

Let me excuse me, and believe me so,

My mirth it much displeas’d, but pleas’d my woe.

Duke.

’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm 16

To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet. 20

Mari.

You have not been inquired after: I have sat here all day.

Duke.

I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little; may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.

Mari.

I am always bound to you.

[Exit.

Enter Isabella.

Duke.

Very well met, and well come. 28

What is the news from this good deputy?

Isab.

He hath a garden circummur’d with brick,

Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d;

And to that vineyard is a planched gate, 32

That makes his opening with this bigger key;

This other doth command a little door

Which from the vineyard to the garden leads;

There have I made my promise 36

Upon the heavy middle of the night

To call upon him.

Duke.

But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

Isab.

I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t: 40

With whispering and most guilty diligence,

In action all of precept, he did show me

The way twice o’er.

Duke.

Are there no other tokens

Between you ’greed concerning her observance?

Isab.

No, none, but only a repair i’ the dark;

And that I have possess’d him my most stay

Can be but brief; for I have made him know

I have a servant comes with me along, 48

That stays upon me, whose persuasion is

I come about my brother.

Duke.

’Tis well borne up.

I have not yet made known to Mariana

A word of this. What ho! within! come forth.

Re-enter Mariana.

I pray you, be acquainted with this maid; 53

She comes to do you good.

Isab.

I do desire the like.

Duke.

Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

Mari.

Good friar, I know you do, and oft have found it. 56

Duke.

Take then this your companion by the hand,

Who hath a story ready for your ear.

I shall attend your leisure: but make haste;

The vaporous night approaches.

Mari.

Will’t please you walk aside? 60

[Exeunt Mariana and Isabella.

Duke.

O place and greatness! millions of false eyes

Are stuck upon thee: volumes of report

Run with these false and most contrarious quests

Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit 64

Make thee the father of their idle dream,

And rack thee in their fancies!

Re-enter Mariana and Isabella.

Welcome! How agreed?

Isab.

She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father,

If you advise it.

Duke.

It is not my consent, 68

But my entreaty too.

Isab.

Little have you to say

When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

‘Remember now my brother.’

Mari.

Fear me not.

Duke.

Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.

He is your husband on a pre-contract: 73

To bring you thus together, ’tis no sin,

Sith that the justice of your title to him

Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go: 76

Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Prison.

Enter Provost and Pompey.

Prov.

Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man’s head?

Pom.

If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he is his wife’s head, and I can never cut off a woman’s head. 5

Prov.

Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd. 15

Pom.

Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow partner.

Prov.

What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there? 21

Enter Abhorson.

Abhor.

Do you call, sir?

Prov.

Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd. 28

Abhor.

A bawd, sir? Fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.

Prov.

Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.

[Exit.

Pom.

Pray, sir, by your good favour—for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look,—do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery? 36

Abhor.

Ay, sir; a mystery.

Pom.

Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.

Abhor.

Sir, it is a mystery. 44

Pom.

Proof?

Abhor.

Every true man’s apparel fits your thief.

Pom.

If it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough: so, every true man’s apparel fits your thief. 50

Re-enter Provost.

Prov.

Are you agreed?

Pom.

Sir, I will serve him; for I do find that your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd, he doth often ask forgiveness.

Prov.

You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o’clock. 56

Abhor.

Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.

Pom.

I do desire to learn, sir; and, I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for, truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn.

Prov.

Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:

[Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson.

The one has my pity; not a jot the other, 64

Being a murderer, though he were my brother.

Enter Claudio.

Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:

’Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow

Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine? 68

Claud.

As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour

When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones;

He will not wake.

Prov.

Who can do good on him?

Well, go; prepare yourself. [Knocking within.] But hark, what noise?— 72

Heaven give your spirits comfort!—[Exit Claudio.] By and by.

I hope it is some pardon or reprieve

For the most gentle Claudio.

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

Welcome, father.

Duke.

The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night 76

Envelop you, good provost! Who call’d here of late?

Prov.

None since the curfew rung.

Duke.

Not Isabel?

Prov.

No.

Duke.

They will, then, ere’t be long.

Prov.

What comfort is for Claudio? 80

Duke.

There’s some in hope.

Prov.

It is a bitter deputy.

Duke.

Not so, not so: his life is parallel’d

Even with the stroke and line of his great justice:

He doth with holy abstinence subdue 84

That in himself which he spurs on his power

To qualify in others: were he meal’d with that

Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous;

But this being so, he’s just.—[Knocking within.] Now are they come.

[Exit Provost.

This is a gentle provost: seldom when 89

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.

[Knocking.

How now! What noise? That spirit’s possess’d with haste

That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes. 92

Re-enter Provost.

Prov.

There he must stay until the officer

Arise to let him in; he is call’d up.

Duke.

Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,

But he must die to-morrow?

Prov.

None, sir, none. 96

Duke.

As near the dawning, provost, as it is,

You shall hear more ere morning.

Prov.

Happily

You something know; yet, I believe there comes

No countermand: no such example have we. 100

Besides, upon the very siege of justice,

Lord Angelo hath to the public ear

Profess’d the contrary.

Enter a Messenger.

This is his lordship’s man.

Duke.

And here comes Claudio’s pardon. 104

Mes.

[Giving a paper.] My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day.

Prov.

I shall obey him.

[Exit Messenger.

Duke.

[Aside.] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin

For which the pardoner himself is in; 112

Hence hath offence his quick celerity,

When it is borne in high authority.

When vice makes mercy, mercy’s so extended,

That for the fault’s love is the offender friended.

Now, sir, what news? 117

Prov.

I told you; Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before. 121

Duke.

Pray you, let’s hear.

Prov.

Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and, in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.

What say you to this, sir? 131

Duke.

What is that Barnardine who is to be executed this afternoon?

Prov.

A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old.

Duke.

How came it that the absent duke had not either delivered him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. 139

Prov.

His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.

Duke.

It is now apparent? 144

Prov.

Most manifest, and not denied by himself.

Duke.

Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touched?

Prov.

A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal. 152

Duke.

He wants advice.

Prov.

He will hear none. He hath evermore had the liberty of the prison: give him leave to escape hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him at all. 160

Duke.

More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy; if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angalo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days’ respite, for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy.

Prov.

Pray, sir, in what? 172

Duke.

In the delaying death.

Prov.

Alack! how may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio’s to cross this in the smallest. 178

Duke.

By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo.

Prov.

Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour. 184

Duke.

O! death’s a great disguiser, and you may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death: you know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. 192

Prov.

Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.

Duke.

Were you sworn to the duke or to the deputy? 196

Prov.

To him, and to his substitutes.

Duke.

You will think you have made no offence, if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing? 200

Prov.

But what likelihood is in that?

Duke.

Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir; here is the hand and seal of the duke: you know the character, I doubt not, and the signet is not strange to you. 209

Prov.

I know them both.

Duke.

The contents of this is the return of the duke: you shall anon over-read if at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days, he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not, for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour; perchance of the duke’s death; perchance, his entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine’s head: I will give him a present shrift and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amaz’d, but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Pompey.

Pom.

I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession: one would think it were Mistress Overdone’s own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here’s young Master Rash; he’s in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine-score and seventeen pounds, of which he made five marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-colour’d satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that kill’d lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight, the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now ‘for the Lord’s sake.’ 21

Enter Abhorson.

Abhor.

Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

Pom.

Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine. 24

Abhor.

What ho! Barnardine!

Barnar.

[Within.] A pox o’ your throats!

Who makes that noise there? What are you?

Pom.

Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.

Barnar.

[Within.] Away! you rogue, away!

I am sleepy. 32

Abhor.

Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.

Pom.

Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. 36

Abhor.

Go in to him, and fetch him out.

Pom.

He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.

Abhor.

Is the axe upon the block, sirrah? 40

Pom.

Very ready, sir.

Enter Barnardine.

Barnar.

How now, Abhorson! what’s the news with you?

Abhor.

Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant’s come. 46

Barnar.

You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for’t.

Pom.

O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hang’d betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day. 51

Abhor.

Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you?

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

Duke.

Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. 56

Barnar.

Friar, not I: I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not consent to die this day, that’s certain. 61

Duke.

O, sir, you must; and therefore, I beseech you look forward on the journey you shall go. 64

Barnar.

I swear I will not die to-day for any man’s persuasion.

Duke.

But hear you.

Barnar.

Not a word: if you have anything to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to day.

[Exit.

Enter Provost.

Duke.

Unfit to live or die. O, gravel heart!

After him fellows: bring him to the block. 72

[Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey.

Prov.

Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?

Duke.

A creature unprepar’d, unmeet for death;

And, to transport him in the mind he is

Were damnable.

Prov.

Here in the prison, father, 76

There died this morning of a cruel fever

One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,

A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head

Just of his colour. What if we do omit 80

This reprobate till he were well inclin’d,

And satisfy the deputy with the visage

Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?

Duke.

O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides! 84

Dispatch it presently: the hour draws on

Prefix’d by Angelo. See this be done,

And sent according to command, whiles I

Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 88

Prov.

This shall be done, good father, presently.

But Barnardine must die this afternoon:

And how shall we continue Claudio,

To save me from the danger that might come 92

If he were known alive?

Duke.

Let this be done:

Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio:

Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting

To the under generation, you shall find 96

Your safety manifested.

Prov.

I am your free dependant.

Duke.

Quick, dispatch,

And send the head to Angelo.

[Exit Provost.

Now will I write letters to Angelo,— 101

The provost, he shall bear them,—whose contents

Shall witness to him I am near at home,

And that, by great injunctions, I am bound 104

To enter publicly: him I’ll desire

To meet me at the consecrated fount

A league below the city; and from thence,

By cold gradation and well-balanc’d form, 108

We shall proceed with Angelo.

Re-enter Provost.

Prov.

Here is the head; I’ll carry it myself.

Duke.

Convenient is it. Make a swift return,

For I would commune with you of such things

That want no ear but yours.

Prov.

I’ll make all speed.

[Exit.

Isab.

[Within.] Peace, ho, be here!

Duke.

The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to know

If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither; 116

But I will keep her ignorant of her good,

To make her heavenly comforts of despair,

When it is least expected.

Enter Isabella.

Isab.

Ho! by your leave.

Duke.

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. 120

Isab.

The better, given me by so holy a man.

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?

Duke.

He hath releas’d him, Isabel, from the world:

His head is off and sent to Angelo. 124

Isab.

Nay, but it is not so.

Duke.

It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter,

In your close patience.

Isab.

O! I will to him and pluck out his eyes!

Duke.

You shall not be admitted to his sight.

Isab.

Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel!

Injurious world! Most damned Angelo! 131

Duke.

This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot;

Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven.

Mark what I say, which you shall find

By every syllable a faithful verity.

The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes: 136

One of our covent, and his confessor,

Gives me this instance: already he hath carried

Notice to Escalus and Angelo,

Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, 140

There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom

In that good path that I would wish it go,

And you shall have your bosom on this wretch,

Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, 144

And general honour.

Isab.

I am directed by you.

Duke.

This letter then to Friar Peter give;

’Tis that he sent me of the duke’s return:

Say, by this token, I desire his company 148

At Mariana’s house to-night. Her cause and yours,

I’ll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you

Before the duke; and to the head of Angelo

Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self, 152

I am combined by a sacred vow

And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter.

Command these fretting waters from your eyes

With a light heart: trust not my holy order, 156

If I pervert your course. Who’s here?

Enter Lucio.

Lucio.

Good even. Friar, where is the provost?

Duke.

Not within, sir. 160

Lucio.

O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to’t. But they say the duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.

[Exit Isabella.

Duke.

Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them. 172

Lucio.

Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well as I do: he’s a better woodman than thou takest him for.

Duke.

Well, you’ll answer this one day.

Fare ye well. 177

Lucio.

Nay, tarry; I’ll go along with thee: I can tell thee pretty tales of the duke.

Duke.

You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. 182

Lucio.

I was once before him for getting a wench with child.

Duke.

Did you such a thing?

Lucio.

Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it: they would else have married me to the rotten medlar. 188

Duke.

Sir, your company is fairer than honest.

Rest you well.

Lucio.

By my troth, I’ll go with thee to the lane’s end. If bawdy talk offend you, we’ll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Angelo’s House.

Enter Angelo and Escalus.

Escal.

Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.

Ang.

In most uneven and distracted manner.

His actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities there?

Escal.

I guess not. 8

Ang.

And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street? 12

Escal.

He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. 16

Ang.

Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim’d:

Betimes i’ the morn I’ll call you at your house;

Give notice to such men of sort and suit

As are to meet him. 20

Escal.

I shall, sir: fare you well.

Ang.

Good night.—

[Exit Escalus.

This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant

And dull to all proceedings. A deflower’d maid,

And by an eminent body that enforc’d 25

The law against it! But that her tender shame

Will not proclaim against her maiden loss,

How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no: 28

For my authority bears so credent bulk,

That no particular scandal once can touch:

But it confounds the breather. He should have liv’d,

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, 32

Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge,

By so receiving a dishonour’d life

With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had liv’d!

Alack! when once our grace we have forgot, 36

Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Fields without the Town.

Enter Duke, in his own habit, and Friar Peter.

Duke.

These letters at fit time deliver me.

[Giving letters.

The provost knows our purpose and our plot.

The matter being afoot, keep your instruction,

And hold you ever to our special drift, 4

Though sometimes you do blench from this to that,

As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius’ house,

And tell him where I stay: give the like notice

To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 8

And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;

But send me Flavius first.

F. Peter.

It shall be speeded well.

[Exit.

Enter Varrius.

Duke.

I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste.

Come, we will walk. There’s other of our friends

Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. 13

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Street near the City Gate.

Enter Isabella and Mariana.

Isab.

To speak so indirectly I am loath:

I would say the truth; but to accuse him so,

That is your part: yet I’m advis’d to do it;

He says, to veil full purpose.

Mari.

Be rul’d by him. 4

Isab.

Besides, he tells me that if peradventure

He speak against me on the adverse side,

I should not think it strange; for ’tis a physic

That’s bitter to sweet end. 8

Mari.

I would, Friar Peter—

Isab.

O, peace! the friar is come.

Enter Friar Peter.

F. Peter.

Come; I have found you out a stand most fit,

Where you may have such vantage on the duke,

He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded: 12

The generous and gravest citizens

Have hent the gates, and very near upon

The duke is ent’ring: therefore hence, away!

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A public Place near the City Gate.

Mariana, veiled, Isabella, and Friar Peter, at their stand. Enter Duke, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers, and Citizens at several doors.

Duke.

My very worthy cousin, fairly met!

Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

Ang.

Happy return be to your royal Grace!

Escal.

Happy return be to your royal Grace!

Duke.

Many and hearty thankings to you both. 4

We have made inquiry of you; and we hear

Such goodness of your justice, that our soul

Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks,

Forerunning more requital.

Ang.

You make my bonds still greater. 8

Duke.

O! your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,

When it deserves, with characters of brass,

A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time 12

And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand,

And let the subject see, to make them know

That outward courtesies would fain proclaim

Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, 16

You must walk by us on our other hand;

And good supporters are you.

Friar Peter and Isabella come forward.

F. Peter.

Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.

Isab.

Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard

Upon a wrong’d, I’d fain have said, a maid! 21

O worthy prince! dishonour not your eye

By throwing it on any other object

Till you have heard me in my true complaint 24

And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!

Duke.

Relate your wrongs: in what? by whom? Be brief;

Here is Lord Angelo, shall give you justice:

Reveal yourself to him.

Isab.

O worthy duke! 28

You bid me seek redemption of the devil.

Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak

Must either punish me, not being believ’d,

Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here! 32

Ang.

My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:

She hath been a suitor to me for her brother

Cut off by course of justice,—

Isab.

By course of justice!

Ang.

And she will speak most bitterly and strange. 36

Isab.

Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak.

That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange?

That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange?

That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 40

A hypocrite, a virgin-violator;

Is it not strange, and strange?

Duke.

Nay, it is ten times strange.

Isab.

It is not truer he is Angelo

Than this is all as true as it is strange; 44

Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth

To the end of reckoning.

Duke.

Away with her! poor soul,

She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.

Isab.

O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st 48

There is another comfort than this world,

That thou neglect me not, with that opinion

That I am touch’d with madness. Make not impossible

That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not impossible 52

But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground,

May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute

As Angelo; even so may Angelo,

In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, 56

Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal prince:

If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more,

Had I more name for badness.

Duke.

By mine honesty,

If she be mad,—as I believe no other,— 60

Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,

Such a dependency of thing on thing,

As e’er I heard in madness.

Isab.

O gracious duke!

Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason 64

For inequality; but let your reason serve

To make the truth appear where it seems hid,

And hide the false seems true.

Duke.

Many that are not mad

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say? 68

Isab.

I am the sister of one Claudio,

Condemn’d upon the act of fornication

To lose his head; condemn’d by Angelo.

I, in probation of a sisterhood, 72

Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio

As then the messenger,—

Lucio.

That’s I, an’t like your Grace:

I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her

To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo 76

For her poor brother’s pardon.

Isab.

That’s he indeed.

Duke.

You were not bid to speak.

Lucio.

No, my good lord;

Nor wish’d to hold my peace.

Duke.

I wish you now, then;

Pray you, take note of it; and when you have 80

A business for yourself, pray heaven you then

Be perfect.

Lucio.

I warrant your honour.

Duke.

The warrant’s for yourself: take heed to it. 84

Isab.

This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—

Lucio.

Right.

Duke.

It may be right; but you are in the wrong

To speak before your time. Proceed.

Isab.

I went 88

To this pernicious caitiff deputy.

Duke.

That’s somewhat madly spoken.

Isab.

Pardon it;

The phrase is to the matter.

Duke.

Mended again: the matter; proceed.

Isab.

In brief, to set the needless process by, 93

How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d,

How he refell’d me, and how I replied,—

For this was of much length,—the vile conclusion 96

I now begin with grief and shame to utter.

He would not, but by gift of my chaste body

To his concupiscible intemperate lust,

Release my brother; and, after much debatement, 100

My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,

And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes,

His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant

For my poor brother’s head.

Duke.

This is most likely! 104

Isab.

O, that it were as like as it is true!

Duke.

By heaven, fond wretch! thou know’st not what thou speak’st,

Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour

In hateful practice. First, his integrity 108

Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason

That with such vehemency he should pursue

Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended,

He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself,

And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on: 113

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice

Thou cam’st here to complain.

Isab.

And is this all?

Then, O you blessed ministers above, 116

Keep me in patience; and, with ripen’d time

Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up

In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe,

As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go! 120

Duke.

I know you’d fain be gone. An officer!

To prison with her! Shall we thus permit

A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall

On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. 124

Who knew of your intent and coming hither?

Isab.

One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

Duke.

A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

Lucio.

My lord, I know him; ’tis a meddling friar; 128

I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord,

For certain words he spake against your Grace

In your retirement, I had swing’d him soundly.

Duke.

Words against me! This’ a good friar, belike! 132

And to set on this wretched woman here

Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.

Lucio.

But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,

I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar, 136

A very scurvy fellow.

F. Peter.

Bless’d be your royal Grace!

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard

Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman

Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute, 140

Who is as free from touch or soil with her,

As she from one ungot.

Duke.

We did believe no less.

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

F. Peter.

I know him for a man divine and holy; 144

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,

As he’s reported by this gentleman;

And, on my trust, a man that never yet

Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace. 148

Lucio.

My lord, most villanously; believe it.

F. Peter.

Well; he in time may come to clear himself,

But at this instant he is sick, my lord,

Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 152

Being come to knowledge that there was complaint

Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither,

To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know

Is true and false; and what he with his oath 156

And all probation will make up full clear,

Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman,

To justify this worthy nobleman,

So vulgarly and personally accus’d, 160

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

Till she herself confess it.

Duke.

Good friar, let’s hear it.

[Isabella is carried off guarded; and Mariana comes forward.

Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?—

O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! 164

Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo;

In this I’ll be impartial; be you judge

Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar?

First, let her show her face, and after speak. 168

Mari.

Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face

Until my husband bid me.

Duke.

What, are you married?

Mari.

No, my lord.

Duke.

Are you a maid?

Mari.

No, my lord.

Duke.

A widow, then?

Mari.

Neither, my lord.

Duke.

Why, you

Are nothing, then: neither maid, widow, nor wife?

Lucio.

My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. 176

Duke.

Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause

To prattle for himself.

Lucio.

Well, my lord.

Mari.

My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married; 180

And I confess besides I am no maid:

I have known my husband yet my husband knows not

That ever he knew me.

Lucio.

He was drunk then my lord: it can be no better. 184

Duke.

For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!

Lucio.

Well, my lord.

Duke.

This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

Mari.

Now I come to’t, my lord: 188

She that accuses him of fornication,

In self-same manner doth accuse my husband;

And charges him, my lord, with such a time,

When, I’ll depose, I had him in mine arms, 192

With all th’ effect of love.

Ang.

Charges she moe than me?

Mari.

Not that I know.

Duke.

No? you say your husband.

Mari.

Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,

Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body 197

But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s.

Ang.

This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

Mari.

My husband bids me; now I will unmask.

[Unveiling.

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, 201

Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on:

This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract,

Was fast belock’d in thine: this is the body 204

That took away the match from Isabel,

And did supply thee at thy garden-house

In her imagin’d person.

Duke.

Know you this woman?

Lucio.

Carnally, she says.

Duke.

Sirrah, no more! 208

Lucio.

Enough, my lord.

Ang.

My lord, I must confess I know this woman; 210

And five years since there was some speech of marriage

Betwixt myself and her, which was broke off,

Partly for that her promised proportions

Came short of composition; but, in chief

For that her reputation was disvalu’d

In levity: since which time of five years 216

I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,

Upon my faith and honour.

Mari.

Noble prince,

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,

I am affianc’d this man’s wife as strongly 221

As words could make up vows: and, my good lord,

But Tuesday night last gone in ’s garden-house

He knew me as a wife. As this is true, 224

Let me in safety raise me from my knees

Or else for ever be confixed here,

A marble monument.

Ang.

I did but smile till now:

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice;

My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive 229

These poor informal women are no more

But instruments of some more mightier member

That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,

To find this practice out.

Duke.

Ay, with my heart; 233

And punish them unto your height of pleasure.

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,

Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths, 236

Though they would swear down each particular saint,

Were testimonies against his worth and credit

That’s seal’d in approbation? You, Lord Escalus,

Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains

To find out this abuse, whence ’tis deriv’d. 241

There is another friar that set them on;

Let him be sent for.

F. Peter.

Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed 244

Hath set the women on to this complaint:

Your provost knows the place where he abides

And he may fetch him.

Duke.

Go do it instantly.

[Exit Provost.

And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin,

Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,

Do with your injuries as seems you best, 250

In any chastisement: I for awhile will leave you;

But stir not you, till you have well determin’d

Upon these slanderers.

Escal.

My lord, we’ll do it throughly.—

[Exit Duke.

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that

Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person? 256

Lucio.

Cucullus non facit monachum: honest in nothing, but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villanous speeches of the duke. 260

Escal.

We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow.

Lucio.

As any in Vienna, on my word. 264

Escal.

Call that same Isabel here once again:

I would speak with her. [Exit an Attendant.]

Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I’ll handle her. 268

Lucio.

Not better than he, by her own report.

Escal.

Say you?

Lucio.

Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, publicly, she’ll be ashamed.

Escal.

I will go darkly to work with her. 274

Lucio.

That’s the way: for women are light at midnight.

Re-enter Officers with Isabella.

Escal.

[To Isab.] Come on, mistress: here’s a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.

Lucio.

My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of; here with the provost.

Escal.

In very good time: speak not you to him, till we call upon you. 282

Enter Duke, disguised as a friar, and Provost.

Lucio.

Mum.

Escal.

Come, sir. Did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.

Duke.

’Tis false.

Escal.

How! know you where you are? 288

Duke.

Respect to your great place! and let the devil

Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne.

Where is the duke? ’tis he should hear me speak.

Escal.

The duke’s in us, and we will hear you speak: 292

Look you speak justly.

Duke.

Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls!

Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox?

Good night to your redress! Is the duke gone?

Then is your cause gone too. The duke’s unjust, 297

Thus to retort your manifest appeal,

And put your trial in the villain’s mouth

Which here you come to accuse. 300

Lucio.

This is the rascal: this is he I spoke of.

Escal.

Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d friar!

Is’t not enough thou hast suborn’d these women

To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth,

And in the witness of his proper ear, 305

To call him villain?

And then to glance from him to the duke himself.

To tax him with injustice? take him hence; 308

To the rack with him! We’ll touse you joint by joint,

But we will know his purpose. What! ‘unjust’?

Duke.

Be not so hot; the duke

Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he

Dare rack his own: his subject am I not, 313

Nor here provincial. My business in this state

Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble

Till it o’er-run the stew: laws for all faults, 317

But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong statutes

Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,

As much in mock as mark. 320

Escal.

Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!

Ang.

What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio?

Is this the man that you did tell us of?

Lucio.

’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman bald-pate: do you know me? 325

Duke.

I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice: I met you at the prison, in the absence of the duke. 328

Lucio.

O! did you so? And do you remember what you said of the duke?

Duke.

Most notedly, sir.

Lucio.

Do you so, sir? And was the duke a flesh-monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be? 334

Duke.

You must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse.

Lucio.

O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?

Duke.

I protest I love the duke as I love myself. 340

Ang.

Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!

Escal.

Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal.

Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? 344

Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough on him, let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion! 348

[The Provost lays hands on the Duke.

Duke.

Stay, sir; stay awhile.

Ang.

What! resists he? Help him, Lucio.

Lucio.

Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh! sir. Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! show your sheepbiting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off? 356

[Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers the Duke.]

Duke.

Thou art the first knave that e’er made a duke.

First, provost, let me bail these gentle three.

[To Lucio.] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and you

Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him. 360

Lucio.

This may prove worse than hanging.

Duke.

[To Escalus.] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down:

We’ll borrow place of him. [To Angelo.] Sir, by your leave.

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, 364

That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,

Rely upon it till my tale be heard,

And hold no longer out.

Ang.

O my dread lord!

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 368

To think I can be undiscernible

When I perceive your Grace, like power divine,

Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good prince,

No longer session hold upon my shame, 372

But let my trial be mine own confession:

Immediate sentence then and sequent death

Is all the grace I beg.

Duke.

Come hither, Mariana,

Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman?

Ang.

I was, my lord. 377

Duke.

Go take her hence, and marry her instantly.

Do you the office, friar; which consummate,

Return him here again. Go with him, provost.

[Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and Provost.

Escal.

My lord, I am more amaz’d at his dishonour 381

Than at the strangeness of it.

Duke.

Come hither, Isabel.

Your friar is now your prince: as I was then

Advertising and holy to your business, 384

Not changing heart with habit, I am still

Attorney’d at your service.

Isab.

O, give me pardon,

That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d

Your unknown sovereignty!

Duke.

You are pardon’d, Isabel:

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 389

Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart;

And you may marvel why I obscur’d myself,

Labouring to save his life, and would not rather

Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power

Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid!

It was the swift celerity of his death, 395

Which I did think with slower foot came on,

That brain’d my purpose: but, peace be with him!

That life is better life, past fearing death,

Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,

So happy is your brother.

Isab.

I do, my lord. 400

Re-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and Provost.

Duke.

For this new-married man approaching here,

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d

Your well-defended honour, you must pardon

For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudg’d your brother,— 404

Being criminal, in double violation

Of sacred chastity, and of promise-breach,

Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life,—

The very mercy of the law cries out 408

Most audible, even from his proper tongue,

‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!’

Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure,

Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure. 412

Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested,

Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage.

We do condemn thee to the very block

Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like haste. 416

Away with him!

Mari.

O, my most gracious lord!

I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

Duke.

It is your husband mock’d you with a husband.

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 420

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,

For that he knew you, might reproach your life

And choke your good to come. For his possessions,

Although by confiscation they are ours, 424

We do instate and widow you withal,

To buy you a better husband.

Mari.

O my dear lord!

I crave no other, nor no better man.

Duke.

Never crave him; we are definitive. 428

Mari.

[Kneeling.] Gentle my liege,—

Duke.

You do but lose your labour.

Away with him to death! [To Lucio.] Now, sir, to you.

Mari.

O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part:

Lend me your knees, and, all my life to come,

I’ll lend you all my life to do you service, 433

Duke.

Against all sense you do importune her:

Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact,

Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break,

And take her hence in horror.

Mari.

Isabel, 437

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me:

Hold up your hands, say nothing, I’ll speak all.

They say best men are moulded out of faults, 440

And, for the most, become much more the better

For being a little bad: so may my husband.

O, Isabel! will you not lend a knee? 443

Duke.

He dies for Claudio’s death.

Isab.

[Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir,

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,

As if my brother liv’d. I partly think

A due sincerity govern’d his deeds,

Till he did look on me: since it is so, 448

Let him not die. My brother had but justice,

In that he did the thing for which he died:

For Angelo,

His act did not o’ertake his bad intent; 452

And must be buried but as an intent

That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

Mari.

Merely, my lord.

Duke.

Your suit’s unprofitable: stand up, I say. 456

I have bethought me of another fault.

Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded

At an unusual hour?

Prov.

It was commanded so.

Duke.

Had you a special warrant for the deed? 460

Prov.

No, my good lord; it was by private message.

Duke.

For which I do discharge you of your office:

Give up your keys.

Prov.

Pardon me, noble lord:

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not, 464

Yet did repent me, after more advice;

For testimony whereof, one in the prison,

That should by private order else have died

I have reserv’d alive.

Duke.

What’s he?

Prov.

His name is Barnardine.

Duke.

I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.

Go, fetch him hither: let me look upon him.

[Exit Provost.

Escal.

I am sorry, one so learned and so wise

As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d, 472

Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,

And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.

Ang.

I am sorry that such sorrow I procure;

And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart 476

That I crave death more willingly than mercy:

’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.

Re-enter Provost, with Barnardine, Claudio muffled, and Juliet.

Duke.

Which is that Barnardine?

Prov.

This, my lord.

Duke.

There was a friar told me of this man.

Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul,

That apprehends no further than this world, 482

And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemn’d:

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, 484

And pray thee take this mercy to provide

For better times to come. Friar, advise him:

I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that?

Prov.

This is another prisoner that I sav’d,

That should have died when Claudio lost his head, 489

As like almost to Claudio as himself.

[Unmuffles Claudio.

Duke.

[To Isabella.] If he be like your brother, for his sake

Is he pardon’d; and, for your lovely sake 492

Give me your hand and say you will be mine,

He is my brother too. But fitter time for that.

By this, Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe:

Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. 496

Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well:

Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.—

I find an apt remission in myself,

And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon.—

[To Lucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, 501

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman:

Wherein have I so deserv’d of you,

That you extol me thus? 504

Lucio.

’Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped. 508

Duke.

Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after.

Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,

If any woman’s wrong’d by this lewd fellow,—

As I have heard him swear himself there’s one

Whom he begot with child, let her appear, 513

And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,

Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.

Lucio.

I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now, I made you a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.

Duke.

Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. 520

Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal

Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison,

And see our pleasure herein executed.

Lucio.

Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging. 525

Duke.

Slandering a prince deserves it.

She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.

Joy to you, Mariana! love her, Angelo: 528

I have confess’d her and I know her virtue.

Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness:

There’s more behind that is more gratulate.

Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy; 532

We shall employ thee in a worthier place.

Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home

The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s:

The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, 536

I have a motion much imports your good;

Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline,

What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.

So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show 540

What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know.

[Exeunt.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Solinus,	Duke of Ephesus.
Ægeon,	a Merchant of Syracuse.
Antipholus of Ephesus, {	Twin Brothers, sons to Ægeon and Æmilia.
Antipholus of Syracuse, {	Twin Brothers, sons to Ægeon and Æmilia.
Dromio of Ephesus, {	Twin Brothers, attendants on the two Antipholuses.
Dromio of Syracuse, {	Twin Brothers, attendants on the two Antipholuses.
Balthazar,	a Merchant.
Angelo,	a Goldsmith.
Merchant,	Friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.
A Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtor.
Pinch,	a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer.
Æmilia,	Wife to Ægeon, an Abbess at Ephesus.
Adriana,	Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.
Luciana,	her Sister.
Luce,	Servant to Andriana,
A Courtezan.
Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Ephesus.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Hall in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Ægeon, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Æge.

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 our laws: 4

The enmity and discord which of late

Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke

To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,

Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives, 8

Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods,

Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks.

For, since the mortal and intestine jars

’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 12

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 16

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; 20

Unless a thousand marks be levied,

To quit the penalty and to ransom him.

Thy substance, valu’d at the highest rate,

Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; 24

Therefore, by law thou art condemn’d to die.

Æge.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke.

Well, Syracusian; say, in brief the cause 28

Why thou departedst from thy native home,

And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.

Æge.

A heavier task could not have been impos’d

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable; 32

Yet, that the world may witness that my end

Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,

I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.

In Syracusa was I born, and wed 36

Unto a woman, happy but for me,

And by me too, had not our hap been bad.

With her I liv’d in joy: our wealth increas’d

By prosperous voyages I often made 40

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 45

The pleasing punishment that women bear,—

Had made provision for her following me,

And soon and safe arrived where I was. 48

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 could not be distinguish’d but by names. 52

That very hour, and in the self-same inn,

A meaner woman was delivered

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike.

Those,—for their parents were exceeding poor,—

I bought, and brought up to attend my sons. 57

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,

Made daily motions for our home return:

Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon 60

We came aboard.

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,

Before the always-wind-obeying deep

Gave any tragic instance of our harm: 64

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; 68

Which, though myself would gladly have embrac’d,

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,

Weeping before for what she saw must come,

And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, 72

That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear,

Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me.

And this it was, for other means was none:

The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 76

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:

My wife, more careful for the latter-born,

Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast,

Such as seafaring men provide for storms; 80

To him one of the other twins was bound,

Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.

The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,

Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, 84

Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast;

And floating straight, obedient to the stream,

Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.

At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 88

Dispers’d those vapours that offended us,

And, by the benefit of his wished light

The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered

Two ships from far making amain to us; 92

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; 96

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Æge.

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, 100

We were encounter’d by a mighty rock;

Which being violently borne upon,

Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;

So that, in this unjust divorce of us 104

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, 108

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, another ship had seiz’d on us; 112

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,

Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests;

And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

Had not their bark been very slow of sail; 116

And therefore homeward did they bend their course.

Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss,

That by misfortune was my life prolong’d,

To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 120

Duke.

And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,

Do me the favour to dilate at full

What hath befall’n of them and thee till now.

Æge.

My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care, 124

At eighteen years became inquisitive

After his brother; and importun’d me

That his attendant—for his case was like,

Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name— 128

Might bear him company in the quest of him;

Whom whilst I labour’d of a love to see,

I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d.

Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,

Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 133

And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,

Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought

Or that or any place that harbours men. 136

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 Ægeon, whom the fates have mark’d 140

To bear the 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,

My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 145

But though thou art adjudged to the death

And passed sentence may not be recall’d

But to our honour’s great disparagement, 148

Yet will I favour thee in what I can:

Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day

To seek thy life by beneficial help.

Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; 152

Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,

And live; if no, then thou art doom’d to die.

Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

Gaol.

I will, my lord. 156

Æge.

Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,

But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Mart.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syracuse, and a Merchant.

Mer.

Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,

Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.

This very day, a Syracusian merchant

Is apprehended for arrival here; 4

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. 8

Ant. S.

Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,

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, 12

Peruse 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. 16

Dro. S.

Many a man would take you at your word,

And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,

When I am dull with care and melancholy, 20

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?

Mer.

I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,

Of whom I hope to make much benefit; 25

I crave your pardon. Soon at five o’clock,

Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart,

And afterward consort you till bed-time: 28

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.

Mer.

Sir, I commend you to your own content.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

He that commends me to mine own content, 33

Commends me to the thing I cannot get.

I to the world am like a drop of water

That in the ocean seeks another drop; 36

Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,

Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:

So I, to find a mother and a brother,

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 40

Enter Dromio of Ephesus.

Here comes the almanack of my true date.

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, 44

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; 49

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. 52

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; 56

The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

Ant. S.

I am not in a sportive humour now.

Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?

We being strangers here, how dar’st thou trust

So great a charge from thine own custody? 61

Dro. E.

I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner.

I from my mistress come to you in post;

If I return, I shall be post indeed, 64

For she will score your fault upon my pate.

Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock

And strike you home without a messenger.

Ant. S.

Come, Dromio, come; these jests are out of season; 68

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, 72

And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.

Dro. E.

My charge was but to fetch you from the mart

Home to your house, the Phœnix, sir, to dinner:

My mistress and her sister stays for you. 76

Ant. S.

Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,

In what safe place you have bestow’d my money;

Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours

That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d. 80

Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

Dro. E.

I have some marks of yours upon my pate,

Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders,

But not a thousand marks between you both. 84

If I should pay your worship those again,

Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

Ant. S.

Thy mistress’ marks! what mistress, slave, hast thou?

Dro. E.

Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phœnix; 88

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. 92

[Strikes him.

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 of all my money. 96

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, 100

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties of sin:

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.

I’ll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave: 104

I greatly fear my money is not safe.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The House of Antipholus of Ephesus.

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Neither my husband, nor the slave return’d,

That in such haste I sent to seek his master!

Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.

Luc.

Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, 4

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, 8

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. 12

Luc.

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 16

But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:

The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,

Are their males’ subjects and at their controls.

Men, more divine, the masters of all these, 20

Lords of the wide world, and wild wat’ry seas,

Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls,

Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,

Are masters to their females and their lords: 24

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. 28

Luc.

Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.

Adr.

How if your husband start some other where?

Luc.

Till he come home again, I would forbear.

Adr.

Patience unmov’d! no marvel though she pause; 32

They can be meek that have no other cause.

A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity,

We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;

But were we burden’d with like weight of pain, 36

As much, or more we should ourselves complain:

So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,

With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me:

But if thou live to see like right bereft. 40

This fool-begg’d patience 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? 44

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. 48

Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

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 understand them.

Adr.

But say, I prithee, is he coming home?

It seems he hath great care to please his wife. 56

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 desir’d him to come home to dinner, 60

He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold:

‘’Tis dinner time,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:

‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:

‘Will you come home?’ quoth I: ‘my gold!’ quoth he: 64

‘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? 69

Dro. E.

Quoth my master:

‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’

So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 72

I thank him, I bear home upon my shoulders;

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? 76

For God’s sake, send some other messenger.

Adr.

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. 80

Adr.

Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

Dro. E.

Am I so round 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: 84

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. 88

Hath homely age the 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, 92

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:

What ruins are in me that can be found 96

By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground

Of my defeatures. My decayed fair

A sunny look of his would soon repair;

But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale 100

And feeds from home: poor I am but his stale.

Luc.

Self-harming jealousy! fie! beat it hence.

Adr.

Unfeeling fools can with such wrengs dispense.

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere, 104

Or else what lets it but he would be here?

Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain:

Would that alone, alone he would detain,

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed! 108

I see, the jewel best enamelled

Will lose his beauty; and though gold bides still

That others touch, yet often touching will

Wear gold; and no man that hath a name, 112

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.— A public Place.

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, 4

I could not speak with Dromio since at first

I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?

As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 8

You know no Centaur? You receiv’d no gold?

Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

My house was at the Phœnix? Wast thou mad,

That thus so madly thou didst answer me? 12

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 see you since you sent me hence,

Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. 16

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 displeas’d.

Dro. S.

I am glad to see you in this merry vein: 20

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. 24

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 jest upon my love, 28

And make a common of my serious hours.

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,

But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.

If you will jest with me, know my aspect, 32

And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Dro. 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 insconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten? 40

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. 45

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, 48

When, in the why and the wherefore is neither rime 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. 53

Ant. S.

I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time? 56

Dro. S.

No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have

Ant. S.

In good time, sir; what’s that?

Dro. S.

Basting. 60

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, and purchase me another dry basting. 65

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. 69

Ant. S.

By what rule, sir?

Dro. S.

Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself. 72

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? 77

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? 81

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. 84

Ant. S.

Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.

Dro. S.

Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair. 88

Ant. S.

Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

Dro. S.

The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet be loseth it in a kind of jollity. 92

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. 96

Ant. S.

Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Dro. S.

Certain ones, then.

Ant. S.

Name them.

Dro. S.

The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; 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. 104

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 not time to recover. 108

Dro. S.

Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore to the world’s end will have bald followers.

Ant. S.

I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion.

But soft! who wafts us yonder? 113

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and frown:

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects,

I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 116

The time was once when thou unurg’d 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, 120

That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste,

Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d to thee.

How comes it now, my husband, O! how comes it,

That thou art thus estranged from thyself? 124

Thyself I call it, being strange to me,

That, undividable, incorporate,

Am better than thy dear self’s better part.

Ah! do not tear away thyself from me, 128

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall

A drop of water in the breaking gulf,

And take unmingled thence that drop again,

Without addition or diminishing, 132

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, 136

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, 140

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; 144

My blood is mingled with the crime 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. 148

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, 152

As strange unto your town as to your talk;

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 chang’d with you! 156

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 gentle-woman? 164

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. 168

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 172

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,

A betting him to thwart me in my mood!

Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. 176

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine;

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,

Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,

Makes me with thy strength to communicate:

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 181

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion

Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion. 184

Ant. S.

To me she speaks; she moves 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? 188

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. 192

This is the fairy land: O! spite of spites.

We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites:

If we obey them not, this will ensue,

They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. 196

Luc.

Why prat’st thou to thyself and answer’st not?

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!

Dro. S.

I am transformed, master, am not I?

Ant. S.

I think thou art, in mind, and so am I.

Dro. S.

Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. 201

Ant. S.

Thou hast thine own form.

Dro. S.

No, I am an ape.

Luc.

If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.

Dro. S.

’Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass. 204

’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, 208

Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.

Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.

Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day,

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. 212

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? 216

Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advis’d?

Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d!

I’ll say as they say, and persever so,

And in this mist at all adventures go. 220

Dro. S.

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Adr.

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 carkanet, 4

And that to-morrow you will bring it home.

But here’s a villain, that would face me down

He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,

And charg’d him with a thousand marks in gold,

And that I did deny my wife and house. 9

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: 12

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink,

Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Ant. E.

I think thou art an ass.

Dro. E.

Marry, so it doth appear

By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.

I should kick, being kick’d; and, being at that pass, 17

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. 20

Bal.

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.

Bal.

Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords. 24

Ant. E.

And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.

Bal.

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Ant. E.

Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest:

But though my cates be mean, take them in good part; 28

Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.

But soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.

Dro. E.

Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!

Dro. S.

[Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! 32

Either get thee from the door or sit down at the hatch.

Dost thou conjure 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. 36

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 din’d to-day. 40

Dro. S.

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?

Dro. S.

[Within.] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

Dro. E.

O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name: 44

The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame.

If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,

Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.

Luce.

[Within.] What a coil is there, Dromio! who are those at the gate? 48

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.] Have at you with another: that’s—when? can you tell? 52

Dro. S.

[Within.] If thy name be call’d Luce,—Luce, thou hast answer’d him well.

Ant. E.

Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I trow?

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. 56

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 in the town? 60

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.

Ant. E.

Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

Adr.

[Within.] Your wife, sir knave! go, get you from the door. 64

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 with neither.

Dro. E.

They stand at the door, master: bid them welcome hither. 68

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 here is warm within; you stand here in the cold:

It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold. 72

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. 76

Dro. S.

[Within.] It seems thou wantest 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. 80

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.

Ant. E.

Go get thee gone: fetch me an iron crow. 84

Bal.

Have patience, sir; O! let it not be so;

Herein you war against your reputation,

And draw within the compass of suspect

The unviolated honour of your wife. 88

Once this,—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 92

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be rul’d by me: depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner;

And about evening come yourself alone, 96

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, 100

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, 105

For ever housed where it gets possession.

Ant. E.

You have prevail’d: I will depart in quiet,

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. 108

I know a wench of excellent discourse,

Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle:

There will we dine: this woman that I mean,

My wife,—but, I protest, without desert,— 112

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:

To her will we to dinner. [To Angelo.] Get you home,

And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made:

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine; 116

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, 120

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.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter 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 rot?

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? 4

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; 8

Let not my sister read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator;

Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger; 12

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, 17

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. 20

Alas! poor women, make us but believe,

Being compact of credit, that you love us;

Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;

We in your motion turn, and you may move us. 24

Then, gentle brother, get you in again;

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:

’Tis holy sport to be a little vain,

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. 28

Ant. S.

Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,

Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,—

Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not

Than our earth’s wonder; more than earth divine. 32

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. 36

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. 40

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. 44

O! train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

To drown me in thy sister 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; 49

And, in that glorious supposition think

He gains by death that hath such means to die:

Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

Luc.

What! are you mad, that you do reason so? 53

Ant. S.

Not mad, but mated; 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. 56

Luc.

Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

Ant. S.

As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

Luc.

Why call you me love? call my sister so.

Ant. S.

Thy sister’s sister.

Luc.

That’s my sister.

Ant. S.

No; 60

It is thyself, mine own self’s better part;

Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart;

My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope’s aim,

My sole earth’s heaven, and my heaven’s claim.

Luc.

All this my sister is, or else should be.

Ant. S.

Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee.

Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:

Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife. 68

Give me thy hand.

Luc.

O! soft, sir; hold you still:

I’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will.

[Exit.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse, hastily.

Ant. S.

Why, how now, Dromio! where run’st thou so fast? 72

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. 76

Dro. S.

I am an ass, I am a woman’s man and besides myself.

Ant. S.

What woman’s man? and how besides thyself? 80

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? 84

Dro. S.

Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me. 89

Ant. S.

What is she?

Dro. S.

A very reverent body; aye, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he say, ‘Sir-reverence.’ I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.

Ant. S.

How dost thou mean a fat marriage? 96

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 warrant 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? 104

Dro. S.

Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept: for why she sweats; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it.

Ant. S.

That’s a fault that water will mend.

Dro. S.

No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it. 110

Ant. S.

What’s her name?

Dro. S.

Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters,—that is, an ell and three quarters,—will not measure her from hip to hip.

Ant. S.

Then she bears some breadth? 115

Dro. S.

No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her.

Ant. S.

In what part of her body stands Ireland? 120

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 the hand. 125

Ant. S.

Where France?

Dro. S.

In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir. 128

Ant. S.

Where England?

Dro. S.

I looked 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. 133

Ant. S.

Where Spain?

Dro. S.

Faith, I saw not; but I felt it hot in her breath. 136

Ant. S.

Where America, the Indies?

Dro. S.

O, sir! upon her nose, all o’er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose. 142

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. 150

And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith and my heart of steel,

She had transform’d me to a curtal dog and made me turn i’ the wheel.

Ant. S.

Go hie thee presently post to the road:

An if the wind blow any way from shore, 154

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, 158

’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, 165

Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace,

Of such enchanting presence and discourse,

Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 168

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,

I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

Master Antipholus!

Ant. S.

Ay, that’s my name. 172

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? 176

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, 181

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, leaving the chain.

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. 188

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.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Public Place.

Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an Officer.

Mer.

You know since Pentecost the sum is due,

And since I have not much importun’d you;

Nor now I had not, but that I am bound

To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage: 4

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 to me by Antipholus; 8

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. 13

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus from the Courtezan’s.

Off.

That labour may you save: see where he comes.

Ant. E.

While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou

And buy a rope’s end, that I will bestow 16

Among my wife and her confederates,

For locking me out of my doors by day.

But soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;

Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20

Dro. E.

I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope!

[Exit.

Ant. E.

A man is well holp up that trusts to you:

I promised your presence and the chain;

But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. 24

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. 28

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 discharg’d, 32

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, 36

And with you take the chain, and bid my wife

Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:

Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

Ang.

Then, you will bring the chain to her yourself? 40

Ant. E.

No; bear it 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. 44

Ang.

Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:

Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,

And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

Ant. E.

Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse 48

Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.

I should have child you for not bringing it,

But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

Mer.

The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch. 52

Ang.

You hear how he importunes 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.

Mer.

My business cannot brook this dalliance.

Good sir, say whe’r you’ll answer me or no: 60

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 it you half an hour since. 65

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. 68

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. 72

Either consent to pay this sum for me,

Or I attach you by this officer.

Ant. E.

Consent to pay thee that I never had!

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st. 76

Ang.

Here is thy fee: arrest him, officer.

I would not spare my brother in this case,

If he should scorn me so apparently.

Off.

I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit. 80

Ant. E.

I do obey thee till I give thee bail.

But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear

As all the metal in your shop will answer.

Ang.

Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 84

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 89

The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitæ.

The ship is in her trim; the merry wind

Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all 92

But for their owner, master, and yourself.

Ant. E.

How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,

What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

Dro. S.

A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 96

Ant. E.

Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;

And told thee to what purpose, and what end.

Dro. S.

You sent me for a rope’s end as soon:

You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 100

Ant. E.

I will debate this matter at more leisure,

And teach your ears to list me with more heed.

To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight;

Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk 104

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. 109

[Exeunt Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Antipholus of Ephesus.

Dro. S.

To Adriana! that is where we din’d,

Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:

She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. 112

Thither I must, although against my will,

For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Room in the House of Antipholus of Ephesus.

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Ah! Luciana, did he tempt thee so?

Mights thou perceive austerely in his eye

That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?

Look’d he or red or pale? or sad or merrily?

What observation mad’st thou in this case 5

Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face?

Luc.

First he denied you had in him no right.

Adr.

He meant he did me none; the more my spite. 8

Luc.

Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

Adr.

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. 12

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,

Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless every where: 20

Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Luc.

Who would be jealous then, of such a one?

No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone. 24

Adr.

Ah! but I think him better than I say,

And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse.

Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:

My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. 28

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

Dro. S.

Here, go: the desk! the purse! sweet, now, make haste.

Luc.

How hast thou lost thy breath?

Dro. S.

By running fast.

Adr.

Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

Dro. S.

No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. 32

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him,

One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel;

A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;

A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; 36

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 dryfoot well;

One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40

Adr.

Why, man, what is the matter?

Dro. S.

I do not know the matter: he is ’rested on the case.

Adr.

What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit.

Dro. S.

I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; 44

But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I tell.

Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

Adr.

Go fetch it, sister.—[Exit Luciana.] This I wonder at:

That he, unknown to me, should be in debt: 48

Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

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? 52

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 meet a sergeant, a’ turns back for very fear. 56

Adr.

As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

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? 60

If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,

Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter Luciana.

Adr.

Go, Dromio: there’s the money, bear it straight,

And bring thy master home immediately. 64

Come, sister; I am press’d down with conceit; Conceit, my comfort and my injury.

[Exeunt.

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; 4

Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

Some offer me commodities to buy:

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop

And show’d me silks that he had bought for me,

And therewithal, took measure of my body. 9

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. 12

What! have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?

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 killed 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. 20

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 gentlemen are tired, gives them a fob, and ’rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.

Ant. S.

What, thou meanest an officer? 28

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!’ 32

Ant. S.

Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?

Dro. S.

Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you. 40

Ant. S.

The fellow is distract, 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: 45

Is that the chain you promis’d me to-day?

Ant. S.

Satan, avoid! I charge thee tempt me not!

Dro. S.

Master, is this Mistress Satan? 48

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. 60

Dro. S.

Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, so bespeak a long spoon.

Ant. S.

Why, Dromio?

Dro. S.

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil. 65

Ant. S.

Avoid thee, fiend! what tell’st thou me of supping?

Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:

I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. 68

Cour.

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d,

And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Dro. S.

Some devils ask but the parings of one’s nail, 72

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, 76

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. 80

Dro. S.

‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

Cour.

Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,

Else would he never so demean himself.

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 84

And for the same he promis’d me a chain:

Both one and other he denies me now.

The reason that I gather he is mad,

Besides this present instance of his rage, 88

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. 92

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, 96

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, 4

And will not lightly trust the messenger.

That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,

I tell you, ’twill sound harshly in her ears.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope’s end.

Here comes my man: I think he brings the money. 8

How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

Dro. E.

Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

Ant. E.

But where’s the money?

Dro. E.

Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope. 12

Ant. E.

Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

Dro. E.

I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

Ant. E.

To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

Dro. E.

To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am I return’d. 16

Ant. E.

And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

[Beats him.

Off.

Good sir, be patient.

Dro. E.

Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

Off.

Good now, hold thy tongue. 20

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. 25

Ant. E.

Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass.

Dro. E.

I am an ass indeed; you may prove it by my long ears. I have 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. 40

Ant. E.

Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and Pinch.

Dro. E.

Mistress, respice finem, respect your end; or rather, to prophesy like the parrot, ‘Beware the rope’s end.’ 45

Ant. E.

Wilt thou still talk?

[Beats him.

Cour.

How say you now? is not your husband mad?

Adr.

His incivility confirms no less. 48

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!

Pinch.

Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.

Ant. E.

There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

[Strikes him.

Pinch.

I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man, 56

To yield possession to my holy prayers,

And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:

I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.

Ant. E.

Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad. 60

Adr.

O! that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

Ant. E.

You minion, you, are these your customers?

Did this companion with the saffron face

Revel and feast it at my house to-day, 64

Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut

And I denied to enter in my house?

Adr.

O husband, God doth know you din’d at home;

Where would you had remain’d until this time.

Free from these slanders and this open shame!

Ant. E.

Din’d 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? 72

Dro. E.

Perdy, 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 revil’d you there.

Ant. E.

Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me? 76

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. 80

Adr.

Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries?

Pinch.

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. 84

Adr.

Alas! I sent you money to redeem you,

By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

Dro. E.

Money by me! heart and good will you might;

But surely, master, not a rag of money. 88

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.

Dro. E.

God and the rope-maker bear me witness 92

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. 96

Ant. E.

Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?

And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

Adr.

I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

Dro. E.

And, gentle master, I receiv’d no gold; 100

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 104

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. 108

Pinch.

More company! the fiend is strong within him.

Luc.

Ay me! poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

Enter three or four and bind Antipholus of Ephesus.

Ant. E.

What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,

I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them 112

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.

[They bind Dromio of Ephesus.

Adr.

What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?

Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 117

Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

Off.

He is my prisoner: if I let him go,

The debt he owes will be requir’d of me. 120

Adr.

I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:

Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,

And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.

Good Master doctor, see him safe convey’d 124

Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

Ant. E.

O most unhappy strumpet!

Dro. E.

Master, I am here enter’d in bond for you.

Ant. E.

Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me? 128

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.— 132

[Exeunt Pinch and Assistants with Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus.

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? 136

Off.

Due for a chain your husband had of him.

Adr.

He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

Cour.

When as your husband all in rage, to-day

Came to my house, and took away my ring,—

The ring I saw upon his finger now,— 141

Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

Adr.

It may be so, but I did never see it.

Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:

I long to know the truth hereof at large. 145

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse, with rapiers drawn.

Luc.

God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

Adr.

And come with naked swords. Let’s call more help

To have them bound again.

Off.

Away! they’ll kill us.

[Exeunt Adriana, Luciana, and Officer.

Ant. S.

I see, these witches are afraid of swords. 149

Dro. S.

She that would be your wife now ran from you.

Ant. S.

Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:

I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 152

Dro. S.

Faith, stay here this night, they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold: methinks they are such a gentle nation, that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still, and turn witch.

Ant. S.

I will not stay to-night for all the town;

Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. 160

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A Street before an Abbey.

Enter Merchant and Angelo.

Ang.

I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you;

But, I protest, he had the chain of me,

Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

Mer.

How is the man esteem’d here in the city? 4

Ang.

Of very reverend reputation, sir,

Of credit infinite, highly belov’d,

Second to none that lives here in the city:

His word might bear my wealth at any time. 8

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 to me, I’ll speak to him. 12

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 16

This chain which now you wear so openly:

Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,

You have done wrong to this my honest friend,

Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20

Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day.

This chain you had of me; can you deny it?

Ant. S.

I think I had: I never did deny it.

Mer.

Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.

Ant. S.

Who heard me to deny it or forswear it? 25

Mer.

These ears of mine, thou know’st, did hear thee.

Fie on thee, wretch! ’tis pity that thou liv’st

To walk where any honest men resort. 28

Ant. S.

Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:

I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty

Against thee presently, if thou dar’st stand.

Mer.

I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. 32

[They draw.

Enter Adriana, Luciana, Courtezan, and Others.

Adr.

Hold! hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is mad.

Some get within him, take his sword away.

Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

Dro. S.

Run, master, run; for God’s sake, take a house! 36

This is some priory: in, or we are spoil’d.

[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse to the Abbey.

Enter the Abbess.

Abb.

Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

Adr.

To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.

Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 40

And bear him home for his recovery.

Ang.

I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

Mer.

I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

Abb.

How long hath this possession held the man? 44

Adr.

This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,

And much different from the man he was;

But, till this afternoon his passion

Ne’er brake into extremity of rage. 48

Abb.

Hath he not lost much wealth by wrack of sea?

Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye

Stray’d his affection in unlawful love?

A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 52

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. 57

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. 60

Abb.

Ay, but not enough.

Adr.

It was the copy of our conference:

In bed, he slept not for my urging it;

At board, he fed not for my urging it; 64

Alone, it was the subject of my theme;

In company I often glanced it:

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

Abb.

And thereof came it that the man was mad: 68

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. 72

Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d 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? 76

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, 80

And at her 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: 84

The consequence is then, thy jealous fits

Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.

Luc.

She never reprehended him but mildly

When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly. 88

Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?

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. 93

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, 96

Or lose my labour in assaying it.

Adr.

I will attend my husband, be his nurse,

Diet his sickness, for it is my office,

And will have no attorney but myself; 100

And therefore let me have him home with me.

Abb.

Be patient; for I will not let him stir

Till I have us’d the approved means I have,

With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,

To make of him a formal man again. 105

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; 109

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. 113

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.

Sec. Mer.

By this, I think, the dial points at five:

Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person

Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 120

The place of death and sorry execution,

Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

Ang.

Upon what cause?

Sec. Mer.

To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, 124

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. 128

Luc.

Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter Duke attended; Ægeon bare-headed; 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. 132

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 it please your Grace, Antipholus, my husband, 136

Whom I made lord of me and all I had,

At your important letters, this ill day

A most outrageous fit of madness took him,

That desperately he hurried through the street,—

With him his bondman, all as mad as he,— 141

Doing displeasure to the citizens

By rushing in their houses, bearing thence

Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like. 144

Once did I get him bound and sent him home,

Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went

That here and there his fury had committed.

Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 148

He broke from those that had the guard of him,

And with his mad attendant and himself,

Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords

Met us again, and, madly bent on us 152

Chas’d us away, till, raising of more aid

We came again to bind them. Then they fled

Into this abbey, whither we pursu’d them;

And here the abbess shuts the gates on us, 156

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. 160

Duke.

Long since thy husband serv’d me in my wars,

And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word,

When thou didst make him master of thy bed,

To do him all the grace and good I could. 164

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.

Serv.

O mistress, mistress! shift and save yourself! 168

My master and his man are both broke loose,

Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor,

Whose beard they have sing’d off with brands of fire;

And ever as it blaz’d they threw on him 172

Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.

My master preaches patience to him, and the while

His man with scissors nicks him like a fool;

And sure, unless you send some present help,

Between them they will kill the conjurer. 177

Adr.

Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,

And that is false thou dost report to us.

Serv.

Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;

I have not breath’d almost, since I did see it. 181

He cries for you and vows, if he can take you,

To scotch 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! 185

Adr.

Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,

That he is borne about invisible:

Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here, 188

And now he’s here, 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 in the wars and took 192

Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood

That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

Æge.

Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,

I see my son Antipholus and Dromio! 196

Ant. E.

Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!

She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife,

That hath abused and dishonour’d me,

Even in the strength and height of injury! 200

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, 204

While she with harlots feasted in my house.

Duke.

A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?

Adr.

No, my good lord: myself, he, and my sister

To-day did dine together. So befall my soul 208

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 perjur’d woman! They are both forsworn: 212

In this the madman justly chargeth them!

Ant. E.

My liege, I am advised what I say:

Neither disturb’d with the effect of wine,

Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire, 216

Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.

This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:

That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,

Could witness it, for he was with me then; 220

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,

Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,

Where Balthazar and I did dine together.

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 224

I went to seek him: in the street I met him,

And in his company that gentleman.

There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down

That I this day of him receiv’d the chain, 228

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. 232

Then fairly I bespoke the officer

To go in person with me to my house.

By the way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 236

Of vile confederates: along with them

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, 240

A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,

A living-dead man. This pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,

And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 244

And with no face, as ’twere, out-facing me,

Cries out, I was possess’d. Then, altogether

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,

And in a dark and dankish vault at home 248

There 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 252

To give me ample satisfaction

For these deep shames and great indignities.

Ang.

My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,

That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out.

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.

Sec. Mer.

Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine 260

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, 264

From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

Ant. E.

I never came within these abbey walls;

Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;

I never saw the chain, so help me heaven! 268

And this is false you burden me withal.

Duke.

Why, what an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.

If here you hous’d him, here he would have been; 272

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly;

You say he din’d at home; the goldsmith here

Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

Dro. E.

Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Porpentine. 276

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. 280

Duke.

Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither.

[Exit an Attendant.

I think you are all mated or stark mad.

Æge.

Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:

Haply I see a friend will save my life, 284

And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke.

Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

Æge.

Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus?

And is not that your bondman Dromio? 288

Dro. E.

Within this hour I was his bondman, sir;

But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:

Now am I Dromio and his man, unbound.

Æge.

I am sure you both of you remember me. 292

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?

Æge.

Why look you strange on me? you know me well. 296

Ant. E.

I never saw you in my life till now.

Æge.

O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,

And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,

Have written strange defeatures in my face: 300

But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

Ant. E.

Neither.

Æge.

Dromio, nor thou?

Dro. E.

No, trust me, sir, not I. 304

Æge.

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. 308

Æge.

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 untun’d cares? 312

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, 316

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,

My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:

All these old witnesses, I cannot err,

Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. 320

Ant. E.

I never saw my father in my life.

Æge.

But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,

Thou know’st we parted: but perhaps, my son,

Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.

Ant. E.

The duke and all that know me in the city 325

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, 329

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa.

I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Re-enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

Abb.

Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.

[All gather to see him.

Adr.

I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me! 333

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. 337

Dro. E.

I, sir, am Dromio: pray let me stay.

Ant. S.

Ægeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

Dro. S.

O! my old master; who hath bound him here? 340

Abb.

Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,

And gain a husband by his liberty.

Speak, old Ægeon, if thou be’st the man

That hadst a wife once call’d Æmilia, 344

That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.

O! if thou be’st the same Ægeon, speak,

And speak unto the same Æmilia!

Æge.

If I dream not, thou art Æmilia: 348

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: 352

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; 356

I to this fortune that you see me in.

Duke.

Why, here begins his morning story right:

These two Antipholus’, these two so like,

And these two Dromios, one in semblance, 360

Besides her urging of her wrack at sea;

These are the parents to these children,

Which accidentally are met together.

Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first? 364

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. 368

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. 372

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, 376

Did call me brother. [To Luciana.] 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. 380

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.

Adr.

I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,

By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. 385

Dro. E.

No, none by me.

Ant. S.

This purse of ducats I receiv’d from you,

And Dromio, my man, did bring them me. 388

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 are arose.

Ant. E.

These ducats pawn I for my father here. 392

Duke.

It shall not need: thy father hath 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 396

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 400

Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company,

And we shall make full satisfaction.

Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons; and, till this present hour 404

My heavy burdens ne’er delivered.

The duke, my husband, and my children both,

And you the calendars of their nativity,

Go to a gossip’s feast, and joy with me: 408

After so long grief such festivity!

Duke.

With all my heart I’ll gossip at this feast.

[Exeunt Duke, Abbess, Ægeon, Courtezan, Merchant, Angelo, and Attendants.

Dro. S.

Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

Ant. E.

Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d? 412

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 Antipholus of Syracuse and Antipholus of Ephesus, Adriana and Luciana.

Dro. S.

There is a fat friend at your master’s house, 417

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: 420

I see by you I am a sweet-fac’d 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. 425

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.

[Exeunt.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Don Pedro,	Prince of Arragon.
Don John,	his bastard Brother.
Claudio,	a young Lord of Florence.
Benedick,	a young Lord of Padua.
Leonato,	Governor of Messina.
Antonio,	his Brother.
Balthazar,	Servant to Don Pedro.
Borachio, }	followers of Don John.
Conrade, }	followers of Don John.
Dogberry,	a Constable.
Verges,	a Headborough.
Friar Francis.
A Sexton.
A Boy.
Hero,	Daughter to Leonato.
Beatrice,	Niece to Leonato.
Margaret, }	Waiting-gentlewomen attending on Hero.
Ursula, }	Waiting-gentlewomen attending on Hero.
Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c.

Scene.—Messina.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Before Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice and others, with a Messenger.

Leon.

I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.

Mess.

He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him. 4

Leon.

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

Mess.

But few of any sort, and none of name.

Leon.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. 11

Mess.

Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. 17

Leon.

He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.

Mess.

I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness.

Leon.

Did he break out into tears? 24

Mess.

In great measure.

Leon.

A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed: how much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! 29

Beat.

I pray you is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?

Mess.

I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort. 33

Leon.

What is he that you ask for, niece?

Hero.

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. 36

Mess.

O! he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was.

Beat.

He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat all of his killing. 45

Leon.

Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not. 48

Mess.

He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

Beat.

You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an excellent stomach. 53

Mess.

And a good soldier too, lady.

Beat.

And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord? 56

Mess.

A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honourable virtues.

Beat.

It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing,—well, we are all mortal. 61

Leon.

You must not, sir, mistake my niece There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her: they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them. 65

Beat.

Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one! so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. 74

Mess.

Is’t possible?

Beat.

Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

Mess.

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. 80

Beat.

No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil? 84

Mess.

He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

Beat.

O Lord! he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere a’ be cured. 92

Mess.

I will hold friends with you, lady.

Beat.

Do, good friend.

Leon.

You will never run mad, niece.

Beat.

No, not till a hot January. 96

Mess.

Don Pedro is approached.

Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar, and Others.

D. Pedro.

Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. 100

Leon.

Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. 105

D. Pedro.

You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.

Leon.

Her mother hath many times told me so. 109

Bene.

Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

Leon.

Signior Benedick, no; for then you were a child. 113

D. Pedro.

You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honourable father. 117

Bene.

If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is. 120

Beat.

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.

Bene.

What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living? 124

Beat.

Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence. 128

Bene.

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none. 133

Beat.

A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. 139

Bene.

God keep your ladyship still in that mind; so some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratched face.

Beat.

Scratching could not make it worse, an ’twere such a face as yours were. 144

Bene.

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

Beat.

A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

Bene.

I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done.

Beat.

You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old. 152

D. Pedro.

This is the sum of all, Leonato: Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. 159

Leon.

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To Don John.] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

D. John.

I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you. 165

Leon.

Please it your Grace lead on?

D. Pedro.

Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.

[Exeunt all but Benedick and Claudio.

Claud.

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

Bene.

I noted her not; but I looked on her.

Claud.

Is she not a modest young lady? 172

Bene.

Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex? 176

Claud.

No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

Bene.

Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. 184

Claud.

Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.

Bene.

Would you buy her, that you inquire after her? 188

Claud.

Can the world buy such a jewel?

Bene.

Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?

Claud.

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on. 197

Bene.

I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter: there’s her cousin an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

Claud.

I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. 206

Bene.

Is’t come to this, i’ faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again? Go to, i’ faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you. 213

Re-enter Don Pedro.

D. Pedro.

What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato’s?

Bene.

I would your Grace would constrain me to tell. 217

D. Pedro.

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

Bene.

You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but on my allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance: he is in love. With who? now that is your Grace’s part. Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s short daughter. 224

Claud.

If this were so, so were it uttered.

Bene.

Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, nor ’twas not so; but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.’ 228

Claud.

If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.

D. Pedro.

Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy. 232

Claud.

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

D. Pedro.

By my troth, I speak my thought.

Claud.

And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

Bene.

And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. 237

Claud.

That I love her, I feel.

D. Pedro.

That she is worthy, I know.

Bene.

That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

D. Pedro.

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. 245

Claud.

And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.

Bene.

That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,—for the which I may go the finer,—I will live a bachelor. 256

D. Pedro.

I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

Bene.

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen, and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid. 264

D. Pedro.

Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.

Bene.

If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.

D. Pedro.

Well, as time shall try: 270

‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’

Bene.

The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man.’

Claud.

If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. 280

D. Pedro.

Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

Bene.

I look for an earthquake too then.

D. Pedro.

Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation. 288

Bene.

I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you—

Claud.

To the tuition of God: from my house, if I had it,— 292

D. Pedro.

The sixth of July: your loving friend, Benedick.

Bene.

Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you.

[Exit.

Claud.

My liege, your highness now may do me good. 300

D. Pedro.

My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,

And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn

Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

Claud.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord? 304

D. Pedro.

No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.

Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

Claud.

O! my lord,

When you went onward on this ended action,

I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye, 308

That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand

Than to drive liking to the name of love;

But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts

Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 312

Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.

D. Pedro.

Thou wilt be like a lover presently,

And tire the hearer with a book of words. 317

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,

And I will break with her, and with her father,

And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end

That thou began’st to twist so fine a story? 321

Claud.

How sweetly do you minister to love,

That know love’s grief by his complexion!

But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 324

I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise.

D. Pedro.

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?

The fairest grant is the necessity.

Look, what will serve is fit: ’tis once, thou lov’st,

And I will fit thee with the remedy. 329

I know we shall have revelling to-night:

I will assume thy part in some disguise,

And tell fair Hero I am Claudio; 332

And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart,

And take her hearing prisoner with the force

And strong encounter of my amorous tale:

Then, after to her father will I break; 336

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.

In practice let us put it presently.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato and Antonio, meeting.

Leon.

How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son? Hath he provided this music?

Ant.

He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreaint not of.

Leon.

Are they good? 7

Ant.

As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and, if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. 17

Leon.

Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

Ant.

A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself. 21

Leon.

No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you, and tell her of it. [Several persons cross the stage.] Cousins, you know what you have to do. O! I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Don John and Conrade.

Con.

What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad?

D. John.

There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. 5

Con.

You should hear reason.

D. John.

And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it? 8

Con.

It not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.

D. John.

I wonder that thou, being,—as thou say’st thou art,—born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour. 19

Con.

Yea; but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. 27

D. John.

I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. 39

Con.

Can you make no use of your discontent?

D. John.

I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here?

Enter Borachio.

What news, Borachio? 43

Bora.

I came yonder from a great supper: the prince, your brother, is royally entertained by Leonato; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. 47

D. John.

Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?

Bora.

Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.

D. John.

Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

Bora.

Even he. 53

D. John.

A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?

Bora.

Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. 57

D. John.

A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

Bora.

Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. 66

D. John.

Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?

Con.

To the death, my lord. 72

Bora.

To the death, my lord. 72

D. John.

Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go prove what’s to be done? 76

Bora.

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Hall in Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and Others.

Leon.

Was not Count John here at supper?

Ant.

I saw him not.

Beat.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after. 5

Hero.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

Beat.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling. 11

Leon.

Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face,—

Beat.

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if a’ could get her good will. 18

Leon.

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. 21

Ant.

In faith, she’s too curst.

Beat.

Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none.

Leon.

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns? 28

Beat.

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen. 33

Leon.

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

Beat.

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell. 44

Leon.

Well then, go you into hell?

Beat.

No; but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids:’ so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. 53

Ant.

[To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father.

Beat.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:’—but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please me.’ 60

Leon.

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

Beat.

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. 69

Leon.

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. 72

Beat.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 84

Leon.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

Beat.

I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight.

Leon.

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room. 89

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula, and Others, masked.

D. Pedro.

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

Hero.

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

D. Pedro.

With me in your company?

Hero.

I may say so, when I please. 96

D. Pedro.

And when please you to say so?

Hero.

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case!

D. Pedro.

My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove. 101

Hero.

Why, then, your visor should be thatch’d.

D. Pedro.

Speak low, if you speak love. 104

[Takes her aside.

Balth.

Well, I would you did like me.

Marg.

So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities.

Balth.

Which is one? 108

Marg.

I say my prayers aloud.

Balth.

I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen.

Marg.

God match me with a good dancer!

Balth.

Amen. 113

Marg.

And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.

Balth.

No more words: the clerk is answered. 117

Urs.

I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio.

Ant.

At a word, I am not. 120

Urs.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

Ant.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

Urs.

You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.

Ant.

At a word, I am not. 127

Urs.

Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end. 131

Beat.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

Bene.

No, you shall pardon me.

Beat.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Bene.

Not now. 135

Beat.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ‘Hundred Merry Tales.’ Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.

Bene.

What’s he?

Beat.

I am sure you know him well enough.

Bene.

Not I, believe me. 141

Beat.

Did he never make you laugh?

Bene.

I pray you, what is he?

Beat.

Why, he is the prince’s jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me! 151

Bene.

When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him what you say.

Beat.

Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders.

Bene.

In every good thing. 160

Beat.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.

[Dance. Then exeunt all but Don John, Borachio, and Claudio.

D. John.

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

Bora.

And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing. 168

D. John.

Are you not Signior Benedick?

Claud.

You know me well; I am he.

D. John.

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may do the part of an honest man in it.

Claud.

How know you he loves her? 176

D. John.

I heard him swear his affection.

Bora.

So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

D. John.

Come, let us to the banquet. 180

[Exeunt Don John and Borachio.

Claud.

Thus answer I in name of Benedick,

But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.

’Tis certain so; the prince woos for himself.

Friendship is constant in all other things 184

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch 188

Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

This is an accident of hourly proof,

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

Re-enter Benedick.

Bene.

Count Claudio? 192

Claud.

Yea, the same.

Bene.

Come, will you go with me?

Claud.

Whither?

Bene.

Even to the next willow, about your own business, count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero. 201

Claud.

I wish him joy of her.

Bene.

Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus? 205

Claud.

I pray you, leave me.

Bene.

Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post. 209

Claud.

If it will not be, I’ll leave you.

[Exit.

Bene.

Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The prince’s fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it is the base though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may. 219

Re-enter Don Pedro.

D. Pedro.

Now, signior, where’s the count? Did you see him?

Bene.

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped. 229

D. Pedro.

To be whipped! What’s his fault?

Bene.

The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. 233

D. Pedro.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.

Bene.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird’s nest. 240

D. Pedro.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.

Bene.

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly. 244

D. Pedro.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.

Bene.

O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it, would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince’s jester; that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her. 271

Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato.

D. Pedro.

Look! here she comes.

Bene.

Will your Grace command me any service to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham’s beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me? 282

D. Pedro.

None, but to desire your good company.

Bene.

O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue.

[Exit.

D. Pedro.

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. 288

Beat.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it. 293

D. Pedro.

You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

Beat.

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. 299

D. Pedro.

Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

Claud.

Not sad, my lord.

D. Pedro.

How then? Sick?

Claud.

Neither, my lord. 304

Beat.

The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. 308

D. Pedro.

I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy!

Leon.

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it! 317

Beat.

Speak, count, ’tis your cue.

Claud.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. 322

Beat.

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. 325

D. Pedro.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Beat.

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. 330

Claud.

And so she doth, cousin.

Beat.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! 335

D. Pedro.

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

Beat.

I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. 340

D. Pedro.

Will you have me, lady?

Beat.

No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your Grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. 346

D. Pedro.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

Beat.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy! 352

Leon.

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

Beat.

I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace’s pardon.

[Exit.

D. Pedro.

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. 358

Leon.

There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.

D. Pedro.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. 365

Leon.

O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

D. Pedro.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick. 369

Leon.

O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.

D. Pedro.

Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church? 373

Claud.

To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Leon.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind. 378

D. Pedro.

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours, which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. 388

Leon.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings.

Claud.

And I, my lord.

D. Pedro.

And you too, gentle Hero? 392

Hero.

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.

D. Pedro.

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. 406

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Don John and Borachio.

D. John.

It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.

Bora.

Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

D. John.

Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage? 8

Bora.

Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.

D. John.

Show me briefly how.

Bora.

I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 14

D. John.

I remember.

Bora.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber-window.

D. John.

What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage? 20

Bora.

The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio,—whose estimation do you mightily hold up,—to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. 26

D. John.

What proof shall I make of that?

Bora.

Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato.

Look you for any other issue?

D. John.

Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing. 32

Bora.

Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret Hero; hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown. 51

D. John.

Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.

Bora.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. 57

D. John.

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Leonato’s Garden.

Enter Benedick.

Bene.

Boy!

Enter a Boy.

Boy.

Signior?

Bene.

In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard. 4

Boy.

I am here already, sir.

Bene.

I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known, when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthographer; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

[Withdraws.

Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, and Claudio, followed by Balthazar and Musicians.

D. Pedro.

Come, shall we hear this music? 40

Claud.

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,

As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

D. Pedro.

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Claud.

O! very well, my lord: the music ended, 44

We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.

D. Pedro.

Come, Balthazar, we’ll hear that song again.

Balth.

O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice

To slander music any more than once. 48

D. Pedro.

It is the witness still of excellency,

To put a strange face on his own perfection.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

Balth.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit 53

To her he thinks not worthy; yet he woos;

Yet will he swear he loves.

D. Pedro.

Nay, pray thee, come;

Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, 56

Do it in notes.

Balth.

Note this before my notes;

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

D. Pedro.

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!

[Music.

Bene.

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done. 64

Balthazar sings.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.  68

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe  72

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,  76

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,  80

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

D. Pedro.

By my troth, a good song.

Balth.

And an ill singer, my lord. 84

D. Pedro.

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

Bene.

[Aside.] An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it. 91

D. Pedro.

Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window.

Balth.

The best I can, my lord. 96

D. Pedro.

Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthazar and Musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? 100

Claud.

O! ay:—[Aside to D. Pedro.] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

Leon.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor. 107

Bene.

[Aside.] Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

Leon.

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought. 113

D. Pedro.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Claud.

Faith, like enough.

Leon.

O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

D. Pedro.

Why, what effects of passion shows she? 120

Claud.

[Aside.] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.

Leon.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio.] You heard my daughter tell you how. 125

Claud.

She did, indeed.

D. Pedro.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. 129

Leon.

I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

Bene.

[Aside.] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.

Claud.

[Aside.] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up. 136

D. Pedro.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

Leon.

No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment. 140

Claud.

’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’ 144

Leon.

This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all. 149

Claud.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

Leon.

O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

Claud.

That. 155

Leon.

O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’ 161

Claud.

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’ 165

Leon.

She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.

D. Pedro.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it. 172

Claud.

To what end? he would but make a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.

D. Pedro.

An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. 177

Claud.

And she is exceeding wise.

D. Pedro.

In everything but in loving Benedick. 180

Leon.

O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. 185

D. Pedro.

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what a’ will say. 189

Leon.

Were it good, think you?

Claud.

Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. 195

D. Pedro.

She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a contemptible spirit.

Claud.

he is a very proper man. 200

D. Pedro.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

Claud.

’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.

D. Pedro.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. 205

Leon.

And I take him to be valiant.

D. Pedro.

As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. 211

Leon.

If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

D. Pedro.

And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love? 219

Claud.

Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.

Leon.

Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first. 223

D. Pedro.

Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy to have so good a lady. 228

Leon.

My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

Claud.

[Aside.] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

D. Pedro.

[Aside.] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumbshow. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.

Bene.

[Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her. 266

Enter Beatrice.

Beat.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

Bene.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. 270

Beat.

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.

Bene.

You take pleasure then in the message?

Beat.

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.

[Exit.

Bene.

Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Leonato’s Garden.

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.

Hero.

Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour;

There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice

Proposing with the prince and Claudio:

Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 4

Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse

Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us,

And bid her steal into the pleached bower,

Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun, 8

Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites,

Made proud by princes, that advance their pride

Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her,

To listen our propose. This is thy office; 12

Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

Marg.

I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

[Exit.

Hero.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,

As we do trace this alley up and down, 16

Our talk must only be of Benedick:

When I do name him, let it be thy part

To praise him more than ever man did merit.

My talk to thee must be how Benedick 20

Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,

That only wounds by hearsay.

Enter Beatrice, behind.

Now begin;

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs 24

Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Urs.

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,

And greedily devour the treacherous bait: 28

So angle we for Beatrice; who even now

Is couched in the woodbine coverture.

Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

Hero.

Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing 32

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

[They advance to the bower.

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;

I know her spirits are as coy and wild

As haggerds of the rock.

Urs.

But are you sure 36

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

Hero.

So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.

Urs.

And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

Hero.

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; 40

But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick,

To wish him wrestle with affection,

And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Urs.

Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman

Deserve as full as fortunate a bed 45

As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

Hero.

O god of love! I know he doth deserve

As much as may be yielded to a man; 48

But nature never fram’d a woman’s heart

Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,

Misprising what they look on, and her wit 52

Values itself so highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,

Nor take no shape nor project of affection,

She is so self-endear’d.

Urs.

Sure, I think so; 56

And therefore certainly it were not good

She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

Hero.

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,

But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,

She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;

If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick,

Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; 64

If low, an agate very vilely cut;

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

If silent, why, a block moved with none.

So turns she every man the wrong side out, 68

And never gives to truth and virtue that

Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

Urs.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Hero.

No; not to be so odd and from all fashions 72

As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,

She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me

Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 76

Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire,

Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:

It were a better death than die with mocks,

Which is as bad as die with tickling. 80

Urs.

Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.

Hero.

No; rather I will go to Benedick,

And counsel him to fight against his passion.

And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders 84

To stain my cousin with. One doth not know

How much an ill word may empoison liking.

Urs.

O! do not do your cousin such a wrong.

She cannot be so much without true judgment,—

Having so swift and excellent a wit 89

As she is priz’d to have,—as to refuse

So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

Hero.

He is the only man of Italy, 92

Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Urs.

I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,

Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,

For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, 96

Goes foremost in report through Italy.

Hero.

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

Urs.

His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.

When are you married, madam? 100

Hero.

Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:

I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

Urs.

She’s lim’d, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam. 104

Hero.

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

[Exeunt Hero and Ursula.

Beat.

[Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? 107

Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: 112

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in a holy band;

For others say thou dost deserve, and I

Believe it better than reportingly.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.

D. Pedro.

I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

Claud.

I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me. 4

D. Pedro.

Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bow-string, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

Bene.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

Leon.

So say I: methinks you are sadder. 16

Claud.

I hope he be in love.

D. Pedro.

Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money. 20

Bene.

I have the tooth-ache.

D. Pedro.

Draw it.

Bene.

Hang it.

Claud.

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards. 25

D. Pedro.

What! sigh for the tooth-ache?

Leon.

Where is but a humour or a worm?

Bene.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it. 29

Claud.

Yet say I, he is in love.

D. Pedro.

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. 39

Claud.

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode?

D. Pedro.

Hath any man seen him at the barber’s? 44

Claud.

No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.

Leon.

Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. 49

D. Pedro.

Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?

Claud.

That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love. 53

D. Pedro.

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Claud.

And when was he wont to wash his face? 57

D. Pedro.

Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.

Claud.

Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and new-governed by stops.

D. Pedro.

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love. 64

Claud.

Nay, but I know who loves him.

D. Pedro.

That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

Claud.

Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him. 69

D. Pedro.

She shall be buried with her face upwards.

Bene.

Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache.

Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. 75

[Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.

D. Pedro.

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

Claud.

’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. 81

Enter Don John.

D. John.

My lord and brother, God save you!

D. Pedro.

Good den, brother.

D. John.

If your leisure served, I would speak with you. 85

D. Pedro.

In private?

D. John.

If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. 89

D. Pedro.

What’s the matter?

D. John.

[To Claudio.] Means your lordship to be married to-morrow? 92

D. Pedro.

You know he does.

D. John.

I know not that, when he knows what I know.

Claud.

If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. 97

D. John.

You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent, and labour ill bestowed!

D. Pedro.

Why, what’s the matter? 104

D. John.

I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she hath been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal.

Claud.

Who, Hero? 108

D. John.

Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero.

Claud.

Disloyal?

D. John.

The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind. 120

Claud.

May this be so?

D. Pedro.

I will not think it.

D. John.

If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.

Claud.

If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.

D. Pedro.

And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. 132

D. John.

I will disparage her no further till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.

D. Pedro.

O day untowardly turned! 136

Claud.

O mischief strangely thwarting!

D. John.

O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Street.

Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch.

Dogb.

Are you good men and true?

Verg.

Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.

Dogb.

Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince’s watch.

Verg.

Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. 8

Dogb.

First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?

First Watch.

Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. 12

Dogb.

Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature. 16

Sec. Watch.

Both which, Master constable,—

Dogb.

You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince’s name.

Watch.

How, if a’ will not stand? 28

Dogb.

Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave.

Verg.

If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince’s subjects. 33

Dogb.

True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

Sec. Watch.

We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. 40

Dogb.

Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 46

Watch.

How if they will not?

Dogb.

Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for.

Watch.

Well, sir. 52

Dogb.

If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 57

Sec. Watch.

If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?

Dogb.

Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company. 64

Verg.

You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

Dogb.

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

Verg.

If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.

Sec. Watch.

How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? 72

Dogb.

Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. 76

Verg.

’Tis very true.

Dogb.

This is the end of the charge. You constable, are to present the prince’s own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. 81

Verg.

Nay, by ’r lady, that I think, a’ cannot.

Dogb.

Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will.

Verg.

By ’r lady, I think it be so. 88

Dogb.

Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. 92

Sec. Watch.

Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all go to bed.

Dogb.

One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you.

[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.

Enter Borachio and Conrade.

Bora.

What, Conrade! 101

Watch.

[Aside.] Peace! stir not.

Bora.

Conrade, I say!

Con.

Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 104

Bora.

Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow.

Con.

I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale. 108

Bora.

Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

Watch.

[Aside.] Some treason, masters; yet stand close. 113

Bora.

Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

Con.

Is it possible that any villany should be so dear? 117

Bora.

Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. 121

Con.

I wonder at it.

Bora.

That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. 125

Con.

Yes, it is apparel.

Bora.

I mean, the fashion.

Con.

Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 128

Bora.

Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?

Watch.

[Aside.] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile thief this seven years; a’ goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name. 135

Bora.

Didst thou not hear somebody?

Con.

No: ’twas the vane on the house.

Bora.

Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting; sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church-window; sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his cod-piece seems as massy as his club? 146

Con.

All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? 151

Bora.

Not so, neither; but know, that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress’ chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. 160

Con.

And thought they Margaret was Hero?

Bora.

Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the devil my master, knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o’er night, and send her home again without a husband. 173

First Watch.

We charge you in the prince’s name, stand!

Sec. Watch.

Call up the right Master constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.

First Watch.

And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, a’ wears a lock. 181

Con.

Masters, masters!

Sec. Watch.

You’ll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. 184

Con.

Masters,—

First Watch.

Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.

Bora.

We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills. 189

Con.

A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.

Hero.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

Urs.

I will, lady.

Hero.

And bid her come hither. 4

Urs.

Well.

[Exit.

Marg.

Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

Hero.

No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this.

Marg.

By my troth’s not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so.

Hero.

My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: I’ll wear none but this. 12

Marg.

I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise so. 16

Hero.

O! that exceeds, they say.

Marg.

By my troth’s but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on’t.

Hero.

God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. 25

Marg.

’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

Hero.

Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? 28

Marg.

Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, ‘saving your reverence, a husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband?’ None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.

Enter Beatrice.

Hero.

Good morrow, coz.

Beat.

Good morrow, sweet Hero. 40

Hero.

Why, how now! do you speak in the sick tune?

Beat.

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Marg.

Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love;’ that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.

Beat.

Ye light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barns. 48

Marg.

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

Beat.

’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho! 53

Marg.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beat.

For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg.

Well, an you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star. 57

Beat.

What means the fool, trow?

Marg.

Nothing I; but God send every one their heart’s desire! 60

Hero.

These gloves the count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.

Beat.

I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg.

A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold. 65

Beat.

O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?

Marg.

Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely! 69

Beat.

It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

Marg.

Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero.

There thou prick’st her with a thistle.

Beat.

Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in this Benedictus. 77

Marg.

Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by’r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted, I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do.

Beat.

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? 93

Marg.

Not a false gallop.

Re-enter Ursula.

Urs.

Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church. 97

Hero.

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato with Dogberry and Verges.

Leon.

What would you with me, honest neighbour?

Dogb.

Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that decerns you nearly. 4

Leon.

Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

Dogb.

Marry, this it is, sir.

Verg.

Yes, in truth it is, sir. 8

Leon.

What is it, my good friends?

Dogb.

Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt, as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

Verg.

Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I. 17

Dogb.

Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

Leon.

Neighbours, you are tedious. 20

Dogb.

It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke’s officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. 25

Leon.

All thy tediousness on me! ha?

Dogb.

Yea, an’t were a thousand pound more than ’tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.

Verg.

And so am I. 31

Leon.

I would fain know what you have to say.

Verg.

Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 35

Dogb.

A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, ‘when the age is in, the wit is out.’ God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread: but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour. 44

Leon.

Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Dogb.

Gifts that God gives.

Leon.

I must leave you. 48

Dogb.

One word, sir: our watch, sir, hath indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. 52

Leon.

Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you.

Dogb.

It shall be suffigance. 56

Leon.

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. 60

Leon.

I’ll wait upon them: I am ready.

[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.

Dogb.

Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men.

Verg.

And we must do it wisely. 65

Dogb.

We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here’s that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Inside of a Church.

Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, &c.

Leon.

Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.

Friar.

You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? 5

Claud.

No.

Leon.

To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her. 8

Friar.

Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?

Hero.

I do.

Friar.

If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.

Claud.

Know you any, Hero?

Hero.

None, my lord. 16

Friar.

Know you any, count?

Leon.

I dare make his answer; none.

Claud.

O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!

Bene.

How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he!

Claud.

Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:

Will you with free and unconstrained soul 24

Give me this maid, your daughter?

Leon.

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

Claud.

And what have I to give you back whose worth

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? 28

D. Pedro.

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Claud.

Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato, take her back again:

Give not this rotten orange to your friend; 32

She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour.

Behold! how like a maid she blushes here.

O! what authority and show of truth

Can cunning sin cover itself withal. 36

Comes not that blood as modest evidence

To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,

All you that see her, that she were a maid,

By these exterior shows? But she is none: 40

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

Leon.

What do you mean, my lord?

Claud.

Not to be married,

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 44

Leon.

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,

And made defeat of her virginity,—

Claud.

I know what you would say: if I have known her, 48

You’ll say she did embrace me as a husband,

And so extenuate the ’forehand sin:

No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large; 52

But, as a brother to his sister, show’d

Bashful sincerity and comely love.

Hero.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

Claud.

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: 56

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

But you are more intemperate in your blood

Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals 60

That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero.

Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

Leon.

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

D. Pedro.

What should I speak?

I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about 64

To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Leon.

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

D. John.

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. 68

Bene.

This looks not like a nuptial.

Hero.

True! O God!

Claud.

Leonato, stand I here?

Is this the prince? Is this the prince’s brother?

Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own? 72

Leon.

All this is so; but what of this, my lord?

Claud.

Let me but move one question to your daughter;

And by that fatherly and kindly power

That you have in her, bid her answer truly. 76

Leon.

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

Hero.

O, God defend me! how am I beset!

What kind of catechizing call you this?

Claud.

To make you answer truly to your name. 80

Hero.

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

With any just reproach?

Claud.

Marry, that can Hero:

Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.

What man was he talk’d with you yesternight 84

Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?

Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

Hero.

I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.

D. Pedra.

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, 88

I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,

Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,

Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,

Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window; 92

Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

Confess’d the vile encounters they have had

A thousand times in secret.

D. John.

Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, 96

Not to be spoke of;

There is not chastity enough in language

Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. 100

Claud.

O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,

If half thy outward graces had been plac’d

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,

Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! 105

For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love,

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, 108

And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon.

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

[Hero swoons.

Beat.

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

D. John.

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, 112

Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.

Bene.

How doth the lady?

Beat.

Dead, I think! help, uncle!

Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick!

Friar! 116

Leon.

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand:

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish’d for.

Beat.

How now, cousin Hero!

Friar.

Have comfort, lady. 120

Leon.

Dost thou look up?

Friar.

Yea; wherefore should she not?

Leon.

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood? 124

Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;

For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, 128

Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame?

O! one too much by thee. Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in mine eyes? 132

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,

Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy,

I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine; 136

This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’

But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d,

And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

That I myself was to myself not mine, 140

Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen

Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,

And salt too little which may season give 144

To her foul-tainted flesh.

Bene.

Sir, sir, be patient.

For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder,

I know not what to say.

Beat.

O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Bene.

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Beat.

No, truly, not; although, until last night,

I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon.

Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made, 152

Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron.

Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie,

Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness,

Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. 156

Friar.

Hear me a little;

For I have only been silent so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,

By noting of the lady: I have mark’d 160

A thousand blushing apparitions

To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames

In angel whiteness bear away those blushes;

And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, 164

To burn the errors that these princess hold

Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;

Trust not my reading nor my observations,

Which with experimental seal doth warrant 168

The tenour of my book; trust not my age,

My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here

Under some biting error.

Leon.

Friar, it cannot be. 172

Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left

Is, that she will not add to her damnation

A sin of perjury: she not denies it.

Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse 176

That which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar.

Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of?

Hero.

They know that do accuse me, I know none;

If I know more of any man alive 180

Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,

Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father!

Prove you that any man with me convers’d

At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 184

Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.

Friar.

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Bene.

Two of them have the very bent of honour; 188

And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

The practice of it lives in John the bastard,

Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leon.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her, 192

These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine.

Nor age so eat up my invention, 196

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind,

Both strength of limb and policy of mind, 200

Ability in means and choice of friends,

To quit me of them throughly.

Friar.

Pause awhile,

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the princes left for dead;

Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 205

And publish it that she is dead indeed:

Maintain a mourning ostentation;

And on your family’s old monument 208

Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites

That appertain unto a burial.

Leon.

What shall become of this? What will this do?

Friar.

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf 212

Change slander to remorse; that is some good:

But not for that dream I on this strange course,

But on this travail look for greater birth.

She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, 216

Upon the instant that she was accus’d,

Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d

Of every hearer; for it so falls out

That what we have we prize not to the worth

Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost,

Why, then we rack the value, then we find 222

The virtue that possession would not show us

Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:

When he shall hear she died upon his words,

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life 228

Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate, and full of life

Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— 232

If ever love had interest in his liver,—

And wish he had not so accused her,

No, though he thought his accusation true.

Let this be so, and doubt not but success 236

Will fashion the event in better shape

Than I can lay it down in likelihood.

But if all aim but this be levell’d false,

The supposition of the lady’s death 240

Will quench the wonder of her infamy:

And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,—

As best befits her wounded reputation,—

In some reclusive and religious life, 244

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene.

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:

And though you know my inwardness and love

Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, 248

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

As secretly and justly as your soul

Should with your body.

Leon.

Being that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me. 252

Friar.

’Tis well consented: presently away;

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day

Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure. 256

[Exeunt Friar, Hero, and Leonato.

Bene.

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Beat.

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Bene.

I will not desire that. 260

Beat.

You have no reason; I do it freely.

Bene.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

Beat.

Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her. 265

Bene.

Is there any way to show such friendship?

Beat.

A very even way, but no such friend.

Bene.

May a man do it? 269

Beat.

It is a man’s office, but not yours.

Bene.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange? 272

Beat.

As strange as the thing I know not.

It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as your, but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, not I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. 277

Bene.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Beat.

Do not swear by it, and eat it.

Bene.

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.

Beat.

Will you not eat your word?

Bene.

With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. 285

Beat.

Why then, God forgive me!

Bene.

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Beat.

You have stayed me in a happy hour:

I was about to protest I loved you. 289

Bene.

And do it with all thy heart.

Beat.

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. 292

Bene.

Come, bid me do anything for thee.

Beat.

Kill Claudio.

Bene.

Ha! not for the wide world.

Beat.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell. 296

Bene.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Beat.

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

Bene.

Beatrice,— 300

Beat.

In faith, I will go.

Bene.

We’ll be friends first.

Beat.

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. 304

Bene.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Beat.

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. 313

Bene.

Hear me, Beatrice,—

Beat.

Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying! 316

Bene.

Nay, but Beatrice,—

Beat.

Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

Bene.

Beat— 320

Beat.

Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Bene.

Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. 332

Beat.

Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

Bene.

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero? 336

Beat.

Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.

Bene.

Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Prison.

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.

Dogb.

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Verg.

O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton.

Which be the malefactors? 4

Dogb.

Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verg.

Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine.

Sexton.

But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master constable.

Dogb.

Yea, marry, let them come before me.

What is your name, friend? 12

Bora.

Borachio.

Dogb.

Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

Con.

I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. 17

Dogb.

Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God?

Con.

Yea, sir, we hope. 20

Bora.

Yea, sir, we hope. 20

Dogb.

Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves? 26

Con.

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Dogb.

A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.

Bora.

Sir, I say to you we are none. 32

Dogb.

Well, stand aside. ’Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?

Sexton.

Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 38

Dogb.

Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.

First Watch.

This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain. 43

Dogb.

Write down Prince John a villain.

Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.

Bora.

Master constable,—

Dogb.

Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee.

Sexton.

What heard you him say else? 50

Sec. Watch.

Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Dogb.

Flat burglary as ever was committed.

Verg.

Yea, by the mass, that it is.

Sexton.

What else, fellow? 56

First Watch.

And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.

Dogb.

O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. 61

Sexton.

What else?

Sec. Watch.

This is all.

Sexton.

And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination.

[Exit.

Dogb.

Come, let them be opinioned. 72

Verg.

Let them be in the hands—

Con.

Off, coxcomb!

Dogb.

God’s my life! where’s the sexton? let him write down the prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!

Con.

Away! you are an ass; you are an ass.

Dogb.

Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! 93

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Before Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato and Antonio.

Ant.

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself;

And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief

Against yourself.

Leon.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,

Which falls into mine ears as profitless 4

As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;

Nor let no comforter delight mine ear

But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:

Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, 8

Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine,

And bid him speak of patience;

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,

And let it answer every strain for strain, 12

As thus for thus and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan, 16

Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk

With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men 20

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

Their counsel turns to passion, which before

Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 24

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience

To those that wring under the load of sorrow, 28

But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency

To be so moral when he shall endure

The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:

My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 32

Ant.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

Leon.

I pray thee, peace! I will be flesh and blood;

For there was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently, 36

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Ant.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;

Make those that do offend you suffer too. 40

Leon.

There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so.

My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;

And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince,

And all of them that thus dishonour her. 44

Ant.

Here come the prince and Claudio hastily.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.

D. Pedro.

Good den, good den.

Claud.

Good day to both of you.

Leon.

Hear you, my lords,—

D. Pedro.

We have some haste, Leonato.

Leon.

Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord: 48

Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one.

D. Pedro.

Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

Ant.

If he could right himself with quarrelling,

Some of us would lie low.

Claud.

Who wrongs him? 52

Leon.

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou.

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.

Claud.

Marry, beshrew my hand,

If it should give your age such cause of fear. 56

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Leon.

Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me:

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,

As, under privilege of age, to brag 60

What I have done being young, or what would do,

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,

Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me

That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by, 64

And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,

Do challenge thee to trial of a man.

I say thou hast belied mine innocent child:

Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, 68

And she lies buried with her ancestors;

O! in a tomb where never scandal slept,

Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villany!

Claud.

My villany?

Leon.

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. 72

D. Pedro.

You say not right, old man.

Leon.

My lord, my lord,

I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare,

Despite his nice fence and his active practice,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. 76

Claud.

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Leon.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child;

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

Ant.

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:

But that’s no matter; let him kill one first: 81

Win me and wear me; let him answer me.

Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me.

Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence;

Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 85

Leon.

Brother,—

Ant.

Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece;

And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed 89

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

Leon.

Brother Antony,—

Ant.

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, 92

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,

Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,

Go antickly, show outward hideousness, 96

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all!

Leon.

But, brother Antony,—

Ant.

Come, ’tis no matter: 100

Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.

D. Pedro.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death;

But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing 104

But what was true and very full of proof.

Leon.

My lord, my lord—

D. Pedro.

I will not hear you.

Leon.

No?

Come, brother, away. I will be heard.—

Ant.

And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

[Exeunt Leonato and Antonio.

Enter Benedick.

D. Pedro.

See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.

Claud.

Now, signior, what news?

Bene.

Good day, my lord. 112

D. Pedro.

Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.

Claud.

We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. 117

D. Pedro.

Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. 120

Bene.

In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.

Claud.

We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit? 126

Bene.

It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it?

D. Pedro.

Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

Claud.

Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us. 132

D. Pedro.

As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?

Claud.

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. 137

Bene.

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. 140

Claud.

Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.

D. Pedro.

By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed. 144

Claud.

If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Bene.

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

Claud.

God bless me from a challenge! 148

Bene.

[Aside to Claudio.] You are a villain; I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.

Claud.

Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. 156

D. Pedro.

What, a feast, a feast?

Claud.

I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught.

Shall I not find a woodcock too? 161

Bene.

Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

D. Pedro.

I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit. ‘True,’ says she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit.’ ‘Right,’ said she, ‘a great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues.’ ‘That I believe,’ said she. ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there’s a double tongue; there’s two tongues.’ Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. 178

Claud.

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.

D. Pedro.

Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all. 184

Claud.

All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.

D. Pedro.

But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head? 189

Claud.

Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man!’

Bene.

Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour: you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him.

[Exit.

D. Pedro.

He is in earnest.

Claud.

In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. 204

D. Pedro.

And hath challenged thee?

Claud.

Most sincerely.

D. Pedro.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! 209

Claud.

He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.

D. Pedro.

But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled? 214

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.

Dogb.

Come, you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

D. Pedro.

How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one! 220

Claud.

Hearken after their offence, my lord.

D. Pedro.

Officers, what offence have these men done?

Dogb.

Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves. 229

D. Pedro.

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge?

Claud.

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited. 236

D. Pedro.

Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What’s your offence? 240

Bora.

Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villany they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. 256

D. Pedro.

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

Claud.

I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it.

D. Pedro.

But did my brother set thee on to this?

Bora.

Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it. 260

D. Pedro.

He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery:

And fled he is upon this villany.

Claud.

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first. 264

Dogb.

Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. 269

Verg.

Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.

Re-enter Leonato, Antonio, and the Sexton.

Leon.

Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, 272

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him. Which of these is he?

Bora.

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Leon.

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d 276

Mine innocent child?

Bora.

Yea, even I alone.

Leon.

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:

Here stand a pair of honourable men;

A third is fled, that had a hand in it. 280

I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death

Record it with your high and worthy deeds.

’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

Claud.

I know not how to pray your patience; 284

Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;

Impose me to what penance your invention

Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not

But in mistaking.

D. Pedro.

By my soul, nor I: 288

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight

That he’ll enjoin me to.

Leon.

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; 292

That were impossible: but, I pray you both,

Possess the people in Messina here

How innocent she died; and if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention, 296

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones: sing it to-night.

To-morrow morning come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law, 300

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,

Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us:

Give her the right you should have given her cousin, 304

And so dies my revenge.

Claud.

O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio. 308

Leon.

To-morrow then I will expect your coming;

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,

Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong, 312

Hir’d to it by your brother.

Bora.

No, by my soul she was not;

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me;

But always hath been just and virtuous

In anything that I do know by her. 316

Dogb.

Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,—this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point. 327

Leon.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Dogb.

Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth, and I praise God for you. 332

Leon.

There’s for thy pains.

Dogb.

God save the foundation!

Leon.

Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. 336

Dogb.

I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to corect yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. 343

[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.

Leon.

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Ant.

Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

D. Pedro.

We will not fail.

Claud.

To-night I’ll mourn with Hero.

[Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.

Leon.

[To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, 347

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Leonato’s Garden

Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting.

Bene.

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

Marg.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty? 5

Bene.

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. 8

Marg.

To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?

Bene.

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches. 12

Marg.

And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.

Bene.

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers. 17

Marg.

Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.

Bene.

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

Marg.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. 24

Bene.

And therefore will come.

[Exit Margaret.

The god of love,

That sits above,

And knows me, and knows me, 28

How pitiful I deserve,—

I mean, in singing; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of pandars, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self, in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby,’ an innocent rime; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn,’ a hard rime; for ‘school,’ ‘fool,’ a babbling rime; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. 42

Enter Beatrice.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

Beat.

Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.

Bene.

O, stay but till then! 47

Beat.

‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. 51

Bene.

Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Beat.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed. 56

Bene.

Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? 63

Beat.

For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me? 68

Bene.

‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat.

In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates. 75

Bene.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Beat.

It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. 80

Bene.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps. 85

Beat.

And how long is that think you?

Bene.

Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore it is most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?

Beat.

Very ill.

Bene.

And how do you? 96

Beat.

Very ill too.

Bene.

Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. 100

Enter Ursula.

Urs.

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? 106

Beat.

Will you go hear this news, signior?

Bene.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Inside of a Church.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Attendants, with music and tapers.

Claud.

Is this the monument of Leonato?

A Lord.

It is, my lord.

Claud.

[Reads from a scroll.]

Done to death by slanderous tongues

Was the Hero that here lies: 4

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

Gives her fame which never dies.

So the life that died with shame

Lives in doath with glorious fame. 8

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

SONG.

Pardon, goddess of the night,  12

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;  16

Help us to sigh and groan,

Heavily, heavily:

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,

Till death be uttered,  20

Heavily, heavily.

Claud.

Now, unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow, masters: put your torches out. 24

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phœbus, round about

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well

Claud.

Good morrow, masters: each his several way. 29

D. Pedro.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;

And then to Leonato’s we will go.

Claud.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s, 32

Than this for whom we render’d up this woe!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis, and Hero.

Friar.

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

Leon.

So are the prince and Claudio, who accus’d her

Upon the error that you heard debated:

But Margaret was in some fault for this, 4

Although against her will, as it appears

In the true course of all the question.

Ant.

Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

Bene.

And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 9

Leon.

Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And when I send for you, come hither mask’d:

The prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour

To visit me.

[Exeunt ladies.

You know your office, brother;

You must be father to your brother’s daughter,

And give her to young Claudio. 16

Ant.

Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.

Bene.

Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

Friar.

To do what, signior?

Bene.

To bind me, or undo me; one of them.

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, 21

Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

Leon.

That eye my daughter lent her: ’tis most true.

Bene.

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Leon.

The sight whereof I think, you had from me, 25

From Claudio, and the prince. But what’s your will?

Bene.

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:

But, for my will, my will is your good will 28

May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d

In the state of honourable marriage:

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

Leon.

My heart is with your liking.

Friar.

And my help. 32

Here come the prince and Claudio.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Leon.

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:

We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d

To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter? 37

Claud.

I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiop.

Leon.

Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready.

[Exit Antonio.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter, 40

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Claud.

I think he thinks upon the savage bull.

Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold,

And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, 45

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bene.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: 48

And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow,

And got a calf in that same noble feat,

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Claud.

For this I owe you: here come other reckonings. 52

Re-enter Antonio, with the ladies masked.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Ant.

This same is she, and I do give you her.

Claud.

Why, then she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

Leon.

No, that you shall not, till you take her hand 56

Before this friar, and swear to marry her.

Claud.

Give me your hand: before this holy friar,

I am your husband, if you like of me.

Hero.

And when I liv’d, I was your other wife:

[Unmasking.

And when you lov’d, you were my other husband. 61

Claud.

Another Hero!

Hero.

Nothing certainer:

One Hero died defil’d, but I do live,

And surely as I live, I am a maid. 64

D. Pedro.

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leon.

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.

Friar.

All this amazement can I qualify:

When after that the holy rites are ended, 68

I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death:

Meantime, let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

Bene.

Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

Beat.

[Unmasking.] I answer to that name. What is your will? 73

Bene.

Do not you love me?

Beat.

Why, no; no more than reason.

Bene.

Why, then, your uncle and the prince and Claudio

Have been deceived; for they swore you did. 76

Beat.

Do not you love me?

Bene.

Troth, no; no more than reason.

Beat.

Why, then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,

Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.

Bene.

They swore that you were almost sick for me. 80

Beat.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene.

’Tis no such matter. Then, you do not love me?

Beat.

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Leon.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. 84

Claud.

And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her;

For here’s a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion’d to Beatrice.

Hero.

And here’s another, 88

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene.

A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 93

Beat.

I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. 97

Bene.

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

[Kisses her.

D. Pedro.

How dost thou, Benedick, the married man? 100

Bene.

I’ll tell thee what, prince; a college of witcrackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if a man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin. 113

Claud.

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee. 119

Bene.

Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.

Leon.

We’ll have dancing afterward.

Bene.

First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn. 127

Enter a Messenger.

Mes.

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Bene.

Think not on him till to-morrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!

[Dance. Exeunt.

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Ferdinand,	King of Navarre.
Berowne, }	Lords, attending on the King.
Longaville, }
Dumaine, }
Boyet, }	Lords, attending on the Princess of France.
Marcade, }	Lords, attending on the Princess of France.
Don Adriano de Armado,	a fantastical Spaniard.
Sir Nathaniel,	a Curate.
Holofernes,	a Schoolmaster.
Dull,	a Constable.
Costard,	a Clown.
Moth,	Page to Armado.
A Forester.
The Princess of France.
Rosaline, }	Ladies, attending on the Princess.
Maria, }
Katharine, }
Jaquenetta,	a country Wench.
Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

Scene.—Navarre.

ACT I.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine.

King.

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,

Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,

And then grace us in the disgrace of death;

When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, 4

The endeavour of this present breath may buy

That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,

And make us heirs of all eternity.

Therefore, brave conquerors,—for so you are, 8

That war against your own affections

And the huge army of the world’s desires,—

Our late edict shall strongly stand in force:

Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; 12

Our court shall be a little academe,

Still and contemplative in living art.

You three, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville,

Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me,

My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes

That are recorded in this schedule here: 18

Your oaths are pass’d; and now subscribe your names,

That his own hand may strike his honour down

That violates the smallest branch herein.

If you are arm’d to do, as sworn to do,

Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.

Long.

I am resolv’d; ’tis but a three years’ fast: 24

The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:

Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits

Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

Dum.

My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified:

The grosser manner of these world’s delights 29

He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves:

To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die;

With all these living in philosophy. 32

Ber.

I can but say their protestation over;

So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,

That is, to live and study here three years.

But there are other strict observances; 36

As, not to see a woman in that term,

Which I hope well is not enrolled there:

And one day in a week to touch no food,

And but one meal on every day beside; 40

The which I hope is not enrolled there:

And then, to sleep but three hours in the night,

And not be seen to wink of all the day,—

When I was wont to think no harm all night 44

And make a dark night too of half the day,—

Which I hope well is not enrolled there.

O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. 48

King.

Your oath is pass’d to pass away from these.

Ber.

Let me say no, my liege, an if you please.

I only swore to study with your Grace,

And stay here in your court for three years’ space.

Long.

You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. 53

Ber.

By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.

What is the end of study? let me know.

King.

Why, that to know which else we should not know. 56

Ber.

Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from common sense?

King.

Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense.

Ber.

Come on then; I will swear to study so,

To know the thing I am forbid to know; 60

As thus: to study where I well may dine,

When I to feast expressly am forbid;

Or study where to meet some mistress fine,

When mistresses from common sense are hid;

Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, 65

Study to break it, and not break my troth.

If study’s gain be thus, and this be so,

Study knows that which yet it doth not know.

Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no. 69

King.

These be the stops that hinder study quite,

And train our intellects to vain delight.

Ber.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain 72

Which, with pain purchas’d doth inherit pain:

As, painfully to pore upon a book,

To seek the light of truth; while truth the while

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look: 76

Light seeking light doth light of light beguile:

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,

Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.

Study me how to please the eye indeed, 80

By fixing it upon a fairer eye,

Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed,

And give him light that it was blinded by.

Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun, 84

That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks;

Small have continual plodders ever won,

Save base authority from others’ books.

These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights 88

That give a name to every fixed star,

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Than those that walk and wot not what they are.

Too much to know is to know nought but fame;

And every godfather can give a name. 93

King.

How well he’s read, to reason against reading!

Dum.

Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

Long.

He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. 96

Ber.

The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding.

Dum.

How follows that?

Ber.

Fit in his place and time.

Dum.

In reason nothing.

Ber.

Something then, in rime.

King.

Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost 100

That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

Ber.

Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast

Before the birds have any cause to sing?

Why should I joy in an abortive birth? 104

At Christmas I no more desire a rose

Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;

But like of each thing that in season grows.

So you, to study now it is too late, 108

Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.

King.

Well, sit you out: go home, Berowne: adieu!

Ber.

No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you:

And though I have for barbarism spoke more

Than for that angel knowledge you can say, 113

Yet confident I’ll keep to what I swore,

And bide the penance of each three years’ day.

Give me the paper; let me read the same; 116

And to the strict’st decrees I’ll write my name.

King.

How well this yielding rescues thee from shame!

Ber.

Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court. Hath this been proclaimed? 121

Long.

Four days ago.

Ber.

Let’s see the penalty. On pain of losing her tongue. Who devised this penalty? 124

Long.

Marry, that did I.

Ber.

Sweet lord, and why?

Long.

To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

Ber.

A dangerous law against gentility!

Item.

If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.

This article, my liege, yourself must break; 132

For well you know here comes in embassy

The French king’s daughter with yourself to speak—

A maid of grace and complete majesty—

About surrender up of Aquitaine 136

To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father:

Therefore this article is made in vain,

Or vainly comes th’ admired princess hither.

King.

What say you, lords? why, this was quite forgot. 140

Ber.

So study evermore is overshot:

While it doth study to have what it would,

It doth forget to do the thing it should;

And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,

’Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost. 145

King.

We must of force dispense with this decree;

She must lie here on mere necessity.

Ber.

Necessity will make us all forsworn 148

Three thousand times within this three years’ space;

For every man with his affects is born,

Not by might master’d, but by special grace.

If I break faith this word shall speak for me,

I am forsworn ‘on mere necessity.’ 153

So to the laws at large I write my name:

[Subscribes.

And he that breaks them in the least degree

Stands in attainder of eternal shame: 156

Suggestions are to others as to me;

But I believe, although I seem so loath,

I am the last that will last keep his oath.

But is there no quick recreation granted? 160

King.

Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted

With a refined traveller of Spain;

A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,

That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; 164

One whom the music of his own vain tongue

Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;

A man of complements, whom right and wrong

Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: 168

This child of fancy, that Armado hight,

For interim to our studies shall relate

In high-born words the worth of many a knight

From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate.

How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; 173

But, I protest, I love to hear him lie,

And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

Ber.

Armado is a most illustrious wight, 176

A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.

Long.

Costard the swain and he shall be our sport;

And, so to study, three years is but short.

Enter Dull, with a letter, and Costard.

Dull.

Which is the duke’s own person? 180

Ber.

This, fellow. What wouldst?

Dull.

I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. 184

Ber.

This is he.

Dull.

Signior Arm—Arm—commends you. There’s villany abroad: this letter will tell you more. 188

Cost.

Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

King.

A letter from the magnificent Armado.

Ber.

How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. 193

Long

A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

Ber.

To hear, or forbear laughing? 196

Long.

To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to forbear both.

Ber.

Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. 200

Cost.

The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

Ber.

In what manner? 204

Cost.

In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is, in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner,—it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman, for the form,—in some form.

Ber.

For the following, sir? 212

Cost.

As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right!

King.

Will you hear this letter with attention?

Ber.

As we would hear an oracle. 216

Cost.

Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.

King.

Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent, and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s God, and body’s fostering patron, 221

Cost.

Not a word of Costard yet.

King.

So it is,—

Cost.

It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so.— 225

King.

Peace!

Cost.

Be to me and every man that dares not fight. 228

King.

No words!

Cost.

Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you.

King.

So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I walked upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that most obscene and preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where, it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,— 249

Cost.

Me.

King.

that unlettered small-knowing soul,—

Cost.

Me. 252

King.

that shallow vessel,—

Cost.

Still me.

King.

which, as I remember, hight Costard,— 256

Cost.

O me.

King.

sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with—with,—O! with but with this I passion to say wherewith,—

Cost.

With a wench. 262

King.

with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I,—as my everesteemed duty pricks me on,—have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace’s officer, Antony Dull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation. 269

Dull.

Me, an’t please you; I am Antony Dull.

King.

For Jaquenetta,—so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,—I keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty, 276

Don Adriano de Armado.

Ber.

This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard.

King.

Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? 280

Cost.

Sir, I confess the wench.

King.

Did you hear the proclamation?

Cost.

I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. 284

King.

It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment to be taken with a wench.

Cost.

I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damosel. 288

King.

Well, it was proclaimed ‘damosel.’

Cost.

This was no damosel neither, sir: she was a ‘virgin.’

King.

It is so varied too; for it was proclaimed ‘virgin.’ 293

Cost.

If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid.

King.

This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

Cost.

This maid will serve my turn, sir. 297

King.

Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water.

Cost.

I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.

King.

And Don Armado shall be your keeper.

My Lord Berowne, see him deliver’d o’er:

And go we, lords, to put in practice that 304

Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

[Exeunt King, Longaville, and Dumaine.

Ber.

I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat,

These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.

Sirrah, come on. 308

Cost.

I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Armado and Moth.

Arm.

Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

Moth.

A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

Arm.

Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. 5

Moth.

No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

Arm.

How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? 8

Moth.

By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.

Arm.

Why tough senior? why tough senior?

Moth.

Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal? 13

Arm.

I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. 16

Moth.

And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

Arm.

Pretty, and apt.

Moth.

How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? 21

Arm.

Thou pretty, because little.

Moth.

Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? 24

Arm.

And therefore apt, because quick.

Moth.

Speak you this in my praise, master?

Arm.

In thy condign praise.

Moth.

I will praise an eel with the same praise. 29

Arm.

What! that an eel is ingenious?

Moth.

That an eel is quick.

Arm.

I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood. 33

Moth.

I am answered, sir.

Arm.

I love not to be crossed.

Moth.

[Aside.] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him. 37

Arm.

I have promised to study three years with the duke.

Moth.

You may do it in an hour, sir. 40

Arm.

Impossible.

Moth.

How many is one thrice told?

Arm.

I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. 44

Moth.

You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

Arm.

I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man. 48

Moth.

Then, I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

Arm.

It doth amount to one more than two.

Moth.

Which the base vulgar do call three.

Arm.

True. 53

Moth.

Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now, here’s three studied, ere you’ll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put ‘years’ to the word ‘three,’ and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

Arm.

A most fine figure!

Moth.

To prove you a cipher. 60

Arm.

I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love? 70

Moth.

Hercules, master.

Arm.

Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. 74

Moth.

Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the towngates on his back like a porter; and he was in love.

Arm.

O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth?

Moth.

A woman, master. 82

Arm.

Of what complexion?

Moth.

Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

Arm.

Tell me precisely of what complexion.

Moth.

Of the sea-water green, sir.

Arm.

Is that one of the four complexions?

Moth.

As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. 90

Arm.

Green indeed is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. 94

Moth.

It was so, sir, for she had a green wit.

Arm.

My love is most immaculate white and red.

Moth.

Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. 99

Arm.

Define, define, well-educated infant.

Moth.

My father’s wit, and my mother’s tongue, assist me!

Arm.

Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and pathetical! 104

Moth.

If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne’er be known,

For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,

And fears by pale white shown: 108

Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know,

For still her cheeks possess the same

Which native she doth owe. 112

A dangerous rime, master, against the reason of white and red.

Arm.

Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? 116

Moth.

The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now ’tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. 120

Arm.

I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well. 125

Moth.

[Aside.] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.

Arm.

Sing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love. 129

Moth.

And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench.

Arm.

I say, sing. 132

Moth.

Forbear till this company be past.

Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta.

Dull.

Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must let him take no delight nor no penance, but a’ must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the day-woman.

Fare you well. 139

Arm.

I do betray myself with blushing. Maid!

Jaq.

Man?

Arm.

I will visit thee at the lodge.

Jaq.

That’s hereby.

Arm.

I know where it is situate. 144

Jaq.

Lord, how wise you are!

Arm.

I will tell thee wonders.

Jaq.

With that face?

Arm.

I love thee. 148

Jaq.

So I heard you say.

Arm.

And so farewell.

Jaq.

Fair weather after you!

Dull.

Come, Jaquenetta, away! 152

[Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta.

Arm.

Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.

Cost.

Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full stomach. 156

Arm.

Thou shalt be heavily punished.

Cost.

I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.

Arm.

Take away this villain: shut him up.

Moth.

Come, you transgressing slave: away!

Cost.

Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose. 163

Moth.

No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.

Cost.

Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see—

Moth.

What shall some see? 168

Cost.

Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words; and therefore I will say nothing: I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet.

[Exeunt Moth and Costard.

Arm.

I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn,—which is a great argument of falsehood,—if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second clause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not: his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is, to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park. A Pavilion and Tents at a distance.

Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants.

Boyet.

Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:

Consider whom the king your father sends,

To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy:

Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, 4

To parley with the sole inheritor

Of all perfections that a man may owe,

Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight

Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. 8

Be now as prodigal of all dear grace

As Nature was in making graces dear

When she did starve the general world beside,

And prodigally gave them all to you. 12

Prin.

Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:

Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,

Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth 17

Than you much willing to be counted wise

In spending your wit in the praise of mine.

But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, 20

You are not ignorant, all-telling fame

Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,

Till painful study shall out-wear three years,

No woman may approach his silent court: 24

Therefore to us seemth it a needful course,

Before we enter his forbidden gates,

To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,

Bold of your worthiness, we single you 28

As our best-moving fair solicitor.

Tell him, the daughter of the King of France,

On serious business, craving quick dispatch,

Importunes personal conference with his Grace.

Haste, signify so much; while we attend, 33

Like humble-visag’d suitors, his high will.

Boyet.

Proud of employment, willingly I go.

Prin.

All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.

[Exit Boyet.

Who are the votaries, my loving lords, 37

That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?

First Lord.

Lord Longaville is one.

Prin.

Know you the man?

Mar.

I know him, madam: at a marriage feast, 40

Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir

Of Jacques Falconbridge, solemnized

In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.

A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d; 44

Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms:

Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.

The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss,—

If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil,— 48

Is a sharp wit match’d with too blunt a will;

Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills

It should none spare that come within his power.

Prin.

Some merry mocking lord, belike; is’t so? 52

Mar.

They say so most that most his humours know.

Prin.

Such short-liv’d wits do wither as they grow.

Who are the rest?

Kath.

The young Dumaine, a well-accomplish’d youth, 56

Of all that virtue love for virtue lov’d:

Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,

For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,

And shape to win grace though he had no wit.

I saw him at the Duke Alençon’s once; 61

And much too little of that good I saw

Is my report to his great worthiness.

Ros.

Another of these students at that time

Was there with him, if I have heard a truth: 65

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour’s talk withal. 68

His eye begets occasion for his wit;

For every object that the one doth catch

The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,

Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, 72

Delivers in such apt and gracious words,

That aged ears play truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished;

So sweet and voluble is his discourse. 76

Prin.

God bless my ladies! are they all in love,

That every one her own hath garnished

With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

First Lord.

Here comes Boyet.

Re-enter Boyet.

Prin.

Now, what admittance, lord?

Boyet.

Navarre had notice of your fair approach; 81

And he and his competitors in oath

Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady,

Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;

He rather means to lodge you in the field, 85

Like one that comes here to besiege his court,

Than seek a dispensation for his oath,

To let you enter his unpeeled house. 88

Here comes Navarre.

[The Ladies mask.

Enter King, Longaville, Dumaine, Berowne, and Attendants.

King.

Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.

Prin.

‘Fair,’ I give you back again; and ‘welcome’ I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.

King.

You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

Prin.

I will be welcome, then: conduct me thither. 96

King.

Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.

Prin.

Our Lady help my lord! he’ll be forsworn.

King.

Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

Prin.

Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. 100

King.

Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

Prin.

Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,

Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.

I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:

’Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, 105

And sin to break it.

But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold:

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. 108

Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,

And suddenly resolve me in my suit.

[Gives a paper.

King.

Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.

Prin.

You will the sooner that I were away,

For you’ll prove perjur’d if you make me stay.

Ber.

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Ros.

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Ber.

I know you did.

Ros.

How needless was it then 116

To ask the question!

Ber.

You must not be so quick.

Ros.

’Tis ’long of you that spur me with such questions.

Ber.

Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ’twill tire.

Ros.

Not till it leave the rider in the mire.

Ber.

What time o’ day? 121

Ros.

The hour that fools should ask.

Ber.

Now fair befall your mask!

Ros.

Fair fall the face it covers! 124

Ber.

And send you many lovers!

Ros.

Amen, so you be none.

Ber.

Nay, then I will be gone. 127

King.

Madam, your father here doth intimate

The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;

Being but the one half of an entire sum

Disbursed by my father in his wars.

But say that he, or we,—as neither have,— 132

Receiv’d that sum, yet there remains unpaid

A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which,

One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,

Although not valu’d to the money’s worth. 136

If then the king your father will restore

But that one half which is unsatisfied,

We will give up our right in Aquitaine,

And hold fair friendship with his majesty. 140

But that it seems, he little purposeth,

For here he doth demand to have repaid

A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,

On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, 144

To have his title live in Aquitaine;

Which we much rather had depart withal,

And have the money by our father lent,

Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is. 148

Dear princess, were not his requests so far

From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make

A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast,

And go well satisfied to France again. 152

Prin.

You do the king my father too much wrong

And wrong the reputation of your name,

In so unseeming to confess receipt

Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. 156

King.

I do protest I never heard of it;

And if you prove it, I’ll repay it back

Or yield up Aquitaine.

Prin.

We arrest your word.

Boyet, you can produce acquittances 160

For such a sum from special officers

Of Charles his father.

King.

Satisfy me so.

Boyet.

So please your Grace, the packet is not come

Where that and other specialties are bound: 164

To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

King.

It shall suffice me: at which interview

All liberal reason I will yield unto.

Meantime, receive such welcome at my hand 168

As honour, without breach of honour, may

Make tender of to thy true worthiness.

You may not come, fair princess, in my gates;

But here without you shall be so receiv’d, 172

As you shall deem yourself lodg’d in my heart,

Though so denied fair harbour in my house.

Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:

To-morrow shall we visit you again. 176

Prin.

Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!

King.

Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!

[Exeunt King and his Train.

Ber.

Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.

Ros.

Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. 180

Ber.

I would you heard it groan.

Ros.

Is the fool sick?

Ber.

Sick at the heart.

Ros.

Alack! let it blood. 184

Ber.

Would that do it good?

Ros.

My physic says, ‘ay.’

Ber.

Will you prick’t with your eye?

Ros.

No point, with my knife. 188

Ber.

Now, God save thy life!

Ros.

And yours from long living!

Ber.

I cannot stay thanksgiving.

[Retiring.

Dum.

Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? 192

Boyet.

The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name.

Dum.

A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.

[Exit.

Long.

I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?

Boyet.

A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. 196

Long.

Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.

Boyet.

She hath but one for herself; to desire that, were a shame.

Long.

Pray you, sir, whose daughter?

Boyet.

Her mother’s, I have heard. 200

Long.

God’s blessing on your beard!

Boyet.

Good sir, be not offended.

She is an heir of Falconbridge.

Long.

Nay, my choler is ended. 204

She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet.

Not unlike, sir; that may be.

[Exit Longaville.

Ber.

What’s her name, in the cap?

Boyet.

Rosaline, by good hap. 208

Ber.

Is she wedded or no?

Boyet.

To her will, sir, or so.

Ber.

You are welcome, sir. Adieu.

Boyet.

Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit Berowne.—Ladies unmask.

Mar.

That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord: 213

Not a word with him but a jest.

Boyet.

And every jest but a word.

Prin.

It was well done of you to take him at his word.

Boyet.

I was as willing to grapple, as he was to board. 216

Mar.

Two hot sheeps, marry!

Boyet.

And wherefore not ships?

No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.

Mar.

You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

Boyet.

So you grant pasture for me.

[Offering to kiss her.

Mar.

Not so, gentle beast. 220

My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet.

Belonging to whom?

Mar.

To my fortunes and me.

Prin.

Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree.

This civil war of wits were much better us’d 224

On Navarre and his book-men, for here ’tis abus’d.

Boyet.

If my observation,—which very seldom lies,—

By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. 228

Prin.

With what?

Boyet.

With that which we lovers entitle affected.

Prin.

Your reason.

Boyet.

Why, all his behaviours did make their retire 232

To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;

His heart, like an agate, with your print impress’d,

Proud with his form, in his eye pride express’d:

His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,

Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;

All senses to that sense did make their repair,

To feel only looking on fairest of fair,

Methought all his senses were lock’d in his eye,

As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; 241

Who, tend’ring their own worth from where they were glass’d,

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d.

His face’s own margent did quote such amazes,

That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.

I’ll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, 246

An’ you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.

Prin.

Come to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos’d.

Boyet.

But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos’d.

I only have made a mouth of his eye,

By adding a tongue which I know will not he.

Ros.

Thou art an old love-monger, and speak’st skilfully. 252

Mar.

He is Cupid’s grandfather and learns news of him.

Ros.

Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim.

Boyet.

Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Mar.

No.

Boyet.

What, then, do you see?

Ros.

Ay, our way to be gone.

Boyet.

You are too hard for me. 256

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter Armado and Moth.

Arm.

Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

Moth.

[Singing.] Concolinel,— 3

Arm.

Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love.

Moth.

Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? 9

Arm.

How meanest thou? brawling in French?

Moth.

No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love by singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours, these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note,—do you note me?—that most are affected to these. 27

Arm.

How hast thou purchased this experience?

Moth.

By my penny of observation.

Arm.

But O—but O,—

Moth.

‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’ 32

Arm.

Callest thou my love ‘hobby-horse?’

Moth.

No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love? 36

Arm.

Almost I had.

Moth.

Negligent student! learn her by heart.

Arm.

By heart, and in heart, boy.

Moth.

And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove. 41

Arm.

What wilt thou prove?

Moth.

A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. 48

Arm.

I am all these three.

Moth.

And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.

Arm.

Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter. 53

Moth.

A message well sympathized: a horse to be ambassador for an ass.

Arm.

Ha, ha! what sayest thou? 56

Moth.

Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

Arm.

The way is but short: away!

Moth.

As swift as lead, sir. 60

Arm.

Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth.

Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

Arm.

I say, lead is slow.

Moth.

You are too swift, sir, to say so:

Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun? 65

Arm.

Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he:

I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.

Thump then, and I flee.

[Exit.

Arm.

A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.

My herald is return’d. 72

Re-enter Moth with Costard.

Moth.

A wonder, master! here’s a costard broken in a shin.

Arm.

Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l’envoy; begin.

Cost.

No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plantain: no l’envoy, no l’envoy: no salve, sir, but a plantain. 78

Arm.

By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l’envoy, and the word l’envoy for a salve? 84

Moth.

Do the wise think them other? is not l’envoy a salve?

Arm.

No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. 88

I will example it:

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee

Were still at odds, being but three.

There’s the moral. Now the l’envoy. 92

Moth.

I will add the l’envoy. Say the moral again.

Arm.

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three. 96

Moth.

Until the goose came out of door,

And stay’d the odds by adding four.

Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l’envoy. 100

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

Arm.

Until the goose came out of door,

Staying the odds by adding four. 104

Moth.

A good l’envoy, ending in the goose.

Would you desire more?

Cost.

The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that’s flat.

Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat. 108

To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:

Let me see; a fat l’envoy; ay, that’s a fat goose.

Arm.

Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

Moth.

By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. 112

Then call’d you for the l’envoy.

Cost.

True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in;

Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you bought;

And he ended the market. 116

Arm.

But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?

Moth.

I will tell you sensibly.

Cost.

Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l’envoy: 121

I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,

Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

Arm.

We will talk no more of this matter. 124

Cost.

Till there be more matter in the shin.

Arm.

Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

Cost.

O! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l’envoy, some goose, in this. 128

Arm.

By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound.

Cost.

True, true, and now you will be my purgation and let me loose. 133

Arm.

I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and in lieu thereof, impose upon thee nothing but this:—[Giving a letter.] Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [Giving money.] There is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.

[Exit.

Moth.

Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. 141

Cost.

My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my incony Jew!

[Exit Moth.

Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that’s the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. ‘What’s the price of this inkle?’ ‘One penny.’ ‘No, I’ll give you a remuneration:’ why, it carries it Remuneration! why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word.

Enter Berowne.

Ber.

O! my good knave Costard, exceedingly well met. 152

Cost.

Pray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for a remuneration?

Ber.

What is a remuneration?

Cost.

Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. 156

Ber.

Why then, three-farthing-worth of silk.

Cost.

I thank your worship. God be wi’ you!

Ber.

Stay, slave; I must employ thee: 160

As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,

Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

Cost.

When would you have it done, sir?

Ber.

O, this afternoon. 164

Cost.

Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.

Ber.

O, thou knowest not what it is.

Cost.

I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

Ber.

Why, villain, thou must know first. 168

Cost.

I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

Ber.

It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: 172

The princess comes to hunt here in the park,

And in her train there is a gentle lady:

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,

And Rosaline they call her: ask for her 176

And to her white hand see thou do commend

This seal’d-up counsel. [Gives him a shilling.] There’s thy guerdon: go.

Cost.

Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a ’leven-pence farthing better.

Most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print

Gardon! remuneration!

[Exit.

Ber.

And I,—

Forsooth, in love! I, that have been love’s whip;

A very beadle to a humorous sigh; 185

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable,

A domineering pedant o’er the boy,

Than whom no mortal so magnificent! 188

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;

Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 192

Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator and great general

Of trotting ’paritors: O my little heart! 196

And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop!

What I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!

A woman that is like a German clock, 200

Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,

And never going aright, being a watch,

But being watch’d that it may still go right!

Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all; 204

And, among three, to love the worst of all;

A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;

Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed 208

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:

And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!

To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect 212

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:

Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.

Prin.

Was that the king, that spurr’d his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

Boyet.

I know not; but I think it was not he.

Prin.

Whoe’er a’ was, a’ show’d a mounting mind. 4

Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;

On Saturday we will return to France.

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush

That we must stand and play the murderer in? 8

For.

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

Prin.

I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, 11

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.

For.

Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

Prin.

What, what? first praise me, and again say no?

O short-liv’d pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

For.

Yes, madam, fair.

Prin.

Nay, never paint me now: 16

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Here, good my glass:—[Gives money.] Take this for telling true:

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

For.

Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 20

Prin.

See, see! my beauty will be sav’d by merit.

O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.

But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, 24

And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t;

If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 28

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.

And out of question so it is sometimes,

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part, 32

We bend to that the working of the heart;

As I for praise alone now seek to spill

The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill.

Boyet.

Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty 36

Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be

Lords o’er their lords?

Prin.

Only for praise; and praise we may afford

To any lady that subdues a lord. 40

Enter Costard.

Boyet.

Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

Cost.

God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

Prin.

Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. 45

Cost.

Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

Prin.

The thickest, and the tallest.

Cost.

The thickest, and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth. 48

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,

One o’these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.

Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.

Prin.

What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?

Cost.

I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. 53

Prin.

O! thy letter, thy letter; he’s a good friend of mine.

Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;

Break up this capon.

Boyet.

I am bound to serve. 56

This letter is mistook; it importeth none here:

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin.

We will read it, I swear.

Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

Boyet.

By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar—O base and obscure vulgar!—videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Whom overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory: on whose side? the king’s; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king’s, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. 88

Thine, in the dearest design of Industry, Don Adriano de Armado.

Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar

’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey: 92

Submissive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?

Food for his rage, repasture for his den. 96

Prin.

What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?

What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?

Boyet.

I am much deceiv’d but I remember the style.

Prin.

Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile. 100

Boyet.

This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;

A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport

To the prince and his book-mates.

Prin.

Thou, fellow, a word.

Who gave thee this letter?

Cost.

I told you; my lord. 104

Prin.

To whom shouldst thou give it?

Cost.

From my lord to my lady.

Prin.

From which lord, to which lady?

Cost.

From my lord Berowne, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France, that he call’d Rosaline. 108

Prin.

Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.

[Exeunt Princess and Train.

Boyet.

Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

Ros.

Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet.

Ay, my continent of beauty.

Ros.

Why, she that bears the bow.

Finely put off! 113

Boyet.

My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on! 116

Ros.

Well then, I am the shooter.

Boyet.

And who is your deer?

Ros.

If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.

Finely put on, indeed!

Mar.

You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. 120

Boyet.

But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?

Ros.

Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? 124

Boyet.

So may I answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. 128

Ros.

Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

Boyet.

An I cannot, cannot, cannot,

An I cannot, another can. 132

[Exeunt Rosaline and Katharine.

Cost.

By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Mar.

A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.

Boyet.

A mark! O! mark but that mark; a mark, says my lady!

Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be. 136

Mar.

Wide o’ the bow hand! i’ faith your hand is out.

Cost.

Indeed a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.

Boyet.

An’ if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

Cost.

Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. 140

Mar.

Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

Cost.

She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.

Boyet.

I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.

[Exeunt Boyet and Maria.

Cost.

By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!

Lord, lord how the ladies and I have put him down!

O’ my troth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit! 146

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit,

Armado, o’ the one side, O! a most dainty man.

To see him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan!

To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’ will swear! 150

And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit!

Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.

[Shouting within.] Sola, sola!

[Exit running.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull.

Nath.

Very reverend sport, truly: and done in the testimony of a good conscience.

Hol.

The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as a pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of cælo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. 7

Nath.

Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head.

Hol.

Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. 11

Dull.

’Twas not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Hol.

Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or, rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,—after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or, rather, unlettered, or, ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,—to insert again my haud credo for a deer. 20

Dull.

I said the deer was not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Hol.

Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus!

O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! 24

Nath.

Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book;

he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:

And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be,

Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he;

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool:

So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school: 32

But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father’s mind,

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

Dull.

You two are book-men: can you tell by your wit,

What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet? 36

Hol.

Dictynna, goodman Dull: Dictynna, goodman Dull.

Dull.

What is Dictynna?

Nath.

A title to Phœbe, to Luna, to the moon.

Hol.

The moon was a month old when Adam was no more; 40

And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.

The allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull.

’Tis true indeed: the collusion holds in the exchange.

Hol.

God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. 45

Dull.

And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the princess killed. 49

Hol.

Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? and, to humour the ignorant, I have call’d the deer the princess killed, a pricket. 53

Nath.

Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

Hol.

I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. 57

The preyful princess pierc’d and prick’d a pretty pleasing pricket;

Some say a sore; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting.

The dogs did yell; put l to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket; 60

Or pricket, sore, or else sorel; the people fall a hooting.

If sore be sore, then l to sore makes fifty sores one sorel!

Of one sore I a hundred make, by adding but one more l.

Nath.

A rare talent! 64

Dull.

[Aside.] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

Hol.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. 74

Nath.

Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. 79

Hol.

Mehercle! if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.

Jaq.

God give you good morrow, Master parson.

Hol.

Master parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one?

Cost.

Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. 88

Hol.

Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine: ’tis pretty; it is well.

Jaq.

Good Master parson [giving a letter to Nathaniel], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it. 95

Hol.

Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat, and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice:

—Venetia, Venetia, 100

Chi non te vede, non te pretia.

Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or, rather, as Horace says in his—What, my soul, verses?

Nath.

Ay, sir, and very learned.

Hol.

Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse: lege, domine. 109

Nath.

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d;

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll faithful prove;  112

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bow’d

Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes.

Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend:

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;  117

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire

Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,  120

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.

Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong.

That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue!

Hol.

You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing; so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the ’tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you?

Jaq.

Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen’s lords. 136

Hol.

I will overglance the superscript. To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline. I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: Your ladyship’s, in all desired employment, Berowne.—Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty: adieu.

Jaq.

Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! 152

Cost.

Have with thee, my girl.

[Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta.

Nath.

Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith— 156

Hol.

Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

Nath.

Marvellous well for the pen. 160

Hol.

I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain pupil of mine; where, if before repast it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. 168

Nath.

And thank you too; for society—saith the text—is the happiness of life.

Hol.

And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it.—[To Dull.] Sir, I do invite you too: you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Berowne, with a paper.

Ber.

The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch,—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word! Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep: it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o’ my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me; i’ faith, I will not. O! but her eye,—by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rime, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan! 21

[Gets up into a tree.

Enter the King, with a paper.

King.

Ah me!

Ber.

[Aside.] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

King.

So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,  28

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote

The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:

Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep,  32

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light,

Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep.

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.  36

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show

But do not love thyself, then thou wilt keep

My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.  40

O queen of queens! how far thou dost excel,

No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell

How shall she know my griefs? I’ll drop the paper:

Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?

[Steps aside.

What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear. 45

Enter Longaville, with a paper.

Ber.

Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Long.

Ay me! I am forsworn.

Ber.

Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. 48

King.

In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

Ber.

One drunkard loves another of the name.

Long.

Am I the first that have been perjur’d so?

Ber.

I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know: 52

Thou mak’st the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,

The shape of love’s Tyburn, that hangs up simplicity.

Long.

I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.

O sweet Maria, empress of my love! 56

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

Ber.

O! rimes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose:

Disfigure not his slop.

Long.

This same shall go.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,  60

’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,

Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,  64

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace, being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me.

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:  68

Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,

Exhal’st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then, it is no fault of mine:

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise  72

To lose an oath to win a paradise!

Ber.

This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity;

A green goose a goddess; pure, pure idolatry.

God amend us, God amend! we are much out o’ the way. 76

Long.

By whom shall I send this?—Company! stay.

[Steps aside.

Ber.

All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,

And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye. 80

More sacks to the mill! O heavens! I have my wish.

Enter Dumaine, with a paper.

Dumaine transform’d: four woodcocks in a dish!

Dum.

O most divine Kate!

Ber.

O most profane coxcomb! 84

Dum.

By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye!

Ber.

By earth, she is but corporal; there you lie.

Dum.

Her amber hairs for foul have amber quoted.

Ber.

An amber-colour’d raven was well noted.

Dum.

As upright as the cedar.

Ber.

Stoop, I say; 89

Her shoulder is with child.

Dum.

As fair as day.

Ber.

Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

Dum.

O! that I had my wish.

Long.

And I had mine! 92

King.

And I mine too, good Lord!

Ber.

Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word?

Dum.

I would forget her; but a fever she

Reigns in my blood, and will remember’d be. 96

Ber.

A fever in your blood! why, then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

Dum.

Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ.

Ber.

Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit. 100

Dum.

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:  104

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, ’gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.  108

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But alack! my hand is sworn

Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:  112

Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee;  116

Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.  120

This will I send, and something else more plain,

That shall express my true love’s fasting pain.

O! would the King, Berowne, and Longaville

Were lovers too. Ill, to example ill, 124

Would from my forehead wipe a perjur’d note;

For none offend where all alike do dote.

Long.

[Advancing.] Dumaine, thy love is far from charity,

That in love’s grief desir’st society: 128

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,

To be o’erheard and taken napping so.

King.

[Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush: as his your case is such;

You chide at him, offending twice as much: 132

You do not love Maria; Longaville

Did never sonnet for her sake compile,

Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart

His loving bosom to keep down his heart. 136

I have been closely shrouded in this bush,

And mark’d you both, and for you both did blush.

I heard your guilty rimes, observ’d your fashion,

Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:

Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries; 141

One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes:

[To Longaville.] You would for paradise break faith and troth;

[To Dumaine.] And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath. 144

What will Berowne say, when that he shall hear

A faith infringed, which such zeal did swear?

How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!

How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it! 148

For all the wealth that ever I did see,

I would not have him know so much by me.

Ber.

Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

[Descends from the tree.

Ah! good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me: 152

Good heart! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove

These worms for loving, that art most in love?

Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears

There is no certain princess that appears: 156

You’ll not be perjur’d, ’tis a hateful thing:

Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.

But are you not asham’d? nay, are you not,

All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot? 160

You found his mote; the king your mote did see;

But I a beam do find in each of three.

O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen; 164

O me! with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat;

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,

And profound Solomon to tune a jig, 168

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

Where lies thy grief? O! tell me, good Dumaine,

And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? 172

And where my liege’s? all about the breast:

A caudle, ho!

King.

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view?

Ber.

Not you to me, but I betray’d by you:

I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin 177

To break the vow I am engaged in;

I am betray’d, by keeping company

With men like men, men of inconstancy. 180

When shall you see me write a thing in rime?

Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute’s time

In pruning me? When shall you hear that I

Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, 184

A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, leg, a limb?—

King.

Soft! Whither away so fast? true man or a thief that gallops so?

Ber.

I post from love; good lover, let me go.

Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.

Jaq.

God bless the king!

King.

What present hast thou there?

Cost.

Some certain treason.

King.

What makes treason here?

Cost.

Nay, it makes nothing, sir.

King.

If it mar nothing neither,

The treason and you go in peace away together.

Jaq.

I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read: 193

Our parson misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.

King.

Berowne, read it over—

[Giving the letter to him.

There hadst thou it? 196

Jaq.

Of Costard.

King.

Where hadst thou it?

Cost.

Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

[Berowne tears the letter.

King.

How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it? 200

Ber.

A toy, my liege, a toy: your Grace needs not fear it.

Long.

It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.

Dum.

[Picking up the pieces.] It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name.

Ber.

[To Costard.] Ah, you whoreson logger-head, you were born to do me shame. 204

Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess.

King.

What?

Ber.

That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess;

He, he, and you, and you my liege, and I, 208

Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.

O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

Dum.

Now the number is even.

Ber.

True, true; we are four.

Will these turtles be gone?

King.

Hence, sirs; away! 212

Cost.

Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

[Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta.

Ber.

Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace.

As true we are as flesh and blood can be:

The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;

Young blood doth not obey an old decree: 217

We cannot cross the cause why we were born;

Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn.

King.

What! did these rent lines show some love of thine? 220

Ber.

‘Did they,’ quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous east,

Bows not his vassal head, and, strucken blind,

Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?

What peremptory eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty? 228

King.

What zeal, what fury hath inspir’d thee now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;

She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.

Ber.

My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne:

O! but for my love, day would turn to night.

Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;

Where several worthies make one dignity, 236

Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,—

Fie, painted rhetoric! O! she needs it not:

To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs; 240

She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.

A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn,

Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:

Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, 244

And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy.

O! ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine.

King.

By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

Ber.

Is ebony like her? O wood divine! 248

A wife of such wood were felicity.

O! who can give an oath? where is a book?

That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,

If that she learn not of her eye to look: 252

No face is fair that is not full so black.

King.

O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,

The hue of dungeons and the scowl of night;

And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. 256

Ber.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

O! if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,

It mourns that painting and usurping hair

Should ravish doters with a false aspect; 260

And therefore is she born to make black fair.

Her favour turns the fashion of the days,

For native blood is counted painting now:

And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,

Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. 265

Dum.

To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

Long.

And since her time are colliers counted bright.

King.

And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack. 268

Dum.

Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.

Ber.

Your mistresses dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash’d away.

King.

’Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, 272

I’ll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day.

Ber.

I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.

King.

No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

Dum.

I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

Long.

Look, here’s thy love: [Showing his shoe.] my foot and her face see. 277

Ber.

O! if the streets were paved with thine eyes,

Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.

Dum.

O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies 280

The street should see as she walk’d over head.

King.

But what of this? Are we not all in love?

Ber.

Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

King.

Then leave this chat; and good Berowne, now prove 284

Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

Dum.

Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

Long.

O! some authority how to proceed;

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

Dum.

Some salve for perjury.

Ber.

O, ’tis more than need. 289

Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms:

Consider what you first did swear unto,

To fast, to study, and to see no woman; 292

Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth.

Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young,

And abstinence engenders maladies.

And where that you have vow’d to study, lords,

In that each of you hath forsworn his book, 297

Can you still dream and pore and thereon look?

For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,

Have found the ground of study’s excellence 300

Without the beauty of a woman’s face?

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:

They are the ground, the books, the academes,

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. 304

Why, universal plodding poisons up

The nimble spirits in the arteries,

As motion and long-during action tires

The sinewy vigour of the traveller. 308

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face,

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes,

And study too, the causer of your vow;

For where is any author in the world 312

Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye?

Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,

And where we are our learning likewise is:

Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes, 316

Do we not likewise see our learning there?

O! we have made a vow to study, lords,

And in that vow we have forsworn our books:

For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,

In leaden contemplation have found out 321

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes

Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?

Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, 324

And therefore, finding barren practisers,

Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil;

But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,

Lives not alone immured in the brain, 328

But, with the motion of all elements,

Courses as swift as thought in every power,

And gives to every power a double power,

Above their functions and their offices. 332

It adds a precious seeing to the eye;

A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind;

A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound,

When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d: 336

Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible

Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:

Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.

For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 340

Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?

Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical

As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair;

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 345

Never durst poet touch a pen to write

Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs;

O! then his lines would ravish savage ears, 348

And plant in tyrants mild humility.

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:

They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;

They are the books, the arts, the academes, 352

That show, contain, and nourish all the world;

Else none at all in aught proves excellent.

Then fools you were these women to forswear,

Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.

For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love, 357

Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men,

Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women;

Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men, 360

Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,

Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.

It is religion to be thus forsworn;

For charity itself fulfils the law; 364

And who can sever love from charity?

King.

Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

Ber.

Advance your standards, and upon them, lords!

Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advis’d,

In conflict that you get the sun of them. 369

Long.

Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by;

Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

King.

And win them too: therefore let us devise 372

Some entertainment for them in their tents.

Ber.

First, from the park let us conduct them thither;

Then homeward every man attach the hand

Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon 376

We will with some strange pastime solace them,

Such as the shortness of the time can shape;

For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours,

Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.

King.

Away, away! no time shall be omitted,

That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

Ber.

Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no corn;

And justice always whirls in equal measure:

Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; 385

If so, our copper buys no better treasure.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull.

Hol.

Satis quod sufficit.

Nath.

I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king’s, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. 9

Hol.

Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue field, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. 16

Nath.

A most singular and choice epithet.

[Draws out his table-book.

Hol.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say, doubt; det, when he should pronounce, debt,—d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,—it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? To make frantic, lunatic. 29

Nath.

Laus Deo bone intelligo.

Hol.

Bone? bone, for bene: Priscian a little scratched; ’twill serve. 32

Enter Armado, Moth, and Costard.

Nath.

Videsne quis venit?

Hol.

Video, et gaudeo.

Arm.

[To Moth.] Chirrah!

Hol.

Quare Chirrah, not sirrah? 36

Arm.

Men of peace, well encountered.

Hol.

Most military sir, salutation.

Moth.

[Aside to Costard.] They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. 41

Cost.

O! they have lived long on the almsbasket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. 46

Moth.

Peace! the peal begins.

Arm.

[To Holofernes.] Monsieur, are you not lettered?

Moth.

Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward, with the horn on his head? 52

Hol.

Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

Moth.

Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.

Hol.

Quis, quis, thou consonant? 56

Moth.

The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I.

Hol.

I will repeat them,—a, e, i,—

Moth.

The sheep; the other two concludes it,—o, u. 61

Arm.

Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venew of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! it rejoiceth my intellect: true wit! 65

Moth.

Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.

Hol.

What is the figure? what is the figure?

Moth.

Horns. 69

Hol.

Thou disputest like an infant; go, whip thy gig.

Moth.

Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold’s horn. 74

Cost.

An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers’ ends, as they say. 83

Hol.

O! I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem.

Arm.

Arts-man, præambula: we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? 89

Hol.

Or mons, the hill.

Arm.

At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. 92

Hol.

I do, sans question.

Arm.

Sir, it is the king’s most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. 97

Hol.

The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon: the word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure. 102

Arm.

Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy curtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee, it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the king would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antick, or fire-work. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. 126

Hol.

Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, at the king’s command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess; I say, none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies.

Nath.

Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? 136

Hol.

Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabæus; this swain, because of his great limb, or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,— 140

Arm.

Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb: he is not so big as the end of his club.

Hol.

Shall I have audience? he shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. 147

Moth.

An excellent device! so, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry, ‘Well done, Hercules! now thou crushest the snake!’ that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. 152

Arm.

For the rest of the Worthies?—

Hol.

I will play three myself.

Moth.

Thrice-worthy gentleman!

Arm.

Shall I tell you a thing? 156

Hol.

We attend.

Arm.

We will have, if this fadge not, an antick. I beseech you, follow.

Hol.

Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while. 161

Dull.

Nor understood none neither, sir.

Hol.

Allons! we will employ thee.

Dull.

I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. 166

Hol.

Most dull, honest Dull, to our sport, away!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The same. Before the Princess’s Pavilion.

Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Maria.

Prin.

Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,

If fairings come thus plentifully in: lady wall’d about with diamonds!

Look you what I have from the loving king. 4

Ros.

Madam, came nothing else along with that?

Prin.

Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rime

As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper,

Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all, 8

That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.

Ros.

That was the way to make his godhead wax;

For he hath been five thousand years a boy.

Kath.

Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.

Ros.

You’ll ne’er be friends with him: a’ kill’d your sister. 13

Kath.

He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;

And so she died: had she been light, like you,

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, 16

She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died;

And so may you, for a light heart lives long.

Ros.

What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

Kath.

A light condition in a beauty dark. 20

Ros.

We need more light to find your meaning out.

Kath.

You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff;

Therefore, I’ll darkly end the argument.

Ros.

Look, what you do, you do it still i’ the dark. 24

Kath.

So do not you, for you are a light wench.

Ros.

Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light.

Kath.

You weigh me not. O! that’s you care not for me.

Ros.

Great reason; for, ‘past cure is still past care.’ 28

Prin.

Well bandied both; a set of wit well play’d.

But Rosaline, you have a favour too:

Who sent it? and what is it?

Ros.

I would you knew:

An if my face were but as fair as yours, 32

My favour were as great; be witness this.

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne:

The numbers true; and, were the numb’ring too,

I were the fairest goddess on the ground: 36

I am compar’d to twenty thousand fairs.

O! he hath drawn my picture in his letter.

Prin.

Anything like?

Ros.

Much in the letters, nothing in the praise.

Prin.

Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion.

Kath.

Fair as a text B in a copy-book.

Ros.

’Ware pencils! how? let me not die your debtor.

My red dominical, my golden letter: 44

O, that your face were not so full of O’s!

Kath.

A pox of that jest! and beshrew all shrows!

Prin.

But what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?

Kath.

Madam, this glove.

Prin.

Did he not send you twain? 48

Kath.

Yes, madam; and moreover,

Some thousand verses of a faithful lover:

A huge translation of hypocrisy,

Vilely compil’d, profound simplicity. 52

Mar.

This, and these pearls to me sent Longaville:

The letter is too long by half a mile.

Prin.

I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart

The chain were longer and the letter short? 56

Mar.

Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Prin.

We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Ros.

They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go. 60

O that I knew he were but in by the week!

How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,

And wait the season, and observe the times,

And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rimes, 64

And shape his service wholly to my hests,

And make him proud to make me proud that jests!

So perttaunt-like would I o’ersway his state

That he should be my fool, and I his fate. 68

Prin.

None are so surely caught, when they are catch’d,

As wit turn’d fool: folly, in wisdom hatch’d,

Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school

And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. 72

Ros.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess

As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.

Mar.

Folly in fools bears not so strong a note

As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote; 76

Since all the power thereof it doth apply

To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

Enter Boyet.

Prin.

Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

Boyet.

O! I am stabb’d with laughter. Where’s her Grace? 80

Prin.

Thy news, Boyet?

Boyet.

Prepare, madam, prepare!—

Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are

Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis’d,

Armed in arguments; you’ll be surpris’d: 84

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

Prin.

Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they

That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say. 88

Boyet.

Under the cool shade of a sycamore

I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour,

When, lo! to interrupt my purpos’d rest,

Toward that shade I might behold addrest 92

The king and his companions: warily

I stole into a neighbour thicket by,

And overheard what you shall overhear;

That, by and by, disguis’d they will be here. 96

Their herald is a pretty knavish page,

That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage:

Action and accent did they teach him there;

‘Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body bear.’

And ever and anon they made a doubt 101

Presence majestical would put him out;

‘For,’ quoth the king, ‘an angel shalt thou see;

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.’ 104

The boy replied, ‘An angel is not evil;

I should have fear’d her had she been a devil.’

With that all laugh’d and clapp’d him on the shoulder,

Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. 108

One rubb’d his elbow thus, and fleer’d, and swore

A better speech was never spoke before;

Another, with his finger and his thumb,

Cry’d ‘Via! we will do’t, come what will come;’

The third he caper’d and cried, ‘All goes well;’

The fourth turn’d on the toe, and down he fell.

With that, they all did tumble on the ground,

With such a zealous laughter, so profound, 116

That in this spleen ridiculous appears,

To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears.

Prin.

But what, but what, come they to visit us?

Boyet.

They do, they do; and are apparell’d thus, 120

Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess.

Their purpose is to parle, to court and dance;

And every one his love-feat will advance

Unto his several mistress, which they’ll know

By favours several which they did bestow. 125

Prin.

And will they so? the gallants shall be task’d:

For, ladies, we will every one be mask’d,

And not a man of them shall have the grace, 128

Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face.

Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,

And then the king will court thee for his dear:

Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,

So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline, 133

And change you favours too; so shall your loves

Woo contrary, deceiv’d by these removes.

Ros.

Come on, then; wear the favours most in sight. 136

Kath.

But in this changing what is your intent?

Prin.

The effect of my intent is, to cross theirs:

They do it but in mocking merriment;

And mock for mock is only my intent. 140

Their several counsels they unbosom shall

To loves mistook and so be mock’d withal

Upon the next occasion that we meet,

With visages display’d, to talk and greet. 144

Ros.

But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t?

Prin.

No, to the death, we will not move a foot:

Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace;

But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face. 148

Boyet.

Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart,

And quite divorce his memory from his part.

Prin.

Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt,

The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. 152

There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown,

To make theirs ours and ours none but our own:

So shall we stay, mocking intended game,

And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.

[Trumpets sound within.

Boyet.

The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the maskers come.

[The Ladies mask.

Enter Blackmoors with music; Moth; the King, Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine in Russian habits, and masked.

Moth.

All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!

Boyet.

Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.

Moth.

A holy parcel of the fairest dames, 160

[The Ladies turn their backs to him.

That ever turn’d their—backs—to mortal views!

Ber.

‘Their eyes,’ villain, ‘their eyes.’

Moth.

That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views!

Out— 164

Boyet.

True; ‘out,’ indeed.

Moth.

‘Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe

Not to behold’—

Ber.

‘Once to behold,’ rogue. 168

Moth.

‘Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,

—with your sun-beamed eyes’—

Boyet.

They will not answer to that epithet;

You were best call it ‘daughter-beamed eyes.’ 172

Moth.

They do not mark me, and that brings me out.

Ber.

Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue!

[Exit Moth.

Ros.

What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet:

If they do speak our language, ’tis our will 176

That some plain man recount their purposes:

Know what they would.

Boyet.

What would you with the princess?

Ber.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.

What would they, say they? 181

Boyet.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.

Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.

Boyet.

She says, you have it, and you may be gone. 184

King.

Say to her, we have measur’d many miles,

To tread a measure with her on this grass.

Boyet.

They say, that they have measur’d many a mile,

To tread a measure with you on this grass. 188

Ros.

It is not so. Ask them how many inches

Is in one mile: if they have measur’d many,

The measure then of one is easily told.

Boyet.

If to come hither you have measur’d miles, 192

And many miles, the princess bids you tell

How many inches do fill up one mile.

Ber.

Tell her we measure them by weary steps.

Boyet.

She hears herself.

Ros.

How many weary steps,

Of many weary miles you have o’ergone, 197

Are number’d in the travel of one mile?

Ber.

We number nothing that we spend for you:

Our duty is so rich, so infinite, 200

That we may do it still without accompt.

Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,

That we, like savages, may worship it.

Ros.

My face is but a moon, and clouded too.

King.

Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do! 205

Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,

Those clouds remov’d, upon our wat’ry eyne.

Ros.

O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;

Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water.

King.

Then, in our measure but vouchsafe one change. 210

Thou bid’st me beg; this begging is not strange.

Ros.

Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.

[Music plays.

Not yet! no dance! thus change I like the moon.

King.

Will you not dance? How come you thus estrang’d? 214

Ros.

You took the moon at full, but now she’s chang’d.

King.

Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.

The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.

Ros.

Our ears vouchsafe it.

King.

But your legs should do it.

Ros.

Since you are strangers, and come here by chance,

We’ll not be nice: take hands: we will not dance. 220

King.

Why take we hands then?

Ros.

Only to part friends.

Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

King.

More measure of this measure: be not nice.

Ros.

We can afford no more at such a price.

King.

Prize you yourselves? what buys your company? 225

Ros.

Your absence only.

King.

That can never be.

Ros.

Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu;

Twice to your visor, and half once to you! 228

King.

If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat.

Ros.

In private, then.

King.

I am best pleas’d with that.

[They converse apart.

Ber.

White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

Prin.

Honey, and milk, and sugar; there are three. 232

Ber.

Nay then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!

There’s half a dozen sweets.

Prin.

Seventh sweet, adieu:

Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.

Ber.

One word in secret.

Prin.

Let it not be sweet. 237

Ber.

Thou griev’st my gall.

Prin.

Gall! bitter.

Ber.

Therefore meet.

[They converse apart.

Dum.

Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

Mar.

Name it.

Dum.

Fair lady,—

Mar.

Say you so? Fair lord,

Take that for your fair lady.

Dum.

Please it you, 241

As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.

[They converse apart.

Kath.

What! was your visor made without a tongue?

Long.

I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

Kath.

O! for your reason; quickly, sir; I long. 245

Long.

You have a double tongue within your mask,

And would afford my speechless visor half.

Kath.

‘Veal,’ quoth the Dutchman. Is not ‘veal’ a calf? 248

Long.

A calf, fair lady!

Kath.

No, a fair lord calf.

Long.

Let’s part the word.

Kath.

No, I’ll not be your half:

Take all, and wean it: it may prove an ox.

Long.

Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. 252

Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

Kath.

Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

Long.

One word in private with you, ere I die.

Kath.

Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry.

[They converse apart.

Boyet.

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen 257

As is the razor’s edge invisible,

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen,

Above the sense of sense; so sensible 260

Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings

Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

Ros.

Not one word more, my maids: break off, break off.

Ber.

By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! 264

King.

Farewell, mad wenches: you have simple wits.

Prin.

Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.

[Exeunt King, Lords, Music, and Attendants.

Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at?

Boyet.

Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff’d out. 268

Ros.

Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

Prin.

O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!

Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?

Or ever, but in visors, show their faces? 272

This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.

Ros.

O! they were all in lamentable cases.

The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Prin.

Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. 276

Mar.

Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:

‘No point,’ quoth I: my servant straight was mute.

Kath.

Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart;

And trow you what he call’d me?

Prin.

Qualm, perhaps. 280

Kath.

Yes, in good faith.

Prin.

Go, sickness as thou art!

Ros.

Well, better wits have worn plain statutecaps.

But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.

Prin.

And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. 284

Kath.

And Longaville was for my service born.

Mar.

Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

Boyet.

Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:

Immediately they will again be here 288

In their own shapes; for it can never be

They will digest this harsh indignity.

Prin.

Will they return?

Boyet.

They will, they will, God knows;

And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: 292

Therefore change favours; and, when they repair,

Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.

Prin.

How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.

Boyet.

Fair ladies mask’d, are roses in their bud: 296

Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,

Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

Prin.

Avaunt perplexity! What shall we do

If they return in their own shapes to woo? 300

Ros.

Good madam, if by me you’ll be advis’d,

Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguis’d.

Let us complain to them what fools were here,

Disguis’d like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; 304

And wonder what they were, and to what end

Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn’d,

And their rough carriage so ridiculous,

Should be presented at our tent to us. 308

Boyet.

Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

Prin.

Whip to your tents, as roes run over land.

[Exeunt Princess, Ros., Kath., and Maria.

Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine in their proper habits.

King.

Fair sir, God save you! Where is the princess?

Boyet.

Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty, 312

Command me any service to her thither?

King.

That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet.

I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.

[Exit.

Ber.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease, 316

And utters it again when God doth please:

He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares

At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;

And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,

Have not the grace to grace it with such show.

This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve:

He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he 324

That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice

In honourable terms: nay, he can sing 328

A mean most meanly, and in ushering

Mend him who can: the ladies call him, sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

This is the flower that smiles on every one, 332

To show his teeth as white as whales-bone;

And consciences, that will not die in debt,

Pay him the due of honey-tongu’d Boyet.

King.

A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, 336

That put Armado’s page out of his part!

Re-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet; Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, and Attendants.

Ber.

See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou,

Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now?

King.

All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! 340

Prin.

‘Fair,’ in ‘all hail,’ is foul, as I conceive.

King.

Construe my speeches better, if you may.

Prin.

Then wish me better: I will give you leave.

King.

We came to visit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court: vouchsafe it then.

Prin.

This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men.

King.

Rebuke me not for that which you provoke: 348

The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

Prin.

You nick-name virtue; vice you should have spoke;

For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.

Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure 352

As the unsullied lily, I protest,

A world of torments though I should endure,

I would not yield to be your house’s guest;

So much I hate a breaking cause to be 356

Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity.

King.

O! you have liv’d in desolation here,

Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

Prin.

Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;

We have had pastime here and pleasant game.

A mess of Russians left us but of late.

King.

How, madam! Russians?

Prin.

Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. 364

Ros.

Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:

My lady, to the manner of the days,

In courtesy gives undeserving praise.

We four, indeed, confronted were with four 368

In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour,

And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord,

They did not bless us with one happy word.

I dare not call them fools; but this I think, 372

When they are thirsty, fools would fam have drink.

Ber.

This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,

Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet,

With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, 376

By light we lose light: your capacity

Is of that nature that to your huge store

Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.

Ros.

This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye— 380

Ber.

I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Ros.

But that you take what doth to you belong,

It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.

Ber.

O! I am yours, and all that I possess.

Ros.

All the fool mine?

Ber.

I cannot give you less.

Ros.

Which of the visors was it that you wore?

Ber.

Where? when? what visor? why demand you this?

Ros.

There, then, that visor; that superfluous case 388

That hid the worse, and show’d the better face.

King.

We are descried: they’ll mock us now downright.

Dum.

Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.

Prin.

Amaz’d, my lord? Why looks your highness sad? 392

Ros.

Help! hold his brows! he’ll swound.

Why look you pale?

Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

Ber.

Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.

Can any face of brass hold longer out?— 396

Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;

Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;

Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;

Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; 400

And I will wish thee never more to dance,

Nor never more in Russian habit wait.

O! never will I trust to speeches penn’d,

Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue,

Nor never come in visor to my friend, 405

Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper’s song,

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,

Three-pil’d hyperboles, spruce affectation, 408

Figures pedantical; these summer flies

Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:

I do forswear them; and I here protest,

By this white glove,—how white the hand,

God knows,— 412

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d

In russet yeas and honest kersey noes:

And, to begin, wench,—so God help me, la!—

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 416

Ros.

Sans ‘sans,’ I pray you.

Ber.

Yet I have a trick

Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;

I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see:

Write, ‘Lord have mercy on us’ on those three;

They are infected, in their hearts it lies; 421

They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:

These lords are visited; you are not free,

For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see. 424

Prin.

No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

Ber.

Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us.

Ros.

It is not so. For how can this be true,

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? 428

Ber.

Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

Ros.

Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

Ber.

Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end.

King.

Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression 432

Some fair excuse.

Prin.

The fairest is confession.

Were you not here, but even now, disguis’d?

King.

Madam, I was.

Prin.

And were you well advis’d?

King.

I was, fair madam.

Prin.

When you then were here,

What did you whisper in your lady’s ear? 437

King.

That more than all the world I did respect her.

Prin.

When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

King.

Upon mine honour, no.

Prin.

Peace! peace! forbear; 440

Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.

King.

Despise me, when I break this oath of mine.

Prin.

I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline,

What did the Russian whisper in your ear? 444

Ros.

Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear

As precious eyesight, and did value me

Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,

That he would wed me, or else die my lover. 448

Prin.

God give thee joy of him! the noble lord

Most honourably doth uphold his word.

King.

What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,

I never swore this lady such an oath. 452

Ros.

By heaven you did; and to confirm it plain,

You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

King.

My faith and this the princess I did give:

I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. 456

Prin.

Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;

And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.

What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

Ber.

Neither of either; I remit both twain.

I see the trick on’t: here was a consent, 461

Knowing aforehand of our merriment,

To dash it like a Christmas comedy.

Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, 464

Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,

That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick

To make my lady laugh when she’s dispos’d,

Told our intents before; which once disclos’d,

The ladies did change favours, and then we, 469

Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she.

Now, to our perjury to add more terror,

We are again forsworn, in will and error. 472

Much upon this it is: [To Boyet.] and might not you

Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?

Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squire,

And laugh upon the apple of her eye? 476

And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,

Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?

You put our page out: go, you are allow’d;

Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.

You leer upon me, do you? there’s an eye 481

Wounds like a leaden sword.

Boyet.

Full merrily

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

Ber.

Lo! he is tilting straight. Peace! I have done. 484

Enter Costard.

Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.

Cost.

O Lord, sir, they would know

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.

Ber.

What, are there but three?

Cost.

No, sir; but it is vara fine, 488

For every one pursents three.

Ber.

And three times thrice is nine.

Cost.

Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope, it is not so.

You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know:

I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,—

Ber.

Is not nine. 492

Cost.

Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

Ber.

By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

Cost.

O Lord, sir! it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. 497

Ber.

How much is it?

Cost.

O Lord, sir! the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.

Ber.

Art thou one of the Worthies? 504

Cost.

It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great: for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him. 508

Ber.

Go, bid them prepare.

Cost.

We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.

[Exit.

King.

Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach.

Ber.

We are shame-proof, my lord; and ’tis some policy 512

To have one show worse than the king’s and his company.

King.

I say they shall not come.

Prin.

Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.

That sport best pleases that doth least know how;

Where zeal strives to content, and the contents

Die in the zeal of those which it presents;

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,

When great things labouring perish in their birth.

Ber.

A right description of our sport, my lord.

Enter Armado.

Arm.

Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. 524

[Armado converses with the King, and delivers a paper to him.

Prin.

Doth this man serve God?

Ber.

Why ask you?

Prin.

He speaks not like a man of God’s making,

Arm.

That’s all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain; too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!

[Exit.

King.

Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabæus:

And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,

These four will change habits and present the other five. 540

Ber.

There is five in the first show.

King.

You are deceived, ’tis not so.

Ber.

The pedant, the braggart, the hedgepriest, the fool, and the boy:— 544

Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again

Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

King.

The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.

Enter Costard armed, for Pompey.

Cost.

I Pompey am,—

Boyet.

You lie, you are not he. 548

Cost.

I Pompey am,—

Boyet

With libbard’s head on knee.

Ber.

Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee.

Cost.

I Pompey am, Pompey surnam’d the Big,—

Dum.

‘The Great.’ 552

Cost.

It is ‘Great,’ sir; Pompey surnam’d the Great;

That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat:

And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. 556

If your ladyship would say, ‘Thanks, Pompey,’ I had done.

Prin.

Great thanks, great Pompey.

Cost.

’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in ‘Great.’

Ber.

My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Enter Sir Nathaniel armed, for Alexander.

Nath.

When in the world I liv’d, I was the world’s commander;

By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might: 564

My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander,—

Boyet.

Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands too right.

Ber.

Your nose smells ‘no,’ in this, most tender-smelling knight.

Prin.

The conqueror is dismay’d. Proceed, good Alexander. 568

Nath.

When in the world I liv’d, I was the world’s commander;—

Boyet.

Most true; ’tis right: you were so, Alisander.

Ber.

Pompey the Great,—

Cost.

Your servant, and Costard. 572

Ber.

Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

Cost.

[To Nathaniel.] O! sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisander! [Nathaniel retires.] There, an’t shall please you: a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed! He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but, for Alisander,—alas, you see how ’tis,—a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

Prin.

Stand aside, good Pompey. 588

Enter Holofernes armed, for Judas; and Moth armed, for Hercules.

Hol.

Great Hercules is presented by this imp,

Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed canis;

And, when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,

Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.

Quoniam, he seemeth in minority, 593

Ergo, I come with this apology.

Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.—

[Moth retires.

Judas I am.— 596

Dum.

A Judas!

Hol.

Not Iscariot, sir.

Judas I am, ycleped Maccabæus.

Dum.

Judas Maccabæus clipt is plain Judas.

Ber.

A kissing traitor. How art thou prov’d Judas? 601

Hol.

Judas I am.—

Dum.

The more shame for you, Judas.

Hol.

What mean you, sir? 604

Boyet.

To make Judas hang himself.

Hol.

Begin, sir; you are my elder.

Ber.

Well follow’d: Judas was hanged on an elder.

Hol.

I will not be put out of countenance. 608

Ber.

Because thou hast no face.

Hol.

What is this?

Boyet.

A cittern-head.

Dum.

The head of a bodkin. 612

Ber.

A death’s face in a ring.

Long.

The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

Boyet.

The pommel of Cæsar’s falchion.

Dum.

The carved-bone face on a flask. 616

Ber.

Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.

Dum.

Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

Ber.

Ay, and worn in the cap of a toothdrawer.

And now forward; for we have put thee in countenance. 620

Hol.

You have put me out of countenance.

Ber.

False: we have given thee faces.

Hol.

But you have outfaced them all.

Ber.

An thou wert a lion, we would do so. 624

Boyet.

Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

Dum.

For the latter end of his name.

Ber.

For the ass to the Jude? give it him:—Jud-as, away! 628

Hol.

This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

Boyet.

A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark, he may stumble.

Prin.

Alas! poor Maccabæus, how hath he been baited.

Enter Armado armed, for Hector.

Ber.

Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms. 633

Dum.

Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

King.

Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. 637

Boyet.

But is this Hector?

King.

I think Hector was not so clean-timbered. 640

Long.

His calf is too big for Hector.

Dum.

More calf, certain.

Boyet.

No; he is best indued in the small.

Ber.

This cannot be Hector. 644

Dum.

He’s a god or a painter; for he makes faces.

Arm.

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift,— 648

Dum.

A gilt nutmeg.

Ber.

A lemon.

Long.

Stuck with cloves.

Dum.

No, cloven. 652

Arm.

Peace!

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man so breath’d, that certain he would fight ye 656

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower,—

Dum.

That mint.

Long.

That columbine.

Arm.

Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Long.

I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. 661

Dum.

Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

Arm.

The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the Princess.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. 667

Prin.

Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.

Arm.

I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper.

Boyet.

[Aside to Dumaine.] Loves her by the foot. 672

Dum.

[Aside to Boyet.] He may not by the yard.

Arm.

This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,—

Cost.

The party is gone; fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. 677

Arm.

What meanest thou?

Cost.

Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she’s quick; the child brags in her belly already: ’tis yours.

Arm.

Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. 683

Cost.

Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.

Dum.

Most rare Pompey!

Boyet.

Renowned Pompey! 688

Ber.

Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge!

Dum.

Hector trembles.

Ber.

Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! stir them on! stir them on! 693

Dum.

Hector will challenge him.

Ber.

Ay, if a’ have no more man’s blood in’s belly than will sup a flea. 696

Arm.

By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

Cost.

I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. 701

Dum.

Room for the incensed Worthies!

Cost.

I’ll do it in my shirt.

Dum.

Most resolute Pompey! 704

Moth.

Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? you will lose your reputation. 708

Arm.

Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

Dum.

You may not deny it; Pompey hath made the challenge. 712

Arm.

Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Ber.

What reason have you for’t?

Arm.

The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance. 716

Boyet.

True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour. 720

Enter Monsieur Marcade, a Messenger.

Mar.

God save you, madam!

Prin.

Welcome, Marcade;

But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.

Mar.

I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring 724

Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father—

Prin.

Dead, for my life!

Mar.

Even so: my tale is told.

Ber.

Worthies, away! The scene begins to cloud. 729

Arm.

For my own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

[Exeunt Worthies.

King.

How fares your majesty?

Prin.

Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night.

King.

Madam, not so: I do beseech you, stay. 736

Prin.

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide 740

The liberal opposition of our spirits,

If over-boldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath; your gentleness

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! 744

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue,

Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

King.

The extreme part of time extremely forms 748

All causes to the purpose of his speed,

And often, at his very loose, decides

That which long process could not arbitrate:

And though the mourning brow of progeny 752

Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince;

Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot,

Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it 756

From what it purpos’d; since, to wail friends lost

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin.

I understand you not: my griefs are double. 760

Ber.

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;

And by these badges understand the king.

For your fair sakes have we neglected time,

Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, 764

Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours

Even to the opposed end of our intents;

And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous,—

As love is full of unbefitting strains; 768

All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;

Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,

Full of stray shapes, of habits and of forms,

Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll 772

To every varied object in his glance:

Which parti-coated presence of loose love

Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

Have misbecome our oaths and gravities, 776

Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,

Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,

Our love being yours, the error that love makes

Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,

By being once false for ever to be true 781

To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:

And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,

Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. 784

Prin.

We have receiv’d your letters full of love;

Your favours, the embassadors of love;

And, in our maiden council, rated them

At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 788

As bombast and as lining to the time.

But more devout than this in our respects

Have we not been; and therefore met your loves

In their own fashion, like a merriment. 792

Dum.

Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

Long.

So did our looks.

Ros.

We did not quote them so.

King.

Now, at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

Prin.

A time, methinks, too short

To make a world-without-end bargain in. 797

No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur’d much,

Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:

If for my love,—as there is no such cause,— 800

You will do aught, this shall you do for me:

Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed

To some forlorn and naked hermitage,

Remote from all the pleasures of the world; 804

There stay, until the twelve celestial signs

Have brought about their annual reckoning.

If this austere insociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood; 808

If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds,

Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,

But that it bear this trial and last love;

Then, at the expiration of the year, 812

Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,

And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,

I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut

My woful self up in a mourning house, 816

Raining the tears of lamentation

For the remembrance of my father’s death.

If this thou do deny, let our hands part;

Neither intitled in the other’s heart. 820

King.

If this, or more than this, I would deny,

To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,

The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. 824

Ber.

And what to me, my love? and what to me?

Ros.

You must be purged too, your sins are rack’d:

You are attaint with faults and perjury;

Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, 828

A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,

But seek the weary beds of people sick.

Dum.

But what to me, my love? but what to me?

Kath.

A wife! A beard, fair health, and honesty; 832

With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

Dum.

O! shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

Kath.

Not so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day

I’ll mark no words that smooth-fac’d wooers say:

Come when the king doth to my lady come; 837

Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.

Dum.

I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Kath.

Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again. 840

Long.

What says Maria?

Mar.

At the twelvemonth’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long.

I’ll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Mar.

The liker you; few taller are so young.

Ber.

Studies my lady? mistress, look on me.

Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

What humble suit attends thy answer there;

Impose some service on me for thy love. 848

Ros.

Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,

Before I saw you, and the world’s large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 852

Which you on all estates will execute

That lie within the mercy of your wit:

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,

And therewithal to win me, if you please,— 856

Without the which I am not to be won,—

You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day,

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit 861

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Ber.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be; it is impossible: 864

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros.

Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.

A jest’s prosperity lics in the ear 869

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,

Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue them, 873

And I will have you and that fault withal;

But if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault, 876

Right joyful of your reformation.

Ber.

A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in a hospital.

Prin.

[To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave. 880

King.

No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

Ber.

Our wooing doth not end like an old play;

Jack hath not Jill; these ladies’ courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy. 884

King.

Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,

And then ’twill end.

Ber.

That’s too long for a play.

Enter Armado.

Arm.

Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,—

Prin.

Was not that Hector? 888

Dum.

The worthy knight of Troy.

Arm.

I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? it should have followed in the end of our show. 896

King.

Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

Arm.

Holla! approach.

Re-enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and others.

This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. 901

13090.
SPRING.

I

When daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue  904

Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

Cuckoo,  908

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

II.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,  912

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,  916

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

WINTER.

III.

When icicles hang by the wall,  920

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,  924

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.  928

IV

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,  932

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,  936

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Arm.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this way.

[Exeunt.

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Theseus,	Duke of Athens.
Egeus,	Father to Hermia.
Lysander, }	in love with Hermia.
Demetrius, }	in love with Hermia.
Philostrate,	Master of the Revels to Theseus.
Quince,	a Carpenter.
Snug,	a Joiner.
Bottom,	a Weaver.
Flute,	a Bellows-mender.
Snout,	a Tinker.
Starveling,	a Tailor.
Hippolyta,	Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus.
Hermia,	Daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.
Helena,	in love with Demetrius.
Oberon,	King of the Fairies.
Titania,	Queen of the Fairies.
Puck,	or Robin Goodfellow.
Pease-Blossom, }	Fairies.
Cobweb, }
Moth, }
Mustard-seed, }
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen. Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

Scene.—Athens, and a Wood near it.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Athens. The Palace of Theseus.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and Attendants.

The.

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour

Draws on apace: four happy days bring in

Another moon; but O! methinks how slow

This old moon wanes; she lingers my desires, 4

Like to a step dame, or a dowager

Long withering out a young man’s revenue.

Hip.

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time; 8

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night

Of our solemnities.

The.

Go, Philostrate,

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; 12

Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;

Turn melancholy forth to funerals;

The pale companion is not for our pomp.

[Exit Philostrate.

Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, 16

And won thy love doing thee injuries;

But I will wed thee in another key,

With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius.

Ege.

Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

The.

Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?

Ege.

Full of vexation come I, with complaint

Against my child, my daughter Hermia.

Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, 24

This man hath my consent to marry her.

Stand forth, Lysander: and, my gracious duke,

This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child:

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rimes,

And interchang’d love-tokens with my child; 29

Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,

With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;

And stol’n the impression of her fantasy 32

With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,

Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers

Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth;

With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart; 36

Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me,

To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious duke,

Be it so she will not here before your Grace

Consent to marry with Demetrius, 40

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,

As she is mine, I may dispose of her;

Which shall be either to this gentleman,

Or to her death, according to our law 44

Immediately provided in that case.

The.

What say you, Hermia? be advis’d, fair maid.

To you, your father should be as a god;

One that compos’d your beauties, yea, and one

To whom you are but as a form in wax 49

By him imprinted, and within his power

To leave the figure or disfigure it.

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. 52

Her.

So is Lysander.

The.

In himself he is;

But, in this kind, wanting your father’s voice,

The other must be held the worthier.

Her.

I would my father look’d but with my eyes. 56

The.

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

Her.

I do entreat your Grace to pardon me.

I know not by what power I am made bold,

Nor how it may concern my modesty 60

In such a presence here to plead my thoughts;

But I beseech your Grace, that I may know

The worst that may befall me in this case,

If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 64

The.

Either to die the death, or to abjure

For ever the society of men.

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;

Know of your youth, examine well your blood,

Whe’r, if you yield not to your father’s choice,

You can endure the livery of a nun,

For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d,

To live a barren sister all your life, 72

Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood,

To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;

But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, 76

Than that which withering on the virgin thorn

Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

Her.

So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 80

Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

The.

Take time to pause; and, by the next new moon,—

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me 84

For everlasting bond of fellowship,—

Upon that day either prepare to die

For disobedience to your father’s will,

Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would; 88

Or on Diana’s altar to protest

For aye austerity and single life.

Dem.

Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield

Thy crazed title to my certain right. 92

Lys.

You have her father’s love, Demetrius;

Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

Ege.

Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,

And what is mine my love shall render him; 96

And she is mine, and all my right of her

I do estate unto Demetrius.

Lys.

I am, my lord, as well deriv’d as he,

As well possess’d; my love is more than his; 100

My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d

If not with vantage, as Demetrius’;

And, which is more than all these boasts can be,

I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia. 104

Why should not I then prosecute my right?

Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head,

Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena,

And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,

Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, 109

Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

The.

I must confess that I have heard so much,

And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; 112

But, being over-full of self-affairs,

My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;

And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,

I have some private schooling for you both. 116

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself

To fit your fancies to your father’s will,

Or else the law of Athens yields you up,

Which by no means we may extenuate, 120

To death, or to a vow of single life.

Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?

Demetrius and Egeus, go along:

I must employ you in some business 124

Against our nuptial, and confer with you

Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

Ege.

With duty and desire we follow you.

[Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, Demetrius, and Train.

Lys.

How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale? 128

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Her.

Belike for want of rain, which I could well

Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.

Lys.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, 132

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth;

But, either it was different in blood,—

Her.

O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low. 136

Lys.

Or else misgraffed in respect of years,—

Her.

O spite! too old to be engag’d to young.

Lys.

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,—

Her.

O hell! to choose love by another’s eye. 140

Lys.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

Making it momentany as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, 144

Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,

And ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’

The jaws of darkness do devour it up: 148

So quick bright things come to confusion.

Her.

If then true lovers have been ever cross’d,

It stands as an edict in destiny:

Then let us teach our trial patience, 152

Because it is a customary cross,

As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,

Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers.

Lys.

A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia. 156

I have a widow aunt, a dowager

Of great revenue, and she hath no child:

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;

And she respects me as her only son. 160

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,

And to that place the sharp Athenian law

Cannot pursue us. If thou lov’st me then,

Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night,

And in the wood, a league without the town, 165

Where I did meet thee once with Helena,

To do observance to a morn of May,

There will I stay for thee.

Her.

My good Lysander! 168

I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow,

By his best arrow with the golden head,

By the simplicity of Venus’ doves,

By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,

And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen, 173

When the false Troyan under sail was seen,

By all the vows that ever men have broke,—

In number more than ever women spoke,— 176

In that same place thou hast appointed me,

To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lys.

Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

Enter Helena.

Her.

God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

Hel.

Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.

Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!

Your eyes are lode-stars! and your tongue’s sweet air

More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, 184

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

Sickness is catching: O! were favour so,

Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;

My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,

My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. 189

Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,

The rest I’d give to be to you translated.

O! teach me how you look, and with what art

You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart. 193

Her.

I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

Hel.

O! that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill.

Her.

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Hel.

O! that my prayers could such affection move.

Her.

The more I hate, the more he follows me.

Hel.

The more I love, the more he hateth me.

Her.

His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Hel.

None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine! 201

Her.

Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;

Lysander and myself will fly this place.

Before the time I did Lysander see, 204

Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me:

O! then, what graces in my love do dwell,

That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell.

Lys.

Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.

To-morrow night, when Phœbe doth behold 209

Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,—

A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal,—

Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal.

Her.

And in the wood, where often you and I

Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,

Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 216

There my Lysander and myself shall meet;

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,

To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us;

And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! 221

Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight

From lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight.

Lys.

I will, my Hermia.—[Exit Hermia.] Helena, adieu: 224

As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

[Exit.

Hel.

How happy some o’er other some can be!

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she;

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;

He will not know what all but he do know; 229

And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, 232

Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: 237

And therefore is Love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjur’d every where; 241

For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne,

He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine;

And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight: 246

Then to the wood will he to-morrow night

Pursue her; and for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:

But herein mean I to enrich my pain, 250

To have his sight thither and back again.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in Quince’s House.

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling.

Quin.

Is all our company here?

Bot.

You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.

Quin.

Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the duke and the duchess on his wedding-day at night. 7

Bot.

First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point. 10

Quin.

Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby. 13

Bot.

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. 17

Quin.

Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Bot.

Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. 21

Quin.

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bot.

What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

Quin.

A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. 26

Bot.

That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 33

The raging rocks

And shivering shocks

Shall break the locks 36

Of prison gates:

And Phibbus’ car

Shall shine from far

And make and mar 40

The foolish Fates.

This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling. 44

Quin.

Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flu.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

You must take Thisby on you.

Flu.

What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

Quin.

It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu.

Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming. 51

Quin.

That’s all one: you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.

Bot.

An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too. I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice, ‘Thisne, Thisne!’ ‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear, and lady dear!’ 57

Quin.

No, no; you must play Pyramus; and Flute, you Thisby.

Bot.

Well, proceed. 60

Quin.

Robin Starveling, the tailor.

Star.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. 64

Snout.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

You, Pyramus’s father; myself, Thisby’s father; Snug, the joiner, you the lion’s part: and, I hope, here is a play fitted. 68

Snug.

Have you the lion’s part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.

Quin.

You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. 72

Bot.

Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the duke say, ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again.’ 76

Quin.

An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. 80

All.

That would hang us, every mother’s son.

Bot.

I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you as ’twere any nightingale. 87

Quin.

You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore, you must needs play Pyramus. 92

Bot.

Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?

Quin.

Why, what you will.

Bot.

I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown colour beard, your perfect yellow. 99

Quin.

Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced. But masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night, and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight: there will we rehearse; for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 110

Bot.

We will meet; and there we may rehearse more obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect; adieu.

Quin.

At the duke’s oak we meet.

Bot.

Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings. 115

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Wood near Athens.

Enter a Fairy on one side, and Puck on the other.

Puck.

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fai.

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,  4

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander every where,

Swifter than the moone’s sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,  8

To dew her orbs upon the green:

The cowslips tall her pensioners be;

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favours,  12

In their freckles live their savours:

I must go seek some dew-drops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone; 16

Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

Puck.

The king doth keep his revels here to-night.

Take heed the queen come not within his sight;

For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 20

Because that she as her attendant hath

A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king;

She never had so sweet a changeling;

And jealous Oberon would have the child 24

Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;

But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy,

Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy.

And now they never meet in grove, or green, 28

By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,

But they do square; that all their elves, for fear,

Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

Fai.

Either I mistake your shape and making quite, 32

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are you not he

That frights the maidens of the villagery;

Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,

And bootless make the breathless housewife churn; 37

And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;

Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?

Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,

You do their work, and they shall have good luck: 41

Are you not he?

Puck.

Fairy, thou speak’st aright;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Oberon, and make him smile 44

When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,

Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:

And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,

In very likeness of a roasted crab; 48

And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob

And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale.

The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,

Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; 52

Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,

And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough;

And then the whole quire hold their hips and loff;

And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 56

A merrier hour was never wasted there.

But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fai.

And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

Enter Oberon from one side, with his Train; and Titania from the other, with hers.

Obe.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 60

Tita.

What! jealous Oberon. Fairies, skip hence:

I have forsworn his bed and company.

Obe.

Tarry, rash wanton! am not I thy lord?

Tita.

Then, I must be thy lady; but I know

When thou hast stol’n away from fairy land, 65

And in the shape of Corin sat all day,

Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love

To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, 68

Come from the furthest steppe of India?

But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,

Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love,

To Theseus must be wedded, and you come 72

To give their bed joy and prosperity.

Obe.

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,

Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,

Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? 76

Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night

From Perigouna, whom he ravished?

And make him with fair Ægle break his faith,

With Ariadne, and Antiopa? 80

Tita.

These are the forgeries of jealousy:

And never, since the middle summer’s spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 84

Or in the beached margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 88

As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea

Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,

Have every pelting river made so proud

That they have overborne their continents: 92

The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard:

The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 96

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud,

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green

For lack of tread are undistinguishable: 100

The human mortals want their winter here:

No night is now with hymn or carol blest:

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 104

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, 108

And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter, change 112

Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which.

And this same progeny of evil comes

From our debate, from our dissension: 116

We are their parents and original.

Obe.

Do you amend it then; it lies in you.

Why should Titania cross her Oberon?

I do but beg a little changeling boy, 120

To be my henchman.

Tita.

Set your heart at rest;

The fairy land buys not the child of me.

His mother was a votaress of my order:

And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 124

Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,

And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,

Marking the embarked traders on the flood;

When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive

And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;

Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait

Following,—her womb then rich with my young squire,—

Would imitate, and sail upon the land, 132

To fetch me trifles, and return again,

As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;

And for her sake I do rear up her boy, 136

And for her sake I will not part with him.

Obe.

How long within this wood intend you stay?

Tita.

Perchance, till after Theseus’ weddingday.

If you will patiently dance in our round, 140

And see our moonlight revels, go with us;

If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Obe.

Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

Tita.

Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away! 144

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

[Exit Titania with her Train.

Obe.

Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove

Till I torment thee for this injury.

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember’st

Since once I sat upon a promontory, 149

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her song, 152

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Puck.

I remember.

Obe.

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 156

Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal throned by the west,

And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 161

Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon,

And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 164

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,

And maidens call it, Love-in-idleness. 168

Fetch me that flower; the herb I show’d thee once:

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid

Will make or man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees. 172

Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again

Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck.

I’ll put a girdle round about the earth

In forty minutes.

[Exit.

Obe.

Having once this juice 176

I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep,

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:

The next thing then she waking looks upon,

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 180

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

She shall pursue it with the soul of love:

And ere I take this charm off from her sight,

As I can take it with another herb, 184

I’ll make her render up her page to me.

But who comes here? I am invisible,

And I will overhear their conference.

Enter Demetrius, Helena following him.

Dem.

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. 188

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me.

Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood;

And here am I, and wood within this wood, 192

Because I cannot meet my Hermia.

Hence! get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Hel.

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant:

But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 196

Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw,

And I shall have no power to follow you.

Dem.

Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 200

Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?

Hel.

And even for that do I love you the more.

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you: 204

Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,

Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,

Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love, 208

And yet a place of high respect with me,

Than to be used as you use your dog?

Dem.

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,

For I am sick when I do look on you. 212

Hel.

And I am sick when I look not on you.

Dem.

You do impeach your modesty too much,

To leave the city, and commit yourself

Into the hands of one that loves you not; 216

To trust the opportunity of night

And the ill counsel of a desert place

With the rich worth of your virginity.

Hel.

Your virtue is my privilege: for that 220

It is not night when I do see your face,

Therefore I think I am not in the night;

Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,

For you in my respect are all the world: 224

Then how can it be said I am alone,

When all the world is here to look on me?

Dem.

I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,

And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 228

Hel.

The wildest hath not such a heart as you.

Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d;

Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind 232

Makes speed to catch the tiger: bootless speed,

When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

Dem.

I will not stay thy questions: let me go;

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 236

But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Hel.

Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,

You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. 240

We cannot fight for love, as men may do;

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo.

[Exit Demetrius.

I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,

To die upon the hand I love so well.

[Exit.

Obe.

Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove, 245

Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.

Re-enter Puck.

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

Puck.

Ay, there it is.

Obe.

I pray thee, give it me. 248

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine: 252

There sleeps Titania some time of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: 256

And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.

Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:

A sweet Athenian lady is in love 260

With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;

But do it when the next thing he espies

May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man

By the Athenian garments he hath on. 264

Effect it with some care, that he may prove

More fond on her than she upon her love.

And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

Puck.

Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Wood.

Enter Titania, with her Train.

Tita.

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;

Then, for the third of a minute, hence;

Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,

Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, 4

To make my small elves coats, and some keep back

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders

At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;

Then to your offices, and let me rest. 8

13718.
The Fairies sing.

I.

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen;

Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;

Come not near our fairy queen.  12

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby:

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:

Never harm,  16

Nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So, good night, with lullaby.

II.

Weaving spiders come not here;  20

Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, &c.  24

Fai.

Hence, away! now all is well.

One aloof stand sentinel.

[Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps.

Enter Oberon, and squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids.

Obe.

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love take; 28

Love and languish for his sake:

Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,

Pard, or boar with bristled hair,

In thy eye that shall appear 32

When thou wak’st, it is thy dear.

Wake when some vile thing is near.

[Exit.

Enter Lysander and Hermia.

Lys.

Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;

And to speak troth, I have forgot our way: 36

We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,

And tarry for the comfort of the day.

Her.

Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,

For I upon this bank will rest my head. 40

Lys.

One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;

One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.

Her.

Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,

Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. 44

Lys.

O! take the sense, sweet, of my innocence,

Love takes the meaning in love’s conference.

I mean that my heart unto yours is knit,

So that but one heart we can make of it; 48

Two bosoms interchained with an oath;

So then two bosoms and a single troth.

Then by your side no bed-room me deny,

For, lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 52

Her.

Lysander riddles very prettily:

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,

If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.

But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 56

Lie further off; in human modesty,

Such separation as may well be said

Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,

So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend.

Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! 61

Lys.

Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;

And then end life when I end loyalty!

[Retires a little distance.

Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!

Her.

With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be press’d!

[They sleep.

Enter Puck.

Puck.

Through the forest have I gone,

But Athenian found I none,

On whose eyes I might approve  68

This flower’s force in stirring love.

Night and silence! who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear:

This is he, my master said,  72

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul! she durst not lie  76

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

[Squeezes the flower on Lysander’s eyelids.]

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the power this charm doth owe.

When thou wak’st, let love forbid  80

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:

So awake when I am gone;

For I must now to Oberon.

[Exit.

Enter Demetrius and Helena, running.

Hel.

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. 84

Dem.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Hel.

O! wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

Dem.

Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.

[Exit Demetrius.

Hel.

O! I am out of breath in this fond chase.

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 89

Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies;

For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.

How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:

If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. 93

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;

For beasts that meet me run away for fear;

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius 96

Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine

Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?

But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! 100

Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.

Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

Lys.

[Awaking.] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.

Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, 104

That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.

Where is Demetrius? O! how fit a word

Is that vile name to perish on my sword.

Hel.

Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. 108

What though he love your Hermia? Lord! what though?

Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

Lys.

Content with Hermia! No: I do repent

The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 112

Not Hermia, but Helena I love:

Who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason sway’d,

And reason says you are the worthier maid. 116

Things growing are not ripe until their season;

So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;

And touching now the point of human skill,

Reason becomes the marshal to my will, 120

And leads me to your eyes; where I o’erlook

Love’s stories written in love’s richest book.

Hel.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?

When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?

Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man,

That I did never, no, nor never can,

Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye,

But you must flout my insufficiency? 128

Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,

In such disdainful manner me to woo.

But fare you well: perforce I must confess

I thought you lord of more true gentleness. 132

O! that a lady of one man refus’d,

Should of another therefore be abus’d.

[Exit.

Lys.

She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there;

And never mayst thou come Lysander near. 136

For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things

The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;

Or, as the heresies that men do leave

Are hated most of those they did deceive: 140

So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,

Of all be hated, but the most of me!

And, all my powers, address your love and might

To honour Helen, and to be her knight.

[Exit.

Her.

[Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best 145

To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.

Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!

Lysander, look how I do quake with fear: 148

Methought a serpent eat my heart away,

And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.

Lysander! what! remov’d?—Lysander! lord!

What! out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word? 152

Alack! where are you? speak, an if you hear;

Speak, of all loves! I swound almost with fear.

No! then I well perceive you are not nigh:

Either death or you I’ll find immediately.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Wood. Titania lying asleep.

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling.

Bot.

Are we all met?

Quin.

Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action as we will do it before the duke.

Bot.

Peter Quince,—

Quin.

What sayst thou, bully Bottom? 8

Bot.

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself, which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? 13

Snout.

By’r lakin, a parlous fear.

Star.

I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. 16

Bot.

Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear.

Quin.

Well, we will have such a prologue, and it shall be written in eight and six. 25

Bot.

No, make it two more: let it be written in eight and eight.

Snout.

Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? 29

Star.

I fear it, I promise you.

Bot.

Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to bring in,—God shield us!—a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living, and we ought to look to it.

Snout.

Therefore, another prologue must tell he is not a lion. 37

Bot.

Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect, ‘Ladies,’ or, ‘Fair ladies,’ ‘I would wish you,’ or, ‘I would request you,’ or, ‘I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life: no, I am no such thing: I am a man as other men are;’ and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. 48

Quin.

Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things, that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. 52

Snug.

Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

Bot.

A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. 57

Quin.

Yes, it doth shine that night.

Bot.

Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber-window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. 62

Quin.

Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of Moonshine. Then, there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. 69

Snug.

You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

Bot.

Some man or other must present Wall; and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 76

Quin.

If that may be, than all is well. Come, sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so every one according to his cue. 81

Enter Puck, behind.

Puck.

What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,

So near the cradle of the fairy queen?

What! a play toward; I’ll be an auditor; 84

An actor too perhaps, if I see cause.

Quin.

Speak, Pyramus.—Thisby, stand forth.

Bot.

Thisby, the flowers have odious savours sweet,—

Quin.

Odorous, odorous. 88

Bot.

—odours savours sweet:

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,

And by and by I will to thee appear.

[Exit.

Puck.

A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d here!

[Exit.

Flu.

Must I speak now?

Quin.

Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand, he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. 97

Flu.

Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,

Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,

As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, 101

I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

Quin.

‘Ninus’ tomb,’ man. Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus: you speak all your part at once, cues and all. Pyramus, enter: your cue is past; it is ‘never tire.’

Flu.

O!—As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. 108

Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass’s head.

Bot.

If I were, fair Thisby, I were only thine.

Quin.

O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted.

Pray, masters! fly, masters!—Help!

[Exeunt Clowns.

Puck.

I’ll follow you, I’ll lead you about a round, 112

Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:

Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound,

A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, 116

Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

[Exit.

Bot.

Why do they run away? this is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

Re-enter Snout.

Snout.

O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee? 121

Bot.

What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?

[Exit Snout.

Re-enter Quince.

Quin.

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.

[Exit.

Bot.

I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can: I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

The ousel-cock, so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill, 132

The throstle with his note so true,

The wren with little quill.

Tita.

[Awaking.] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? 136

Bot.

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

The plain-song cuckoo gray,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

And dares not answer, nay; 140

for indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so?

Tita.

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:

Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note; 145

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;

And thy fair virtue’s force, perforce, doth move me,

On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

Bot.

Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the pity, that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. 154

Tita.

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Bot.

Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

Tita.

Out of this wood do not desire to go:

Thou shalt remain here, whe’r thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate; 161

The summer still doth tend upon my state;

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;

I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee, 164

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,

And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep:

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 168

Pease-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

Enter Four Fairies.

Peas.

Ready.

Cob.

And I.

Moth.

And I.

Mus.

And I.

All Four.

Where shall we go?

Tita.

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes; 172

Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,

And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,

And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes,

To have my love to bed, and to arise;

And pluck the wings from painted butterflies

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 181

Peas.

Hail, mortal!

Cob.

Hail!

Moth.

Hail! 184

Mus.

Hail!

Bot.

I cry your worships mercy, heartily: I beseech your worship’s name.

Cob.

Cobweb. 188

Bot.

I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I out my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman? 192

Peas.

Pease-blossom.

Bot.

I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Pease-blossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? 198

Mus.

Mustard-seed.

Bot.

Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well: that same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustard-seed.

Tita.

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. 206

The moon methinks, looks with a watery eye;

And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,

Lamenting some enforced chastity.

Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. 210

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Wood.

Enter Oberon.

Obe.

I wonder if Titania be awak’d;

Then, what it was that next came in her eye,

Which she must dote on in extremity.

Here comes my messenger.

Enter Puck.

How now, mad spirit! 4

What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

Puck.

My mistress with a monster is in love.

Near to her close and consecrated bower,

While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 8

A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,

Were met together to rehearse a play

Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial day. 12

The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,

Who Pyramus presented in their sport

Forsook his scene, and enter’d in a brake,

When I did him at this advantage take; 16

An ass’s nowl I fixed on his head:

Anon his Thisbe must be answered,

And forth my mimick comes. When they him spy,

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 20

Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,

Rising and cawing at the gun’s report,

Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky;

So, at his sight, away his fellows fly, 24

And, at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls;

He murder cries, and help from Athens calls.

Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, 27

Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;

For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;

Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch.

I led them on in this distracted fear,

And left sweet Pyramus translated there; 32

When in that moment, so it came to pass,

Titania wak’d and straightway lov’d an ass.

Obe.

This falls out better than I could devise.

But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes 36

With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

Puck.

I took him sleeping,—that is finish’d too,—

And the Athenian woman by his side;

That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d.

Enter Demetrius and Hermia.

Obe.

Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

Puck.

This is the woman; but not this the man.

Dem.

O! why rebuke you him that loves you so?

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 44

Her.

Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in knee deep,

And kill me too. 49

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me. Would he have stol’n away

From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon 52

This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon

May through the centre creep, and so displease

Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him; 56

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

Dem.

So should the murder’d look, and so should I,

Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty;

Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. 61

Her.

What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?

Ah! good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Dem.

I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. 64

Her.

Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds

Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?

Henceforth be never number’d among men!

O! once tell true, tell true, e’en for my sake; 68

Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake,

And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch!

Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?

An adder did it; for with doubler tongue 72

Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

Dem.

You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood:

I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood,

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. 76

Her.

I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

Dem.

An if I could, what should I get therefore?

Her.

A privilege never to see me more.

And from thy hated presence part I so; 80

See me no more, whe’r he be dead or no.

[Exit.

Dem.

There is no following her in this fierce vein:

Here therefore for awhile I will remain.

So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow 84

For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;

Which now in some slight measure it will pay,

If for his tender here I make some stay.

[Lies down and sleeps.

Obe.

What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite, 88

And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight:

Of thy misprision must perforce ensue

Some true-love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true.

Puck.

Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth, 92

A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

Obe.

About the wood go swifter than the wind,

And Helena of Athens look thou find:

All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer 96

With sighs of love, that cost the fresh blood dear.

By some illusion see thou bring her here:

I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.

Puck.

I go, I go; look how I go; 100

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.

[Exit.

Obe.

Flower of this purple dye,

Hit with Cupid’s archery,

Sink in apple of his eye. 104

When his love he doth espy,

Let her shine as gloriously

As the Venus of the sky.

When thou wak’st, if she be by, 108

Beg of her for remedy.

Re-enter Puck.

Puck.

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand,

And the youth, mistook by me, 112

Pleading for a lover’s fee.

Shall we their fond pageant see?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Obe.

Stand aside: the noise they make 116

Will cause Demetrius to awake.

Puck.

Then will two at once woo one;

That must needs be sport alone;

And those things do best please me 120

That befall preposterously.

Enter Lysander and Helena.

Lys.

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?

Scorn and derision never come in tears:

Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,

In their nativity all truth appears. 125

How can these things in me seem scorn to you,

Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true?

Hel.

You do advance your cunning more and more. 128

When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!

These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er?

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:

Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales, 132

Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

Lys.

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Hel.

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er.

Lys.

Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. 136

Dem.

[Awaking.] O Helen! goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy. O! how ripe in show

Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow,

This pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow,

Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow

When thou hold’st up thy hand. O! let me kiss

That princess of pure white, this seal of bliss. 144

Hel.

O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent

To set against me for your merriment:

If you were civil and knew courtesy,

You would not do me thus much injury. 148

Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

But you must join in souls to mock me too?

If you were men, as men you are in show,

You would not use a gentle lady so; 152

To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,

When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.

You both are rivals, and love Hermia,

And now both rivals, to mock Helena: 156

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,

To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes

With your derision! none of noble sort

Would so offend a virgin, and extort 160

A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport.

Lys.

You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;

For you love Hermia; this you know I know:

And here, with all good will, with all my heart,

In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; 165

And yours of Helena to me bequeath,

Whom I do love, and will do to my death.

Hel.

Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Dem.

Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:

If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone.

My heart with her but as guest wise sojourn’d,

And now to Helen it is home return’d, 172

There to remain.

Lys.

Helen, it is not so.

Dem.

Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,

Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear.

Look! where thy love comes: yonder is thy dear.

Enter Hermia.

Her.

Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, 177

The ear more quick of apprehension makes;

Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,

It pays the hearing double recompense. 180

Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;

Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound.

But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

Lys.

Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go? 184

Her.

What love could press Lysander from my side?

Lys.

Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide,

Fair Helena, who more engilds the night

Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. 188

Why seek’st thou me? could not this make thee know,

The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?

Her.

You speak not as you think: it cannot be.

Hel.

Lo! she is one of this confederacy. 192

Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three

To fashion this false sport in spite of me.

Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!

Have you conspir’d, have you with these contriv’d 196

To bait me with this foul derision?

Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d,

The sister-vows, the hours that we have spent,

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 200

For parting us, O! is it all forgot?

All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,

Have with our neelds created both one flower,

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,

Both warbling of one song, both in one key,

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,

Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 208

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,

But yet an union in partition;

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; 212

Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,

Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.

And will you rent our ancient love asunder,

To join with men in scorning your poor friend?

It is not friendly, ’tis not maidenly: 217

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,

Though I alone do feel the injury.

Her.

I am amazed at your passionate words.

I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me.

Hel.

Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,

To follow me and praise my eyes and face,

And made your other love, Demetrius,— 224

Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,—

To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,

Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this

To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander

Deny your love, so rich within his soul, 229

And tender me, forsooth, affection,

But by your setting on, by your consent?

What though I be not so in grace as you, 232

So hung upon with love, so fortunate,

But miserable most to love unlov’d?

This you should pity rather than despise.

Her.

I understand not what you mean by this. 236

Hel.

Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,

Make mouths upon me when I turn my back;

Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 240

If you have any pity, grace, or manners,

You would not make me such an argument.

But, fare ye well: ’tis partly mine own fault,

Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 244

Lys.

Stay, gentle Helena! hear my excuse:

My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!

Hel.

O excellent!

Her.

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

Dem.

If she cannot entreat, I can compel. 248

Lys.

Thou canst compel no more than she entreat:

Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.

Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do:

I swear by that which I will lose for thee, 252

To prove him false that says I love thee not.

Dem.

I say I love thee more than he can do.

Lys.

If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.

Dem.

Quick, come!

Her.

Lysander, whereto tends all this?

Lys.

Away, you Ethiop!

Dem.

No, no, he’ll . . . 257

Seem to break loose; take on, as you would follow,

But yet come not: you are a tame man, go!

Lys.

[To Hermia.] Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose, 260

Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.

Her.

Why are you grown so rude? what change is this,

Sweet love,—

Lys.

Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!

Out, loathed medicine! hated poison, hence!

Her.

Do you not jest?

Hel.

Yes, sooth; and so do you.

Lys.

Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

Dem.

I would I had your bond, for I perceive

A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word.

Lys.

What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? 269

Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so.

Her.

What! can you do me greater harm than hate?

Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love? 272

Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?

I am as fair now as I was erewhile.

Since night you lov’d me; yet, since night you left me:

Why, then you left me,—O, the gods forbid!—

In earnest, shall I say?

Lys.

Ay, by my life; 277

And never did desire to see thee more.

Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt;

Be certain, nothing truer: ’tis no jest, 280

That I do hate thee and love Helena.

Her.

O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!

You thief of love! what! have you come by night

And stol’n my love’s heart from him?

Hel.

Fine, i’ faith!

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, 285

No touch of bashfulness? What! will you tear

Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?

Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet you! 288

Her.

Puppet! why, so: ay, that way goes the game.

Now I perceive that she hath made compare

Between our statures: she hath urg’d her height;

And with her personage, her tall personage, 292

Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him.

And are you grown so high in his esteem,

Because I am so dwarfish and so low?

How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;

How low am I? I am not yet so low 297

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Hel.

I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,

Let her not hurt me: I was never curst; 300

I have no gift at all in shrewishness;

I am a right maid for my cowardice:

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,

Because she is something lower than myself, 304

That I can match her.

Her.

Lower! hark, again.

Hel.

Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.

I evermore did love you, Hermia,

Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you;

Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 309

I told him of your stealth unto this wood.

He follow’d you; for love I follow’d him;

But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me

To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: 313

And now, so you will let me quiet go,

To Athens will I bear my folly back,

And follow you no further: let me go: 316

You see how simple and how fond I am.

Her.

Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders you?

Hel.

A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

Her.

What! with Lysander?

Hel.

With Demetrius.

Lys.

Be not afraid: she shall not harm thee, Helena. 321

Dem.

No, sir; she shall not, though you take her part.

Hel.

O! when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd.

She was a vixen when she went to school: 324

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

Her.

‘Little’ again! nothing but ‘low’ and ‘little!’

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

Let me come to her.

Lys.

Get you gone, you dwarf; 328

You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made;

You bead, you acorn!

Dem.

You are too officious

In her behalf that scorns your services.

Let her alone; speak not of Helena; 332

Take not her part, for, if thou dost intend

Never so little show of love to her,

Thou shalt aby it.

Lys.

Now she holds me not;

Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right,

Or thine or mine, is most in Helena. 337

Dem.

Follow! nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole.

[Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius.

Her.

You, mistress, all this coil is ’long of you:

Nay, go not back.

Hel.

I will not trust you, I, 340

Nor longer stay in your curst company.

Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,

My legs are longer though, to run away.

[Exit.

Her.

I am amaz’d, and know not what to say.

[Exit.

Obe.

This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st, 345

Or else commit’st thy knaveries wilfully.

Puck.

Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.

Did not you tell me I should know the man 348

By the Athenian garments he had on?

And so far blameless proves my enterprise,

That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes;

And so far am I glad it so did sort, 352

As this their jangling I esteem a sport.

Obe.

Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to fight:

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;

The starry welking cover thou anon 356

With drooping fog as black as Acheron;

And lead these testy rivals so astray,

As one come not within another’s way.

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,

Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; 361

And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;

And from each other look thou lead them thus,

Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep

With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:

Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye;

Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,

To take from thence all error with his might, 368

And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.

When they next wake, all this derision

Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision;

And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 372

With league whose date till death shall never end.

Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,

I’ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy;

And then I will her charmed eye release 376

From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace.

Puck.

My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,

For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,

And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger; 380

At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,

Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,

That in cross-ways and floods have burial,

Already to their wormy beds are gone; 384

For fear lest day should look their shames upon,

They wilfully themselves exile from light,

And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.

Obe.

But we are spirits of another sort. 388

I with the morning’s love have oft made sport;

And, like a forester, the groves may tread,

Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,

Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 392

Turns into yellow gold his salt green-streams.

But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:

We may effect this business yet ere day.

[Exit Oberon.

Puck.

Up and down, up and down; 396

I will lead them up and down:

I am fear’d in field and town;

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one. 400

Re-enter Lysander.

Lys.

Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

Puck.

Here, villain! drawn and ready. Where art thou?

Lys.

I will be with thee straight.

Puck.

Follow me, then,

To plainer ground.

[Exit Lysander as following the voice.

Re-enter Demetrius.

Dem.

Lysander! speak again. 404

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?

Puck.

Thou coward! art thou bragging to the stars,

Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars,

And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child; 409

I’ll whip thee with a rod: he is defil’d

That draws a sword on thee.

Dem.

Yea, art thou there?

Puck.

Follow my voice: we’ll try no manhood here.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Lysander.

Lys.

He goes before me and still dares me on:

When I come where he calls, then he is gone.

The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I:

I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly; 416

That fallen am I in dark uneven way,

And here will rest me. [Lies down.] Come, thou gentle day!

For if but once thou show me thy grey light,

I’ll find Demetrius and revenge this spite. 420

[Sleeps.

Re-enter Puck and Demetrius.

Puck.

Ho! ho! ho! Coward, why com’st thou not?

Dem.

Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot

Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place,

And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face.

Where art thou now?

Puck.

Come hither: I am here.

Dem.

Nay then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,

If ever I thy face by daylight see:

Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me 428

To measure out my length on this cold bed:

By day’s approach look to be visited.

[Lies down and sleeps.

Re-enter Helena.

Hel.

O weary night! O long and tedious night,

Abate thy hours! shine, comforts, from the east! 432

That I may back to Athens by daylight,

From these that my poor company detest:

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,

Steal me awhile from mine own company. 436

[Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.

Yet but three? Come one more;

Two of both kinds make up four.

Here she comes, curst and sad:

Cupid is a knavish lad, 440

Thus to make poor females mad.

Re-enter Hermia.

Her.

Never so weary, never so in woe,

Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,

I can no further crawl, no further go; 444

My legs can keep no pace with my desires.

Here will I rest me till the break of day.

Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

[Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.

On the ground  448

Sleep sound:

I’ll apply

To your eye,

Gentle lover, remedy  452

[Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eyes.

When thou wak’st,

Thou tak’st

True delight

In the sight  456

Of thy former lady’s eye:

And the country proverb known,

That every man should take his own,

In your waking shall be shown:  460

Jack shall have Jill;

Nought shall go ill;

The man shall have his mare again,

And all shall be well.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Wood. Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia lying asleep.

Enter Titania and Bottom, Fairies attending; Oberon behind unseen.

Tita.

Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,

And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 4

Bot.

Where’s Pease-blossom?

Peas.

Ready.

Bot.

Scratch my head, Pease-blossom. Where’s Mounsieur Cobweb? 8

Cob.

Ready.

Bot.

Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Mounsieur Mustard-seed? 18

Must.

Ready.

Bot.

Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustard-seed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good mounsieur.

Must.

What’s your will? 23

Bot.

Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, mounsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. 29

Tita.

What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

Bot.

I have a reasonable good ear in music: let us have the tongs and the bones. 33

Tita.

Or say, sweet love, what thou desir’st to eat.

Bot.

Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 39

Tita.

I have a venturous fairy that shall seek

The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee thence new nuts.

Bot.

I had rather have a handful or two of dried pease. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. 45

Tita.

Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.

Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.

[Exeunt Fairies.

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 48

Gently entwist; the female ivy so

Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.

O! how I love thee; how I dote on thee!

[They sleep.

Enter Puck.

Obe.

[Advancing.] Welcome, good Robin. See’st thou this sweet sight? 52

Her dotage now I do begin to pity:

For, meeting her of late behind the wood,

Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,

I did upbraid her and fall out with her; 56

For she his hairy temples then had rounded

With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;

And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 60

Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes

Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.

When I had at my pleasure taunted her,

And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, 64

I then did ask of her her changeling child;

Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent

To bear him to my bower in fairy land.

And now I have the boy, I will undo 68

This hateful imperfection of her eyes:

And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp

From off the head of this Athenian swain,

That he, awaking when the other do, 72

May all to Athens back again repair,

And think no more of this night’s accidents

But as the fierce vexation of a dream.

But first I will release the fairy queen. 76

[Touching her eyes with an herb.

Be as thou wast wont to be;

See as thou wast wont to see:

Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower

Hath such force and blessed power. 80

Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

Tita.

My Oberon! what visions have I seen!

Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.

Obe.

There lies your love.

Tita.

How came these things to pass?

O! how mine eyes do loathe his visage now. 85

Obe.

Silence, awhile. Robin, take off this head.

Titania, music call; and strike more dead

Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Tita.

Music, ho! music! such as charmeth sleep.

[Music.

Puck.

When thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep.

Obe.

Sound, music! [Still, music.] Come, my queen, take hands with me,

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity, 93

And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly,

And bless it to all fair prosperity. 96

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be

Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.

Puck.

Fairy king, attend, and mark:

I do hear the morning lark. 100

Obe.

Then, my queen, in silence sad,

Trip we after the night’s shade;

We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wandering moon. 104

Tita.

Come, my lord; and in our flight

Tell me how it came this night

That I sleeping here was found

With these mortals on the ground. 108

[Exeunt. Horns winded within.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train.

The.

Go, one of you, find out the forester;

For now our observation is perform’d;

And since we have the vaward of the day,

My love shall hear the music of my hounds. 112

Uncouple in the western valley; let them go:

Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,

And mark the musical confusion 116

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hip.

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear

With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear 120

Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,

The skies, the fountains, every region near

Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 124

The.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew;

Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian bulls; 128

Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tuneable

Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly: 132

Judge, when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

Ege.

My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;

And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: 136

I wonder of their being here together.

The.

No doubt they rose up early to observe

The rite of May, and, hearing our intent,

Came here in grace of our solemnity. 140

But speak, Egeus, is not this the day

That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

Ege.

It is, my lord.

The.

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. 144

[Horns and shout within. Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena, wake and start up.

Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

Lys.

Pardon, my lord.

[He and the rest kneel.

The.

I pray you all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies: 148

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

That hatred is so far from jealousy,

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

Lys.

My lord, I shall reply amazedly, 152

Half sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,

I cannot truly say how I came here;

But, as I think,—for truly would I speak,

And now I do bethink me, so it is,— 156

I came with Hermia hither: our intent

Was to be gone from Athens, where we might,

Without the peril of the Athenian law—

Ege.

Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough: 160

I beg the law, the law, upon his head.

They would have stol’n away; they would, Demetrius,

Thereby to have defeated you and me;

You of your wife, and me of my consent, 164

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

Dem.

My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,

Of this their purpose hither, to this wood;

And I in fury hither follow’d them, 168

Fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,—

But by some power it is,—my love to Hermia,

Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now 172

As the remembrance of an idle gaud

Which in my childhood I did dote upon;

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

The object and the pleasure of mine eye, 176

Is only Helena. To her, my lord,

Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia:

But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food;

But, as in health, come to my natural taste,

Now do I wish it, love it, long for it, 181

And will for evermore be true to it.

The.

Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:

Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 184

Egeus, I will overbear your will,

For in the temple, by and by, with us,

These couples shall eternally be knit:

And, for the morning now is something worn,

Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside. 189

Away with us, to Athens: three and three,

We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.

Come, Hippolyta. 192

[Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train.

Dem.

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

Her.

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

When everything seems double.

Hel.

So methinks:

And I have found Demetrius, like a jewel, 197

Mine own, and not mine own.

Dem.

Are you sure

That we are awake? It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do you not think

The duke was here, and bid us follow him? 201

Her.

Yea; and my father.

Hel.

And Hippolyta.

Lys.

And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Dem.

Why then, we are awake. Let’s follow him; 204

And by the way let us recount our dreams.

[Exeunt.

Bot.

[Awaking.] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer: my next is, ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life! stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was,—and methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom’s Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the duke: peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. 226

[Exit.

Scene II.— Athens. A Room in Quince’s House.

Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling.

Quin.

Have you sent to Bottom’s house? is he come home yet?

Star.

He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported. 4

Flu.

If he come not, then the play is marred: it goes not forward, doth it?

Quin.

It is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. 9

Flu

No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.

Quin.

Yea, and the best person too; and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. 13

Flu.

You must say, ‘paragon:’ a paramour is, God bless us! a thing of naught.

Enter Snug.

Snug.

Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. 19

Flu.

O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have ’scaped sixpence a day: an the duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. 25

Enter Bottom.

Bot.

Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

Quin.

Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour! 29

Bot.

Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out. 33

Quin.

Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

Bot.

Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath, and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words: away! go; away.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords, and Attendants.

Hip.

’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

The.

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 5

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,

Are of imagination all compact: 8

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,

That is, the madman; the lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 12

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name. 17

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That, if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy; 20

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!

Hip.

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigur’d so together, 24

More witnesseth than fancy’s images,

And grows to something of great constancy,

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

The.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. 28

Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.

Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

Lys.

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

The.

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, 32

To wear away this long age of three hours

Between our after-supper and bed-time?

Where is our usual manager of mirth?

What revels are in hand? Is there no play, 36

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Philost.

Here, mighty Theseus.

The.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque? what music? How shall we beguile 40

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost.

There is a brief how many sports are ripe;

Make choice of which your highness will see first.

[Gives a paper.

The.

The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung 44

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.

We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,

In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 48

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.

That is an old device; and it was play’d

When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

The thrice three Muses mourning for the death

Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary. 53

That is some satire keen and critical,

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus 56

And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.

Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!

That is, hot ice and wonderous strange snow.

How shall we find the concord of this discord?

Philost.

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, 61

Which is as brief as I have known a play;

But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,

Which makes it tedious; for in all the play 64

There is not one word apt, one player fitted.

And tragical, my noble lord, it is;

For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.

Which when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, 68

Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears

The passion of loud laughter never shed.

The.

What are they that do play it?

Philost.

Hard-handed men, that work in Athens here, 72

Which never labour’d in their minds till now,

And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories

With this same play, against your nuptial.

The.

And we will hear it.

Philost.

No, my noble lord;

It is not for you: I have heard it over, 77

And it is nothing, nothing in the world;

Unless you can find sport in their intents,

Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain,

To do you service.

The.

I will hear that play; 81

For never anything can be amiss,

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

[Exit Philostrate.

Hip.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharg’d, 85

And duty in his service perishing.

The.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hip.

He says they can do nothing in this kind. 88

The.

The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:

And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect

Takes it in might, not merit. 92

Where I have come, great clerks have purposed

To greet me with premeditated welcomes;

Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,

Make periods in the midst of sentences, 96

Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears,

And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,

Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,

Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; 100

And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much as from the rattling tongue

Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity 104

In least speak most, to my capacity.

Re-enter Philostrate.

Philost.

So please your Grace, the Prologue is address’d.

The.

Let him approach.

[Flourish of trumpets.

Enter Quince for the Prologue.

Prol.

If we offend, it is with our good will.

That you should think, we come not to offend,  109

But with good will. To show our simple skill,

That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then we come but in despite.  112

We do not come as minding to content you,

Our true intent is. All for your delight,

We are not here. That you should here repent you,

The actors are at hand; and, by their show,  116

You shall know all that you are like to know.

The.

This fellow doth not stand upon points.

Lys.

He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. 122

Hip.

Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

The.

His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next? 128

Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion, as in dumb show.

Prol.

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;

But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.

This man is Pyramus, if you would know;

This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain. 132

This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present

Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;

And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content 135

To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.

This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,

Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,

By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn

To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. 140

This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,

The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,

Did scare away, or rather did affright;

And, as she fied, her mantle she did fall, 144

Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.

Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,

And finds his trusty Thisby’s mantle slain:

Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 148

He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast;

And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,

Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,

At large discourse, while here they do remain.

[Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine.

The.

I wonder, if the lion be to speak.

Dem.

No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do. 156

Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall

That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;

And such a wall, as I would have you think,

That had in it a crannied hole or chink, 160

Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,

Did whisper often very secretly.

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth show

That I am that same wall; the truth is so; 164

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

The.

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? 168

Dem.

It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

The.

Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!

Re-enter Pyramus.

Pyr.

O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black! 172

O night, which ever art when day is not!

O night! O night! alack, alack, alack!

I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot.

And thou, O wall! O sweet, O lovely wall! 176

That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine;

Thou wall, O wall! O sweet, and lovely wall!

Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne.

[Wall holds up his fingers.

Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! 180

But what see I? No Thisby do I see.

O wicked wall! through whom I see no bliss;

Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

The.

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. 185

Pyr.

No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me,’ is Thisby’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.

Re-enter Thisbe.

This.

O wall! full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me: 192

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones,

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

Pyr.

I see a voice: now will I to the chink,

To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face. 196

Thisby.

This.

My love! thou art my love, I think.

Pyr.

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace;

And, like Limander, am I trusty still. 200

This.

And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.

Pyr.

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

This.

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

Pyr.

O! kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. 204

This.

I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all

Pyr.

Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?

This.

’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay.

[Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe.

Wall.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; 208

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

[Exit

The.

Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

Dem.

No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. 213

Hip.

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

The.

The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. 217

Hip.

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

The.

If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.

Re-enter Lion and Moonshine.

Lion.

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear 224

The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,

May now perchance both quake and tremble here,

When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 228

A lion-fell, nor else no lion’s dam:

For, if I should as lion come in strife

Into this place, ’twere pity on my life.

The.

A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. 233

Dem.

The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.

Lys.

This lion is a very fox for his valour.

The.

True; and a goose for his discretion. 237

Dem.

Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. 240

The.

His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour, for the goose carries not the fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. 244

Moon.

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;—

Dem.

He should have worn the horns on his head.

The.

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. 249

Moon.

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.

The.

This is the greatest error of all the rest.

The man should be put into the lanthorn: how is it else the man i’ the moon?

Dem.

He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff. 256

Hip.

I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

The.

It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. 261

Lys.

Proceed, Moon.

Moon.

All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

Dem.

Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe. 269

Re-enter Thisbe.

This.

This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?

Lion.

[Roaring.] Oh—.

[Thisbe runs off.

Dem.

Well roared, Lion. 272

The.

Well run, Thisbe.

Hip.

Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

[The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit.

The.

Well moused, Lion. 276

Dem.

And then came Pyramus.

Lys.

And so the lion vanished.

Re-enter Pyramus.

Pyr.

Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;

I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright,

For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams,

I trust to taste of truest Thisby’s sight.

But stay, O spite!

But mark, poor knight,  284

What dreadful dole is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!  288

Thy mantle good,

What! stain’d with blood!

Approach, ye Furies fell!

O Fates, come, come,  292

Cut thread and thrum;

Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!

The.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Hip.

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyr.

O! wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?

Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear?

Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame

That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. 301

Come tears, confound;

Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus:  304

Ay, that left pap,

Where heart doth hop:

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

[Stabs himself.

Now am I dead,  308

Now am I fled;

My soul is in the sky:

Tongue, lose thy light!

Moon, take thy flight!  312

[Exit Moonshine.

Now die, die, die, die, die.

[Dies.

Dem.

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Lys.

Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing. 317

The.

With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and prove an ass.

Hip.

How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? 321

The.

She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

Re-enter Thisbe.

Hip.

Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.

Dem.

A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us.

Lys.

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

Dem.

And thus she moans, videlicet:—

This.

Asleep, my love?  332

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise!

Speak, speak! Quite dumb?

Dead, dead! A tomb  336

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,  340

Are gone, are gone:

Lovers, make moan!

His eyes were green as leeks.

O, Sisters Three,  344

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,

Since you have shore  348

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word:

Come, trusty sword:

Come, blade, my breast imbrue:  352

[Stabs herself.

And farewell, friends;

Thus Thisby ends:

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

[Dies.

The.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. 357

Dem.

Ay, and Wall too.

Bot.

No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? 362

The.

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly, and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone.

[A dance.

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve;

Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. 373

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,

As much as we this night have overwatch’d.

This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d 376

The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.

A fortnight hold we this solemnity,

In nightly revels, and new jollity.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

Enter Puck.

Puck.

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.  4

Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.  8

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide:  12

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate’s team,

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,  16

Now are frolic; not a mouse

Shall disturb this hallow’d house:

I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.  20

Enter Oberon and Titania, with their Train.

Obe.

Through the house give glimmering light

By the dead and drowsy fire;

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier; 24

And this ditty after me

Sing and dance it trippingly.

Tita.

First, rehearse your song by rote,

To each word a warbling note: 28

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

[Song and dance.

Obe.

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.  32

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.  36

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature’s hand

Shall not in their issue stand:  40

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.  44

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait,

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace;  48

Ever shall in safety rest,

And the owner of it blest.

Trip away;

Make no stay;  52

Meet me all by break of day.

[Exeunt Oberon, Titania, and Train.

Puck.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here  56

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:  60

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I’m an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,  64

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call:

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,  68

And Robin shall restore amends.

[Exit.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke of Venice.
Prince of Morocco, }	Suitors to Portia.
Prince of Arragon, }	Suitors to Portia.
Antonio,	a Merchant of Venice.
Bassanio,	his Friend.
Gratiano, }	Friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
Salanio, }
Salarino, }
Lorenzo,	in love with Jessica.
Shylock,	a rich Jew.
Tubal,	a Jew, his Friend.
Launcelot Gobbo,	a Clown, Servant to Shylock.
Old Gobbo,	Father to Launcelot.
Leonardo,	Servant to Bassanio.
Balthazar, }	Servants to Portia.
Stephano, }	Servants to Portia.
Portia,	a rich Heiress.
Nerissa,	her Waiting-maid.
Jessica,	Daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio.

Ant.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:

It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, 4

I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean; 8

There, where your argosies with portly sail,—

Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,

Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,—

Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 12

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Salan.

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

The better part of my affections would 16

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind;

Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;

And every object that might make me fear 20

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

Would make me sad.

Salar.

My wind, cooling my broth,

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 24

I should not see the sandy hour-glass run

But I should think of shallows and of flats,

And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand

Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 28

To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side 32

Would scatter all her spices on the stream,

Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;

And, in a word, but even now worth this,

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought 36

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad?

But tell not me: I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 40

Ant.

Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

Upon the fortune of this present year: 44

Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad.

Salar.

Why, then you are in love.

Ant.

Fie, fie!

Salar.

Not in love neither? Then let’s say you are sad,

Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy

For you to laugh and leap, and say you are merry, 49

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time:

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes

And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 53

And other of such vinegar aspect

That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 56

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.

Salan.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

We leave you now with better company.

Salar.

I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, 60

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant.

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business calls on you,

And you embrace the occasion to depart. 64

Salar.

Good morrow, my good lords.

Bass.

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

Salar.

We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.

Lor.

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, 69

We too will leave you; but, at dinner-time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

Bass.

I will not fail you. 72

Gra.

You look not well, Signior Antonio;

You have too much respect upon the world:

They lose it that do buy it with much care:

Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d. 76

Ant.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

Gra.

Let me play the fool:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,

And let my liver rather heat with wine 81

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 84

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio—

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks—

There are a sort of men whose visages 88

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 92

As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!’

O, my Antonio, I do know of these,

That therefore only are reputed wise 96

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

I’ll tell thee more of this another time: 100

But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:

I’ll end my exhortation after dinner. 104

Lor.

Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.

I must be one of these same dumb-wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra.

Well, keep me company but two years moe, 108

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Ant.

Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

Gra.

Thanks, i’ faith; for silence is only commendable

In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.

Ant.

Is that anything now? 113

Bass.

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and, when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant.

Well, tell me now, what lady is the same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 121

That you to-day promis’d to tell me of?

Bass.

’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate, 124

By something showing a more swelling port

Than my faint means would grant continuance:

Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d

From such a noble rate; but my chief care 128

Is, to come fairly off from the great debts

Wherein my time, something too prodigal,

Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio,

I owe the most, in money and in love; 132

And from your love I have a warranty

To unburthen all my plots and purposes

How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Ant.

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; 136

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

Within the eye of honour, be assur’d,

My purse, my person, my extremest means,

Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. 140

Bass.

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

The self-same way with more advised watch,

To find the other forth, and by adventuring both,

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,

Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,

That which I owe is lost; but if you please 148

To shoot another arrow that self way

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,

As I will watch the aim, or to find both,

Or bring your latter hazard back again, 152

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant.

You know me well, and herein spend but time

To wind about my love with circumstance;

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

In making question of my uttermost 157

Than if you had made waste of all I have:

Then do but say to me what I should do

That in your knowledge may by me be done, 160

And I am prest unto it: therefore speak.

Bass.

In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages: 165

Her name is Portia; nothing undervalu’d

To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia:

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 168

For the four winds blow in from every coast

Renowned suitors; and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strond, 172

And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio! had I but the means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift, 176

That I should questionless be fortunate.

Ant.

Thou knowest that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money, nor commodity

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; 180

Try what my credit can in Venice do:

That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost,

To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 184

Where money is, and I no question make

To have it of my trust or for my sake.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Portia and Nerissa.

Por.

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

Ner.

You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 10

Por.

Good sentences and well pronounced.

Ner.

They would be better if well followed.

Por.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word ‘choose!’ I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none? 29

Ner.

Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore, the lottery that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? 38

Por.

I pray thee, over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.

Ner.

First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 42

Por.

Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother played false with a smith.

Ner.

Then is there the County Palatine. 48

Por.

He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, ‘An you will not have me, choose.’ He hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

Ner.

How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? 58

Por.

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker; but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 69

Ner.

What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

Por.

You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian; and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man’s picture, but, alas! who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour every where. 81

Ner.

What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

Por.

That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed under for another.

Ner.

How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew? 90

Por.

Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

Ner.

If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him. 100

Por.

Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for, if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. 106

Ner.

You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords: they have acquainted me with their determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father’s imposition depending on the caskets. 113

Por.

If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. 120

Ner.

Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in the company of the Marquis of Montferrat? 124

Por.

Yes, yes: it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

Ner.

True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. 129

Por.

I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

Enter a Servant.

How now! what news? 132

Serv.

The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night. 137

Por.

If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach: if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. 143

Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Venice. A public Place.

Enter Bassanio and Shylock.

Shy.

Three thousand ducats; well?

Bass.

Ay, sir, for three months.

Shy.

For three months; well?

Bass.

For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. 5

Shy.

Antonio shall become bound; well?

Bass.

May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer? 8

Shy.

Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.

Bass.

Your answer to that.

Shy.

Antonio is a good man. 12

Bass.

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

Shy.

Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats and water-rats, land-thieves, and water-thieves,—I mean pirates,—and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think, I may take his bond. 28

Bass.

Be assured you may.

Shy.

I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? 32

Bass.

If it please you to dine with us.

Shy.

Yes, to smell pork: to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? 40

Enter Antonio.

Bass.

This is Signior Antonio.

Shy.

[Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian;

But more for that in low simplicity 44

He lends out money gratis, and brings down

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 48

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,

Even there where merchants most do congregate,

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 52

If I forgive him!

Bass.

Shylock, do you hear?

Shy.

I am debating of my present store,

And, by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantly raise up the gross 56

Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

Will furnish me. But soft! how many months

Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair, good signior; 60

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Ant.

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 64

I’ll break a custom. [To Bassanio.] Is he yet possess’d

How much ye would?

Shy.

Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

Ant.

And for three months.

Shy.

I had forgot; three months; you told me so. 68

Well then, your bond; and let me see. But hear you;

Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow

Upon advantage.

Ant.

I do never use it.

Shy.

When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep,— 72

This Jacob from our holy Abram was,

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,

The third possessor: ay, he was the third,—

Ant.

And what of him? did he take interest?

Shy.

No; not take interest; not, as you would say, 77

Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himself were compromis’d,

That all the eanlings that were streak’d and pied 80

Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank,

In end of autumn turned to the rams;

And, when the work of generation was

Between these woolly breeders in the act, 84

The skilful shepherd peel’d me certain wands,

And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time 88

Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s.

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:

And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

Ant.

This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for; 92

A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven.

Was this inserted to make interest good?

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 96

Shy.

I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast: But note me, signior.

Ant.

Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

An evil soul, producing holy witness, 100

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

A goodly apple rotten at the heart.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Shy.

Three thousand ducats; ’tis a good round sum. 104

Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.

Ant.

Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

Shy.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me 108

About my moneys and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 112

And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to then; you come to me, and you say, 116

‘Shylock, we would have moneys:’ you say so;

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. 120

What should I say to you? Should I not say,

‘Hath a dog money? Is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ or

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key, 124

With bated breath, and whispering humbleness,

Say this:—

‘Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn’d me such a day; another time 128

You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies

I’ll lend you thus much moneys?’

Ant.

I am as like to call thee so again,

To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. 132

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not

As to thy friends,—for when did friendship take

A breed for barren metal of his friend?—

But lend it rather to thine enemy; 136

Who if he break, thou mayst with better face

Exact the penalty.

Shy.

Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you, and have your love,

Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, 140

Supply your present wants, and take no doit

Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me:

This is kind I offer.

Ant.

This were kindness.

Shy.

This kindness will I show.

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 145

Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

If you repay me not on such a day,

In such a place, such sum or sums as are 148

Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit

Be nominated for an equal pound

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

In what part of your body pleaseth me. 152

Ant.

Content, i’ faith: I’ll seal to such a bond,

And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

Bass.

You shall not seal to such a bond for me:

I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. 156

Ant.

Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:

Within these two months, that’s a month before

This bond expires, I do expect return

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 160

Shy.

O father Abram! what these Christians are,

Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect

The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this;

If he should break his day, what should I gain

By the exaction of the forfeiture? 165

A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man,

Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 168

To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:

If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

Ant.

Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

Shy.

Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s;

Give him direction for this merry bond,

And I will go and purse the ducats straight,

See to my house, left in the fearful guard 176

Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

I will be with you.

Ant.

Hie thee, gentle Jew.

[Exit Shylock.

This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

Bass.

I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. 180

Ant.

Come on: in this there can be no dismay;

My ships come home a month before the day.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, and his Followers; Portia, Nerissa, and Others of her Train.

Mor.

Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun,

To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.

Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 4

Where Phœbus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,

And let us make incision for your love,

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 8

Hath fear’d the valiant: by my love, I swear

The best regarded virgins of our clime

Have lov’d it too: I would not change this hue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

Por.

In terms of choice I am not solely led

By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;

Besides, the lottery of my destiny

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing: 16

But if my father had not scanted me

And hedg’d me by his wit, to yield myself

His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 20

As any comer I have look’d on yet

For my affection.

Mor.

Even for that I thank you:

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

To try my fortune. By this scimitar,— 24

That slew the Sophy, and a Persian prince

That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,—

I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,

Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 28

Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,

To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!

If Hercules and Lichas play at dice 32

Which is the better man, the greater throw

May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

So is Alcides beaten by his page;

And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 36

Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

And die with grieving.

Por.

You must take your chance;

And either not attempt to choose at all,

Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,

Never to speak to lady afterward 41

In way of marriage: therefore be advis’d.

Mor.

Nor will not: come, bring me unto my chance.

Por.

First, forward to the temple: after dinner 44

Your hazard shall be made.

Mor.

Good fortune then!

To make me blest or cursed’st among men!

[Cornets, and exeunt.

Scene II.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Launcelot Gobbo.

Laun.

Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, ‘Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,’ or ‘good Gobbo,’ or ‘good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.’ My conscience says, ‘No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo;’ or, as aforesaid, ‘honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.’ Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: ‘Via!’ says the fiend; ‘away!’ says the fiend; ‘for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,’ says the fiend, ‘and run.’ Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, ‘My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,’—or rather an honest woman’s son;—for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;—well, my conscience says, ‘Launcelot, budge not.’ ‘Budge,’ says the fiend. ‘Budge not,’ says my conscience. ‘Conscience,’ say I, ‘you counsel well;’ ‘fiend,’ say I, ‘you counsel well:’ to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. 33

Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket.

Gob.

Master young man, you; I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?

Laun.

[Aside.] O heavens! this is my truebegotten father, who, being more than sandblind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

Gob.

Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s? 41

Laun.

Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.

Gob.

By God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? 49

Laun.

Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside.] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

Gob.

No master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his father, though I say it, is an honest, exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. 56

Laun.

Well, let his father be what a’ will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.

Gob.

Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir. 60

Laun.

But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

Gob.

Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership. 64

Laun.

Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,—according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,—is, indeed, deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

Gob.

Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. 72

Laun.

[Aside.] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?

Gob.

Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman: but I pray you, tell me, is my boy,—God rest his soul!—alive or dead?

Laun.

Do you not know me, father?

Gob.

Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. 81

Laun.

Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, but, in the end, truth will out. 88

Gob.

Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.

Laun.

Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. 94

Gob.

I cannot think you are my son.

Laun.

I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. 98

Gob.

Her name is Margery, indeed: I’ll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail. 104

Laun.

It should seem then that Dobbin’s tail grows backward: I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face, when I last saw him. 108

Gob.

Lord! how art thou changed. How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

Laun.

Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew: give him a present! give him a halter: I am farnished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. 123

Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and other Followers.

Bass.

You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the very furthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered; put the liveries to making; and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

[Exit a Servant.

Laun.

To him, father. 129

Gob.

God bless your worship!

Bass.

Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me? 132

Gob.

Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy,—

Laun.

Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man; that would, sir,—as my father shall specify,— 136

Gob.

He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve—

Laun.

Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify,— 141

Gob.

His master and he, saving your worship’s reverence, are scarce cater-cousins,—

Laun.

To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew having done me wrong, doth cause me,—as my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you,— 147

Gob.

I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is,—

Laun.

In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

Bass.

One speak for both. What would you?

Laun.

Serve you, sir. 156

Gob.

That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

Bass.

I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit:

Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, 160

And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment

To leave a rich Jew’s service, to become

The follower of so poor a gentleman.

Laun.

The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.

Bass.

Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son.

Take leave of thy old master, and inquire 168

My lodging out. [To his followers.] Give him a livery

More guarded than his fellows’: see it done.

Laun.

Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have ne’er a tongue in my head. Well, [Looking on his palm.] if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here’s a simple line of life: here’s a small trifle of wives: alas! fifteen wives is nothing: a ’leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man; and then to ’scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple ’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. 184

[Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo.

Bass.

I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:

These things being bought, and orderly bestow’d,

Return in haste, for I do feast to-night

My best-esteem’d acquaintance: hie thee, go. 188

Leon.

My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter Gratiano.

Gra.

Where is your master?

Leon.

Yonder, sir, he walks.

[Exit.

Gra.

Signior Bassanio!—

Bass.

Gratiano! 192

Gra.

I have a suit to you.

Bass.

You have obtain’d it.

Gra.

You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.

Bass.

Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;

Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;

Parts that become thee happily enough, 197

And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;

But where thou art not known, why, there they show

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 200

To allay with some cold drops of modesty

Thy skipping spirit, lest, through thy wild behaviour,

I be misconstru’d in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes.

Gra.

Signior Bassanio, hear me: 204

If I do not put on a sober habit,

Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say ‘amen;’

Use all the observance of civility,

Like one well studied in a sad ostent

To please his grandam, never trust me more. 212

Bass.

Well, we shall see your bearing.

Gra.

Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me

By what we do to-night.

Bass.

No, that were pity:

I would entreat you rather to put on 216

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

That purpose merriment. But fare you well:

I have some business.

Gra.

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; 220

But we will visit you at supper-time.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in Shylock’s House.

Enter Jessica and Launcelot.

Jes.

I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:

Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,

Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee: 4

And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see

Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest:

Give him this letter; do it secretly;

And so farewell: I would not have my father 8

See me in talk with thee.

Laun.

Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian did not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit: adieu!

Jes.

Farewell, good Launcelot.

[Exit Launcelot.

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 16

To be asham’d to be my father’s child!

But though I am a daughter to his blood,

I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo!

If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 20

Become a Christian, and thy loving wife.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio.

Lor.

Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,

Disguise us at my lodging, and return

All in an hour.

Gra.

We have not made good preparation. 4

Salar.

We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.

Salan.

’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,

And better, in my mind, not undertook.

Lor.

’Tis now but four o’clock: we have two hours 8

To furnish us.

Enter Launcelot, with a letter.

Friend Launcelot, what’s the news?

Laun.

An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.

Lor.

I know the hand: in faith, ’tis a fair hand;

And whiter than the paper it writ on 13

Is the fair hand that writ.

Gra.

Love news, in faith.

Laun.

By your leave, sir.

Lor.

Whither goest thou? 16

Laun.

Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian.

Lor.

Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica

I will not fail her; speak it privately. 21

Go, gentlemen,

[Exit Launcelot.

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?

I am provided of a torch-bearer. 24

Salar.

Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.

Salan.

And so will I.

Lor.

Meet me and Gratiano

At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

Salar.

’Tis good we do so. 28

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.

Gra.

Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

Lor.

I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed

How I shall take her from her father’s house;

What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with; 32

What page’s suit she hath in readiness.

If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven,

It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake;

And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 36

Unless she do it under this excuse,

That she is issue to a faithless Jew.

Come, go with me: peruse this as thou goest.

Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Before Shylock’s House.

Enter Shylock and Launcelot.

Shy.

Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—

What, Jessical—thou shalt not gormandize,

As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessical—

And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out— 5

Why, Jessica, I say!

Laun.

Why, Jessica!

Shy.

Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

Laun.

Your worship was wont to tell me that

I could do nothing without bidding. 9

Enter Jessica.

Jes.

Call you? What is your will?

Shy.

I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:

There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?

I am not bid for love; they flatter me: 13

But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon

The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,

Look to my house. I am right loath to go: 16

There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,

For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

Laun.

I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach. 20

Shy.

So do I his.

Laun.

And they have conspired together: I will not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last, at six o’clock i’ the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon.

Shy.

What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: 28

Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,

And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,

Clamber not you up to the casements then,

Nor thrust your head into the public street 32

To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces,

But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements;

Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter

My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear 36

I have no mind of feasting forth to-night;

But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;

Say I will come.

Laun.

I will go before, air. Mistress, look out at window, for all this; 41

There will come a Christian by,

Will be worth a Jewess’ eye.

[Exit Launcelot.

Shy.

What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha? 44

Jes.

His words were, ‘Farewell, mistress;’ nothing else.

Shy.

The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;

Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day

More than the wild cat: drones hive not with me; 48

Therefore I part with him, and part with him

To one that I would have him help to waste

His borrow’d purse. Well, Jessica, go in:

Perhaps I will return immediately: 52

Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:

‘Fast bind, fast find,’

A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[Exit.

Jes.

Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,

I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same.

Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued.

Gra.

This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo

Desir’d us to make stand.

Salar.

His hour is almost past.

Gra.

And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,

For lovers ever run before the clock. 4

Salar.

O! ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly

To seal love’s bonds new-made, than they are wont

To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

Gra.

That ever holds: who riseth from a feast

With that keen appetite that he sits down? 9

Where is the horse that doth untread again

His tedious measures with the unbated fire

That he did pace them first? All things that are,

Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. 13

How like a younker or a prodigal

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! 16

How like the prodigal doth she return,

With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails,

Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Salar.

Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter. 20

Enter Lorenzo.

Lor.

Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;

Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:

When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,

I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach; 24

Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes.

Jes.

Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.

Lor.

Lorenzo, and thy love. 28

Jes.

Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,

For whom love I so much? And now who knows

But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

Lor.

Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. 32

Jes.

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,

For I am much asham’d of my exchange;

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 36

The pretty follies that themselves commit;

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformed to a boy.

Lor.

Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. 40

Jes.

What! must I hold a candle to my shames?

They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light.

Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love,

And I should be obscur’d.

Lor.

So are you, sweet, 44

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

But come at once;

For the close night doth play the runaway,

And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. 48

Jes.

I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

[Exit above.

Gra.

Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.

Lor.

Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; 52

For she is wise, if I can judge of her,

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself;

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,

Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 57

Enter Jessica.

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!

Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

[Exit with Jessica and Salarino.

Enter Antonio.

Ant.

Who’s there? 60

Gra.

Signior Antonio!

Ant.

Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?

’Tis nine o’clock; our friends all stay for you.

No masque to-night: the wind is come about; 64

Bassanio presently will go aboard:

I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

Gra.

I am glad on’t: I desire no more delight

Than to be under sail and gone to-night. 68

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and their Trains.

Por.

Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover

The several caskets to this noble prince.

Now make your choice.

Mor.

The first, of gold, which this inscription bears: 4

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

The second, silver, which this promise carries:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt:

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. 9

How shall I know if I do choose the right?

Por.

The one of them contains my picture, prince:

If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 12

Mor.

Some god direct my judgment! Let me see:

I will survey the inscriptions back again:

What says this leaden casket?

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. 16

Must give: For what? for lead? hazard for lead?

This casket threatens. Men that hazard all

Do it in hope of fair advantages:

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; 20

I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.

What says the silver with her virgin hue?

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,

And weigh thy value with an even hand. 25

If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough

May not extend so far as to the lady: 28

And yet to be afeard of my deserving

Were but a weak disabling of myself.

As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady:

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 32

In graces, and in qualities of breeding;

But more than these, in love I do deserve.

What if I stray’d no further, but chose here?

Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: 36

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

Why, that’s the lady: all the world desires her;

From the four corners of the earth they come,

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:

The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds 41

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now

For princes to come view fair Portia:

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 44

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come,

As o’er a brook, to see fair Portia.

One of these three contains her heavenly picture.

Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation 49

To think so base a thought: it were too gross

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d, 52

Being ten times undervalu’d to tried gold?

O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England

A coin that bears the figure of an angel 56

Stamped in gold, but that’s insculp’d upon;

But here an angel in a golden bed

Lies all within. Deliver me the key:

Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! 60

Por.

There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,

Then I am yours.

[He unlocks the golden casket.

Mor.

O hell! what have we here?

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.

All that glisters is not gold;  65

Often have you heard that told:

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold:  68

Gilded tombs do worms infold.

Had you been as wise as bold,

Young in limbs, in judgment old,

Your answer had not been inscroll’d:  72

Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Cold, indeed; and labour lost:

Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!

Portia, adieu. I have too griev’d a heart 76

To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

[Exit with his Train. Flourish of Cornets.

Por.

A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go.

Let all of his complexion choose me so.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Salarino and Salanio.

Salar.

Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:

With him is Gratiano gone along;

And in their ship I’m sure Lorenzo is not.

Salan.

The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the duke, 4

Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

Salar.

He came too late, the ship was under sail:

But there the duke was given to understand

That in a gondola were seen together 8

Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.

Besides, Antonio certified the duke

They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

Salan.

I never heard a passion so confus’d, 12

So strange, outrageous, and so variable,

As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:

‘My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!

Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!

A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter!

And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, 20

Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.’

Salar.

Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,

Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

Salan.

Let good Antonio look he keep his day, 25

Or he shall pay for this.

Salar.

Marry, well remember’d.

I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday,

Who told me,—in the narrow seas that part 28

The French and English,—there miscarried

A vessel of our country richly fraught.

I thought upon Antonio when he told me,

And wish’d in silence that it were not his. 32

Salan.

You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

Salar.

A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: 36

Bassanio told him he would make some speed

Of his return: he answer’d ‘Do not so;

Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,

But stay the very riping of the time; 40

And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me,

Let it not enter in your mind of love:

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts

To courtship and such fair ostents of love 44

As shall conveniently become you there:’

And even there, his eye being big with tears,

Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

And with affection wondrous sensible 48

He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted.

Salan.

I think he only loves the world for him.

I pray thee, let us go and find him out,

And quicken his embraced heaviness 52

With some delight or other.

Salar.

Do we so.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Nerissa, with a Servitor.

Ner.

Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:

The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath,

And comes to his election presently.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains.

Por.

Behold, there stands the caskets, noble prince: 4

If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,

Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d;

But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

You must be gone from hence immediately. 8

Ar.

I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:

First, never to unfold to any one

Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail

Of the right casket, never in my life 12

To woo a maid in way of marriage;

Lastly,

If I do fail in fortune of my choice,

Immediately to leave you and be gone. 16

Por.

To these injunctions every one doth swear

That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

Ar.

And so have I address’d me. Fortune now

To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead.

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath: 21

You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.

What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. 24

What many men desire! that ‘many’ may be meant

By the fool multitude, that choose by show,

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;

Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, 28

Builds in the weather on the outward wall,

Even in the force and road of casualty.

I will not choose what many men desire,

Because I will not jump with common spirits 32

And rank me with the barbarous multitude.

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. 36

And well said too; for who shall go about

To cozen fortune and be honourable

Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume

To wear an undeserved dignity. 40

O! that estates, degrees, and offices

Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour

Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer.

How many then should cover that stand bare;

How many be commanded that command; 45

How much low peasantry would then be glean’d

From the true seed of honour; and how much honour

Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times 48

To be new varnish’d! Well, but to my choice:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,

And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 52

[He opens the silver casket.

Por.

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

Ar.

What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,

Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.

How much unlike art thou to Portia! 56

How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!

Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.

Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?

Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? 60

Por.

To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,

And of opposed natures.

Ar.

What is here?

The fire seven times tried this:

Seven times tried that judgment is  64

That did never choose amiss.

Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow’s bliss:

There be fools alive, I wis,  68

Silver’d o’er; and so was this.

Take what wife you will to bed,

I will ever be your head:

So be gone, sir: you are sped.  72

Still more fool I shall appear

By the time I linger here:

With one fool’s head I came to woo,

But I go away with two. 76

Sweet, adieu. I’ll keep my oath,

Patiently to bear my wroth.

[Exit Arragon with his Train.

Por.

Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth.

O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 81

Ner.

The ancient saying is no heresy:

‘Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.’

Por.

Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 84

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Where is my lady?

Por.

Here; what would my lord?

Ser.

Madam, there is alighted at your gate

A young Venetian, one that comes before

To signify the approaching of his lord; 88

From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,

To wit, — besides commends and courteous breath,—

Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen

So likely an embassador of love. 92

A day in April never came so sweet,

To show how costly summer was at hand,

As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

Por.

No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard

Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 97

Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him.

Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see

Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly. 100

Ner.

Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Salanio and Salarino.

Salan.

Now, what news on the Rialto?

Salar.

Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wracked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very dangerous flat, and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. 8

Salan.

I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger, or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true,—without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk,—that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O, that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!— 16

Salar.

Come, the full stop.

Salan.

Ha! what sayst thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.

Salar.

I would it might prove the end of his losses. 21

Salan.

Let me say ‘amen’ betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. 24

Enter Shylock.

How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?

Shy.

You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight. 28

Salar.

That’s certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

Salan.

And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. 33

Shy.

She is damned for it.

Salar.

That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge. 36

Shy.

My own flesh and blood to rebel!

Salan.

Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these years?

Shy.

I say my daughter is my flesh and blood. 41

Salar.

There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no? 47

Shy.

There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond. 54

Salar.

Why, I am sure, if he forfeit thou wilt not take his flesh: what’s that good for?

Shy.

To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. 78

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.

Salar.

We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter Tubal.

Salan.

Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. 85

[Exeunt Salanio, Salarino and Servant.

Shy.

How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter?

Tub.

I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. 89

Shy.

Why there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know not what’s spent in the search: Why thou—loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge: nor no ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears but of my shedding. 104

Tub.

Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,—

Shy.

What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

Tub.

—hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis. 109

Shy.

I thank God! I thank God! Is it true? is it true?

Tub.

I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack. 113

Shy.

I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! ha, ha! Where? in Genoa?

Tub.

Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. 117

Shy.

Thou stick’st a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats! 120

Tub.

There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.

Shy.

I am very glad of it: I’ll plague him; I’ll torture him: I am glad of it. 125

Tub.

One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

Shy.

Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

Tub.

But Antonio is certainly undone. 132

Shy.

Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants.

Por.

I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong.

I lose your company: therefore, forbear awhile.

There’s something tells me, but it is not love,

I would not lose you; and you know yourself, 5

Hate counsels not in such a quality.

But lest you should not understand me well,—

And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,—

I would detain you here some month or two 9

Before you venture for me. I could teach you

How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;

So will I never be: so may you miss me; 12

But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin,

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

They have o’erlook’d me and divided me:

One half of me is yours, the other half yours, 16

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

And so all yours. O! these naughty times

Put bars between the owners and their rights;

And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, 20

Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

I speak too long; but ’tis to peise the time,

To eke it and to draw it out in length,

To stay you from election.

Bass.

Let me choose; 24

For as I am, I live upon the rack.

Por.

Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess

What treason there is mingled with your love.

Bass.

None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love:

There may as well be amity and life 30

’Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

Por.

Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

Where men enforced do speak anything. 33

Bass.

Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth.

Por.

Well then, confess, and live.

Bass.

‘Confess’ and ‘love’

Had been the very sum of my confession: 36

O happy torment, when my torturer

Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

Por.

Away then! I am lock’d in one of them:

If you do love me, you will find me out. 41

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.

Let music sound while he doth make his choice;

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 44

Fading in music: that the comparison

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream

And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

And what is music then? then music is 48

Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

To a new-crowned monarch: such it is

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear,

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 53

With no less presence, but with much more love,

Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 56

To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice;

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

With bleared visages, come forth to view

The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! 60

Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay

I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray.

[A Song, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself.

Tell me where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head? 64

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engender’d in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and fancy dies 68

In the cradle where it lies

Let us all ring fancy’s knell;

I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.

All.

Ding, dong, bell. 72

Bass.

So may the outward shows be least themselves:

The world is still deceiv’d with ornament.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt

But, being season’d with a gracious voice, 76

Obscures the show of evil? In religion,

What damned error, but some sober brow

Will bless it and approve it with a text,

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 80

There is no vice so simple but assumes

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 84

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,

Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk;

And these assume but valour’s excrement

To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, 88

And you shall see ’tis purchas’d by the weight;

Which therein works a miracle in nature,

Making them lightest that wear most of it:

So are those crisped snaky golden locks 92

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,

Upon supposed fairness, often known

To be the dowry of a second head,

The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre. 96

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,

The seeming truth which cunning times put on

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, 104

Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught,

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,

And here choose I: joy be the consequence!

Por.

[Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air, 108

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair,

And shuddering fear, and green-ey’d jealousy.

O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy;

In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess; 112

I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,

For fear I surfeit!

Bass.

What find I here?

[Opening the leaden casket.

Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god

Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?

Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 117

Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,

Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar

Should sunder such sweet friends. Here, in her hairs 120

The painter plays the spider, and hath woven

A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men

Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes!—

How could he see to do them? having made one,

Methinks it should have power to steal both his

And leave itself unfurnish’d: yet look, how far

The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow

In underprizing it, so far this shadow 128

Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll,

The continent and summary of my fortune.

You that choose not by the view,

Chance as fair and choose as true! 132

Since this fortune falls to you,

Be content and seek no new.

If you be well pleas’d with this

And hold your fortune for your bliss, 136

Turn you where your lady is

And claim her with a loving kiss.

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;

[Kissing her.

I come by note, to give and to receive. 140

Like one of two contending in a prize,

That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes,

Hearing applause and universal shout,

Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 144

Whether those peals of praise be his or no;

So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so,

As doubtful whether what I see be true,

Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. 148

Por.

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am: though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet, for you 152

I would be trebled twenty times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high in your account, 156

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account: but the full sum of me

Is sum of nothing; which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 161

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 164

Commits itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Myself and what is mine to you and yours

Is now converted: but now I was the lord 168

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,

This house, these servants, and this same myself

Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring;

Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

Let it presage the ruin of your love,

And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

Bass.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words,

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; 177

And there is such confusion in my powers,

As, after some oration fairly spoke

By a beloved prince, there doth appear 180

Among the buzzing pleased multitude;

Where every something, being blent together,

Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,

Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring

Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: 185

O! then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead.

Ner.

My lord and lady, it is now our time,

That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,

To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady!

Gra.

My Lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,

I wish you all the joy that you can wish;

For I am sure you can wish none from me: 192

And when your honours mean to solemnize

The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,

Even at that time I may be married too.

Bass.

With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. 196

Gra.

I thank your lordship, you have got me one.

My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:

You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;

You lov’d, I lov’d for intermission. 200

No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.

Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,

And so did mine too, as the matter falls;

For wooing here until I sweat again, 204

And swearing till my very roof was dry

With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,

I got a promise of this fair one here

To have her love, provided that your fortune 208

Achiev’d her mistress.

Por.

Is this true, Nerissa?

Ner.

Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal.

Bass.

And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

Gra.

Yes, faith, my lord. 212

Bass.

Our feast shall be much honour’d in your marriage.

Gra.

We’ll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.

Ner.

What! and stake down? 216

Gra.

No; we shall ne’er win at that sport, and stake down.

But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel?

What! and my old Venetian friend, Salanio? 220

Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salanio.

Bass.

Lorenzo, and Salanio, welcome hither,

If that the youth of my new interest here

Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,

I bid my very friends and countrymen, 224

Sweet Portia, welcome.

Por.

So do I, my lord:

They are entirely welcome.

Lor.

I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,

My purpose was not to have seen you here; 228

But meeting with Salanio by the way,

He did entreat me, past all saying nay,

To come with him along.

Salan.

I did, my lord,

And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio 232

Commends him to you.

[Gives Bassanio a letter.

Bass

Ere I ope his letter,

I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.

Salan.

Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;

Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there 236

Will show you his estate.

Gra.

Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.

Your hand, Salanio. What’s the news from Venice?

How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?

I know he will be glad of our success; 241

We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

Salan.

I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

Por.

There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper, 244

That steal the colour from Bassanio’s cheek:

Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world

Could turn so much the constitution

Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!

With leave, Bassanio; I am half yourself, 249

And I must freely have the half of anything

That this same paper brings you.

Bass.

O sweet Portia!

Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words 252

That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

I freely told you all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman: 256

And then I told you true; and yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much I was a braggart. When I told you

My state was nothing, I should then have told you

That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, 261

I have engag’d myself to a dear friend,

Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy,

To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; 264

The paper as the body of my friend,

And every word in it a gaping wound,

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio?

Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit?

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, 269

From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?

And not one vessel ’scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks?

Salan.

Not one, my lord. 272

Besides, it should appear, that if he had

The present money to discharge the Jew,

He would not take it. Never did I know

A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 276

So keen and greedy to confound a man.

He plies the duke at morning and at night,

And doth impeach the freedom of the state,

If they deny him justice: twenty merchants, 280

The duke himself, and the magnificoes

Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;

But none can drive him from the envious plea

Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. 284

Jes.

When I was with him, I have heard him swear

To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,

That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh

Than twenty times the value of the sum 288

That he did owe him; and I know, my lord,

If law, authority, and power deny not,

It will go hard with poor Antonio.

Por.

Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? 292

Bass.

The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,

The best-condition’d and unwearied spirit

In doing courtesies, and one in whom

The ancient Roman honour more appears 296

Than any that draws breath in Italy.

Por.

What sum owes he the Jew?

Bass.

For me, three thousand ducats.

Por.

What, no more?

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; 300

Double six thousand, and then treble that,

Before a friend of this description

Shall lose a hair thorough Bassanio’s fault.

First go with me to church and call me wife, 304

And then away to Venice to your friend;

For never shall you lie by Portia’s side

With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold

To pay the petty debt twenty times over: 308

When it is paid, bring your true friend along.

My maid Nerissa and myself meantime,

Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!

For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. 312

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer;

Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.

But let me hear the letter of your friend. 315

Bass.

Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.

Por.

O love, dispatch all business, and be gone! 324

Bass.

Since I have your good leave to go away,

I will make haste; but, till I come again,

No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay,

Nor rest be interposer ’twixt us twain.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler.

Shy.

Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;

This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

Gaoler, look to him.

Ant.

Hear me yet, good Shylock.

Shy.

I’ll have my bond; speak not against my bond: 4

I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:

The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,

Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 9

To come abroad with him at his request.

Ant.

I pray thee, hear me speak.

Shy.

I’ll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak: 12

I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more.

I’ll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield

To Christian intercessors. Follow not; 16

I’ll have no speaking; I will have my bond.

[Exit.

Salar.

It is the most impenetrable cur

That ever kept with men.

Ant.

Let him alone:

I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

He seeks my life; his reason well I know. 21

I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures

Many that have at times made moan to me;

Therefore he hates me.

Salar.

I am sure the duke 24

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

Ant.

The duke cannot deny the course of law:

For the commodity that strangers have

With us in Venice, if it be denied, 28

’Twill much impeach the justice of the state;

Since that the trade and profit of the city

Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:

These griefs and losses have so bated me, 32

That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh

To-morrow to my bloody creditor.

Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come

To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! 36

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthazar.

Lor.

Madam, although I speak it in your presence,

You have a noble and a true conceit

Of god-like amity; which appears most strongly

In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 4

But if you knew to whom you show this honour,

How true a gentleman you send relief,

How dear a lover of my lord your husband,

I know you would be prouder of the work 8

Than customary bounty can enforce you.

Por.

I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now: for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 13

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit;

Which makes me think that this Antonio, 16

Being the bosom lover of my lord,

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,

How little is the cost I have bestow’d

In purchasing the semblance of my soul 20

From out the state of hellish cruelty!

This comes too near the praising of myself;

Therefore, no more of it: hear other things.

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 24

The husbandry and manage of my house

Until my lord’s return: for mine own part,

I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow

To live in prayer and contemplation, 28

Only attended by Nerissa here,

Until her husband and my lord’s return.

There is a monastery two miles off,

And there will we abide. I do desire you 32

Not to deny this imposition,

The which my love and some necessity

Now lays upon you.

Lor.

Madam, with all my heart:

I shall obey you in all fair commands. 36

Por.

My people do already know my mind,

And will acknowledge you and Jessica

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

So fare you well till we shall meet again. 40

Lor.

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

Jes.

I wish your ladyship all heart’s content.

Por.

I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas’d

To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica.

[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo.

Now, Balthazar, 45

As I have ever found thee honest-true,

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,

And use thou all the endeavour of a man 48

In speed to Padua: see thou render this

Into my cousin’s hand, Doctor Bellario;

And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed 52

Unto the traject, to the common ferry

Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,

But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.

Balth.

Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

[Exit.

Por.

Come on, Nerissa: I have work in hand

That you yet know not of: we’ll see our husbands

Before they think of us.

Ner.

Shall they see us?

Por.

They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit

That they shall think we are accomplished 61

With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager,

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 64

And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

And speak between the change of man and boy

With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 68

Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,

How honourable ladies sought my love,

Which I denying, they fell sick and died:

I could not do withal; then I’ll repent, 72

And wish, for all that, that I had not kill’d them:

And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell,

That men shall swear I have discontinu’d school

Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,

Which I will practise.

Ner.

Why, shall we turn to men?

Por.

Fie, what a question’s that,

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! 80

But come: I’ll tell thee all my whole device

When I am in my coach, which stays for us

At the park gate; and therefore haste away,

For we must measure twenty miles to-day. 84

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. A Garden.

Enter Launcelot and Jessica.

Laun.

Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter: therefore be of good cheer; for, truly, I think you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. 8

Jes.

And what hope is that, I pray thee?

Laun.

Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew’s daughter. 12

Jes.

That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.

Laun.

Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are gone both ways.

Jes.

I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. 21

Laun.

Truly the more to blame he: we were Christians enow before; e’en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. 27

Jes.

I’ll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.

Enter Lorenzo.

Lor.

I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners. 32

Jes.

Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter: and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for, in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price of pork. 39

Lor.

I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. 43

Laun.

It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. 47

Lor.

How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah: bid them prepare for dinner. 52

Laun.

That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

Lor.

Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid them prepare dinner. 56

Laun.

That is done too, sir; only, ‘cover’ is the word.

Lor.

Will you cover, then, sir? 59

Laun.

Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.

Lor.

Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. 66

Laun.

For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.

[Exit.

Lor.

O dear discretion, how his words are suited!

The fool hath planted in his memory 72

An army of good words: and I do know

A many fools, that stand in better place,

Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word

Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion; 77

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife?

Jes.

Past all expressing. It is very meet,

The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, 80

For, having such a blessing in his lady,

He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;

And if on earth he do not mean it, then

In reason he should never come to heaven. 84

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,

And on the wager lay two earthly women,

And Portia one, there must be something else

Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world

Hath not her fellow.

Lor.

Even such a husband 89

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

Jes.

Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

Lor.

I will anon; first, let us go to dinner. 92

Jes.

Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.

Lor.

No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsoe’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things I shall digest it.

Jes.

Well, I’ll set you forth.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Venice. A Court of Justice.

Enter the Duke: the Magnificoes; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salarino, Salanio, and Others.

Duke.

What, is Antonio here?

Ant.

Ready, so please your Grace.

Duke.

I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 4

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Ant.

I have heard

Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, 8

And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury, and am arm’d

To suffer with a quietness of spirit 12

The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke.

Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

Salar.

He’s ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

Enter Shylock.

Duke.

Make room, and let him stand before our face. 16

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy malice

To the last hour of act; and then ’tis thought

Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange 20

Than is thy strange-apparent cruelty;

And where thou now exact’st the penalty,—

Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh,—

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 24

But, touch’d with human gentleness and love,

Forgive a moiety of the principal;

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

That have of late so huddled on his back, 28

Enow to press a royal merchant down,

And pluck commiseration of his state

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d

To offices of tender courtesy. 33

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shy.

I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose;

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 36

To have the due and forfeit of my bond:

If you deny it, let the danger light

Upon your charter and your city’s freedom.

You’ll ask me, why I rather choose to have 40

A weight of carrion flesh than to receive

Three thousand ducats: I’ll not answer that:

But say it is my humour: is it answer’d?

What if my house be troubled with a rat, 44

And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats

To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet?

Some men there are love not a gaping pig;

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat; 48

And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose,

Cannot contain their urine: for affection,

Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood

Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer: 52

As there is no firm reason to be render’d,

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;

Why he, a harmless necessary cat;

Why he, a wauling bagpipe; but of force 56

Must yield to such inevitable shame

As to offend, himself being offended;

So can I give no reason, nor I will not,

More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 61

A losing suit against him. Are you answer’d?

Bass.

This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 64

Shy.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

Bass.

Do all men kill the things they do not love?

Shy.

Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

Bass.

Every offence is not a hate at first. 68

Shy.

What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

Ant.

I pray you, think you question with the Jew:

You may as well go stand upon the beach,

And bid the main flood bate his usual height; 72

You may as well use question with the wolf,

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

You may as well forbid the mountain pines

To wag their high tops, and to make no noise 76

When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;

You may as well do anything most hard,

As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?—

His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,

Make no more offers, use no further means; 81

But with all brief and plain conveniency,

Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.

Bass.

For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 84

Shy.

If every ducat in six thousand ducats

Were in six parts and every part a ducat,

I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

Duke.

How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none? 88

Shy.

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchas’d slave,

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts, 92

Because you bought them: shall I say to you,

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season’d with such viands? You will answer: 97

‘The slaves are ours:’ so do I answer you:

The pound of flesh which I demand of him,

Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it.

If you deny me, fie upon your law! 101

There is no force in the decrees of Venice.

I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

Duke.

Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 104

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day.

Salar.

My lord, here stays without

A messenger with letters from the doctor, 108

New come from Padua.

Duke.

Bring us the letters: call the messenger.

Bass.

Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 112

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

Ant.

I am a tainted wether of the flock,

Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit

Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me: 116

You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio,

Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer’s clerk.

Duke.

Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

Ner.

From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.

[Presents a letter.

Bass.

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? 121

Shy.

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

Gra.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou mak’st thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness 125

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

Shy.

No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

Gra.

O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! 128

And for thy life let justice be accus’d.

Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith

To hold opinion with Pythagoras,

That souls of animals infuse themselves 132

Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit

Govern’d a wolf, who, hang’d for human slaughter,

Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,

And whilst thou lay’st in thy unhallow’d dam,

Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires 137

Are wolfish, bloody, starv’d, and ravenous.

Shy.

Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,

Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud:

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 141

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

Duke.

This letter from Bellario doth commend

A young and learned doctor to our court. 144

Where is he?

Ner.

He attendeth here hard by,

To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him.

Duke.

With all my heart: some three or four of you

Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 148

Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter.

Clerk.

Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o’er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with his own learning,—the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,—comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation. 166

Duke.

You hear the learn’d Bellario, what he writes:

And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.

Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario?

Por.

I did, my lord.

Duke.

You are welcome: take your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference 171

That holds this present question in the court?

Por.

I am informed throughly of the cause.

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

Duke.

Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Por.

Is your name Shylock?

Shy.

Shylock is my name. 176

Por.

Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

[To Antonio.] You stand within his danger, do you not? 180

Ant.

Ay, so he says.

Por.

Do you confess the bond?

Ant.

I do.

Por.

Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shy.

On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

Por.

The quality of mercy is not strain’d, 184

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 188

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 193

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself,

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 198

That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy, 200

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea,

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. 205

Shy.

My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Por.

Is he not able to discharge the money?

Bass.

Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 209

Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,

I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er,

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. 212

If this will not suffice, it must appear

That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you,

Wrest once the law to your authority:

To do a great right, do a little wrong, 216

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Por.

It must not be. There is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established:

’Twill be recorded for a precedent, 220

And many an error by the same example

Will rush into the state. It cannot be.

Shy.

A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! 224

Por.

I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

Shy.

Here ’tis, most reverend doctor; here it is.

Por.

Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offer’d thee.

Shy.

An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: 228

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice.

Por.

Why, this bond is forfeit;

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 232

Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful:

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

Shy.

When it is paid according to the tenour.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge; 236

You know the law, your exposition

Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear 240

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me. I stay here on my bond.

Ant.

Most heartily I do beseech the court

To give the judgment.

Por.

Why then, thus it is: 244

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

Shy.

O noble judge! O excellent young man!

Por.

For, the intent and purpose of the law

Hath full relation to the penalty, 248

Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

Shy.

’Tis very true! O wise and upright judge!

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

Por.

Therefore lay bare your bosom.

Shy.

Ay, ‘his breast:’

So says the bond:—doth it not, noble judge?—

‘Nearest his heart:’ those are the very words.

Por.

It is so. Are there balance here to weigh

The flesh? 256

Shy.

I have them ready.

Por.

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

Shy.

Is it so nominated in the bond? 260

Por.

It is not so express’d; but what of that?

’Twere good you do so much for charity.

Shy.

I cannot find it: ’tis not in the bond.

Por.

You, merchant, have you anything to say? 264

Ant.

But little: I am arm’d and well prepar’d.

Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!

Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;

For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 268

Than is her custom: it is still her use

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow

An age of poverty; from which lingering penance 272

Of such a misery doth she cut me off.

Commend me to your honourable wife:

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end;

Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death; 276

And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge

Whether Bassanio had not once a love.

Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,

And he repents not that he pays your debt; 280

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,

I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart.

Bass.

Antonio, I am married to a wife

Which is as dear to me as life itself; 284

But life itself, my wife, and all the world,

Are not with me esteem’d above thy life:

I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all,

Here to this devil, to deliver you. 288

Por.

Your wife would give you little thanks for that,

If she were by to hear you make the offer.

Gra.

I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:

I would she were in heaven, so she could 292

Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

Ner.

’Tis well you offer it behind her back;

The wish would make else an unquiet house.

Shy.

These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter; 296

Would any of the stock of Barabbas

Had been her husband rather than a Christian!

We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.

Por.

A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine: 300

The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shy.

Most rightful judge!

Por.

And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:

The law allows it, and the court awards it. 304

Shy.

Most learned judge! A sentence! come, prepare!

Por.

Tarry a little: there is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;

The words expressly are ‘a pound of flesh:’ 308

Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 312

Unto the state of Venice.

Gra.

O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

Shy.

Is that the law?

Por.

Thyself shalt see the act;

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d 316

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.

Gra.

O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!

Shy.

I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,

And let the Christian go.

Bass.

Here is the money. 320

Por.

Soft!

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:—

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gra.

O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! 324

Por.

Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.

Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more,

But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak’st more,

Or less, than a just pound, be it but so much 328

As makes it light or heavy in the substance,

Or the division of the twentieth part

Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn

But in the estimation of a hair, 332

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.

Gra.

A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

Por.

Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture. 336

Shy.

Give me my principal, and let me go.

Bass.

I have it ready for thee; here it is.

Por.

He hath refus’d it in the open court:

He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 340

Gra.

A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shy.

Shall I not have barely my principal?

Por.

Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 344

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

Shy.

Why, then the devil give him good of it!

I’ll stay no longer question.

Por.

Tarry, Jew:

The law hath yet another hold on you. 348

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be prov’d against an alien

That by direct or indirect attempts

He seek the life of any citizen, 352

The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive

Shall seize one half his goods; the other half

Comes to the privy coffer of the state;

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy 356

Of the duke only, ’gainst all other voice.

In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st;

For it appears by manifest proceeding,

That indirectly and directly too 360

Thou hast contriv’d against the very life

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d

The danger formerly by me rehears’d.

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. 364

Gra.

Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,

Thou hast not left the value of a cord;

Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. 368

Duke.

That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s;

The other half comes to the general state, 372

Which humbleness may drive into a fine.

Por.

Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.

Shy.

Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:

You take my house when you do take the prop

That doth sustain my house; you take my life

When you do take the means whereby I live.

Por.

What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

Gra.

A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s sake! 380

Ant.

So please my lord the duke, and all the court,

To quit the fine for one half of his goods,

I am content; so he will let me have

The other half in use, to render it, 384

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

That lately stole his daughter:

Two things provided more, that, for this favour,

He presently become a Christian; 388

The other, that he do record a gift,

Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d,

Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter.

Duke.

He shall do this, or else I do recant

The pardon that I late pronounced here. 393

Por.

Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

Shy.

I am content.

Por.

Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shy.

I pray you give me leave to go from hence:

I am not well. Send the deed after me, 397

And I will sign it.

Duke.

Get thee gone, but do it.

Gra.

In christening thou shalt have two godfathers;

Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 400

To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.

[Exit Shylock.

Duke.

Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

Por.

I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon:

I must away this night toward Padua, 404

And it is meet I presently set forth.

Duke.

I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.

Antonio, gratify this gentleman,

For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.

[Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train.

Bass.

Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend

Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted

Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,

Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 412

We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

Ant.

And stand indebted, over and above,

In love and service to you evermore.

Por.

He is well paid that is well satisfied; 416

And I, delivering you, am satisfied,

And therein do account myself well paid:

My mind was never yet more mercenary.

I pray you, know me when we meet again: 420

I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

Bass.

Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:

Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,

Not as a fee. Grant me two things, I pray you,

Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 425

Por.

You press me far, and therefore I will yield.

[To Ant.] Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for your sake;

[To Bass.] And, for your love, I’ll take this ring from you. 428

Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more;

And you in love shall not deny me this.

Bass.

This ring, good sir? alas! it is a trifle;

I will not shame myself to give you this. 432

Por.

I will have nothing else but only this;

And now methinks I have a mind to it.

Bass.

There’s more depends on this than on the value.

The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 436

And find it out by proclamation:

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

Por.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers:

You taught me first to beg, and now methinks

You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d.

Bass.

Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;

And, when she put it on, she made me vow

That I should never sell nor give nor lose it. 444

Por.

That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts.

An if your wife be not a mad-woman,

And know how well I have deserv’d the ring,

She would not hold out enemy for ever, 448

For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you.

[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa.

Ant.

My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:

Let his deservings and my love withal

Be valu’d ’gainst your wife’s commandment. 452

Bass.

Go, Gratiano; run and overtake him;

Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,

Unto Antonio’s house. Away! make haste.

[Exit Gratiano.

Come, you and I will thither presently, 456

And in the morning early will we both

Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Portia and Nerissa.

Por.

Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed,

And let him sign it. We’ll away to-night,

And be a day before our husbands home:

This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 4

Enter Gratiano.

Gra.

Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en.

My Lord Bassanio upon more advice

Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat

Your company at dinner.

Por.

That cannot be: 8

His ring I do accept most thankfully;

And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,

I pray you, show my youth old Shylock’s house.

Gra.

That will I do.

Ner.

Sir, I would speak with you. 12

[Aside to Portia.] I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring,

Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

Por.

Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing

That they did give the rings away to men; 16

But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too.

Away! make haste: thou know’st where I will tarry.

Ner.

Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Belmont. The Avenue to Portia’s House.

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica.

Lor.

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees

And they did make no noise, in such a night

Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, 4

And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night.

Jes.

In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew,

And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, 8

And ran dismay’d away.

Lor.

In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love

To come again to Carthage.

Jes.

In such a night 12

Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs

That did renew old Æson.

Lor.

In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice,

As far as Belmont.

Jes.

In such a night 17

Did young Lorenzo swear he lov’d her well,

Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,

And ne’er a true one.

Lor.

In such a night 20

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

Jes.

I would out-night you, did no body come;

But, hark! I hear the footing of a man. 24

Enter Stephano.

Lor.

Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

Steph.

A friend.

Lor.

A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend.

Steph.

Stephano is my name; and I bring word

My mistress will before the break of day 29

Be here at Belmont: she doth stray about

By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays

For happy wedlock hours.

Lor.

Who comes with her? 32

Steph.

None, but a holy hermit and her maid.

I pray you, is my master yet return’d?

Lor.

He is not, nor we have not heard from him.

But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 36

And ceremoniously let us prepare

Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

Enter Launcelot.

Laun.

Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

Lor.

Who calls? 40

Laun.

Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?

Master Lorenzo! sola, sola!

Lor.

Leave hollaing, man; here.

Laun.

Sola! where? where? 44

Lor.

Here.

Laun.

Tell him there’s a post come from my master, with his horn full of good news: my master will be here ere morning.

[Exit.

Lor.

Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming. 49

And yet no matter; why should we go in?

My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,

Within the house, your mistress is at hand; 52

And bring your music forth into the air.

[Exit Stephano.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night 56

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st

But in his motion like an angel sings, 61

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 64

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter Musicians.

Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear,

And draw her home with music.

[Music.

Jes.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 69

Lor.

The reason is, your spirits are attentive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 72

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood;

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,

Or any air of music touch their ears, 76

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,

Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze

By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; 80

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,

But music for the time doth change his nature.

The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; 85

The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.

Por.

That light we see is burning in my hall.

How far that little candle throws his beams!

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

Ner.

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 92

Por.

So doth the greater glory dim the less:

A substitute shines brightly as a king

Until a king be by, and then his state

Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 96

Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

Ner.

It is your music, madam, of the house.

Por.

Nothing is good, I see, without respect:

Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Ner.

Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

Por.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark

When neither is attended, and I think

The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 104

When every goose is cackling, would be thought

No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season’d are

To their right praise and true perfection! 108

Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion,

And would not be awak’d!

[Music ceases.

Lor.

That is the voice,

Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia.

Por.

He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 112

By the bad voice.

Lor.

Dear lady, welcome home.

Por.

We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare,

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.

Are they return’d?

Lor.

Madam, they are not yet; 116

But there is come a messenger before,

To signify their coming.

Por.

Go in, Nerissa:

Give order to my servants that they take

No note at all of our being absent hence; 120

Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.

[A tucket sounds.

Lor.

Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:

We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

Por.

This night methinks is but the daylight sick; 124

It looks a little paler: ’tis a day,

Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their Followers.

Bass.

We should hold day with the Antipodes,

If you would walk in absence of the sun. 128

Por.

Let me give light, but let me not be light;

For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,

And never be Bassanio so for me:

But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.

Bass.

I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend: 133

This is the man, this is Antonio,

To whom I am so infinitely bound.

Por.

You should in all sense be much bound to him, 136

For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.

Ant.

No more than I am well acquitted of.

Por.

Sir, you are very welcome to our house:

It must appear in other ways than words, 140

Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

Gra.

[To Nerissa.] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;

In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk:

Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, 144

Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

Por.

A quarrel, ho, already! what’s the matter?

Gra.

About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring

That she did give me, whose poesy was 148

For all the world like cutlers’ poetry

Upon a knife, ‘Love me, and leave me not.’

Ner.

What talk you of the posy, or the value?

You swore to me, when I did give it you, 152

That you would wear it till your hour of death,

And that it should lie with you in your grave:

Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,

You should have been respective and have kept it.

Gave it a judge’s clerk! no, God’s my judge,

The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it.

Gra.

He will, an if he live to be a man.

Ner.

Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 160

Gra.

Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,

A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,

No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk.

A prating boy, that begg’d it as a fee: 164

I could not for my heart deny it him.

Por.

You were to blame,—I must be plain with you,—

To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift;

A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,

And riveted so with faith unto your flesh. 169

I gave my love a ring and made him swear

Never to part with it; and here he stands,

I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it

Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth 173

That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,

You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:

An ’twere to me, I should be mad at it. 176

Bass.

[Aside.] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,

And swear I lost the ring defending it.

Gra.

My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away

Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed 180

Deserv’d it too; and then the boy, his clerk,

That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine;

And neither man nor master would take aught

But the two rings.

Por.

What ring gave you, my lord? 184

Not that, I hope, that you receiv’d of me.

Bass.

If I could add a lie unto a fault,

I would deny it; but you see my finger

Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. 188

Por.

Even so void is your false heart of truth.

By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed

Until I see the ring.

Ner.

Nor I in yours,

Till I again see mine.

Bass.

Sweet Portia, 192

If you did know to whom I gave the ring,

If you did know for whom I gave the ring,

And would conceive for what I gave the ring,

And how unwillingly I left the ring, 196

When naught would be accepted but the ring,

You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

Por.

If you had known the virtue of the ring,

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 200

Or your own honour to contain the ring,

You would not then have parted with the ring.

What man is there so much unreasonable,

If you had pleas’d to have defended it 204

With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty

To urge the thing held as a ceremony?

Nerissa teaches me what to believe:

I’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring. 208

Bass.

No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,

No woman had it; but a civil doctor,

Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,

And begg’d the ring, the which I did deny him,

And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away; 213

Even he that did uphold the very life

Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?

I was enforc’d to send it after him; 216

I was beset with shame and courtesy;

My honour would not let ingratitude

So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady,

For, by these blessed candles of the night, 220

Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d

The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Por.

Let not that doctor e’er come near my house.

Since he hath got the jewel that I lov’d, 224

And that which you did swear to keep for me,

I will become as liberal as you;

I’ll not deny him anything I have;

No, not my body, nor my husband’s bed. 228

Know him I shall, I am well sure of it:

Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus:

If you do not, if I be left alone,

Now by mine honour, which is yet mine own, 232

I’ll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

Ner.

And I his clerk; therefore be well advis’d

How you do leave me to mine own protection.

Gra.

Well, do you so: let me not take him, then;

For if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen. 237

Ant.

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Por.

Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

Bass.

Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;

And in the hearing of these many friends, 241

I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,

Wherein I see myself,—

Por.

Mark you but that!

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; 244

In each eye, one: swear by your double self,

And there’s an oath of credit.

Bass.

Nay, but hear me:

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear

I never more will break an oath with thee. 248

Ant.

I once did lend my body for his wealth,

Which, but for him that had your husband’s ring,

Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,

My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 252

Will never more break faith advisedly.

Por.

Then you shall be his surety. Give him this,

And bid him keep it better than the other.

Ant.

Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring. 256

Bass.

By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor!

Por.

I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,

For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. 259

Ner.

And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;

For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk,

In lieu of this last night did lie with me.

Gra.

Why, this is like the mending of highways

In summer, where the ways are fair enough. 264

What! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d it?

Por.

Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz’d:

Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;

It comes from Padus, from Bellario: 268

There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,

Nerissa, there, her clerk: Lorenzo here

Shall witness I set forth as soon as you

And even but now return’d; I have not yet 272

Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome;

And I have better news in store for you

Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;

There you shall find three of your argosies 276

Are richly come to harbour suddenly.

You shall not know by what strange accident

I chanced on this letter.

Ant.

I am dumb.

Bass.

Were you the doctor and I knew you not? 280

Gra.

Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

Ner.

Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it,

Unless he live until he be a man.

Bass.

Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:

When I am absent, then, lie with my wife. 285

Ant.

Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;

For here I read for certain that my ships

Are safely come to road.

Por.

How now, Lorenzo! 288

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

Ner.

Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee.

There do I give to you and Jessica,

From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, 292

After his death, of all he dies possess’d of.

Lor.

Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way

Of starved people.

Por.

It is almost morning,

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 296

Of these events at full. Let us go in;

And charge us there upon inter’gatories,

And we will answer all things faithfully.

Gra.

Let it be so: the first inter’gatory 300

That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,

Whe’r till the next night she had rather stay,

Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:

But were the day come, I should wish it dark,

That I were couching with the doctor’s clerk.

Well, while I live I’ll fear no other thing 306

So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.

[Exeunt.

AS YOU LIKE IT

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke,	living in exile.
Frederick,	his Brother, Usurper of his Dominions.
Amiens, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Jaques, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Le Beau,	a Courtier, attending upon Frederick.
Charles,	a Wrestler.
Oliver, }	Sons of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Jaques, }
Orlando, }
Adam, }	Servants to Oliver.
Dennis, }	Servants to Oliver.
Touchstone,	a Clown.
Sir Oliver Martext,	a Vicar.
Corin, }	Shepherds.
Silvius, }	Shepherds.
William,	a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.
A person representing Hymen.
Rosalind,	Daughter to the banished Duke.
Celia,	Daughter to Frederick.
Phebe,	a Shepherdess.
Audrey,	a Country Wench.
Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants.

Scene.—First, Oliver’s Orchard near his House; afterwards, in the Usurper’s Court, and in the Forest of Arden.

ACT I.

Scene I.— An Orchard near Oliver’s House. Enter Orlando and Adam.

Orl.

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems to take from me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it. 27

Adam.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Orl.

Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.

Enter Oliver.

Oli.

Now, sir! what make you here? 31

Orl.

Nothing: I am not taught to make anything.

Oli.

What mar you then, sir?

Orl.

Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. 37

Oli.

Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.

Orl.

Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?

Oli.

Know you where you are, sir?

Orl.

O! sir, very well: here in your orchard.

Oli.

Know you before whom, sir? 45

Orl.

Ay, better than he I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.

Oli.

What, boy! 56

Orl.

Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

Oli.

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? 59

Orl.

I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou hast railed on thyself. 66

Adam.

[Coming forward.] Sweet masters, be patient: for your father’s remembrance, be at accord.

Oli.

Let me go, I say. 70

Orl.

I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes. 80

Oli.

And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will: I pray you, leave me. 84

Orl.

I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

Oli.

Get you with him, you old dog.

Adam.

Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! he would not have spoke such a word.

[Exeunt Orlando and Adam.

Oli.

Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

Enter Dennis.

Den.

Calls your worship? 95

Oli.

Was not Charles the duke’s wrestler here to speak with me?

Den.

So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.

Oli.

Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] ’Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Enter Charles.

Cha.

Good morrow to your worship. 102

Oli.

Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new news at the new court?

Cha.

There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander. 111

Oli.

Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?

Cha.

O, no; for the duke’s daughter, her cousin, so loves her,—being ever from their cradles bred together,—that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. 120

Oli.

Where will the old duke live?

Cha.

They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

Oli.

What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke? 129

Cha.

Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him as I must, for my own honour, if he come in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search and altogether against my will. 144

Oli.

Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it, but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a secret and villanous contriver against me his natural brother: therefore use thy discretion. I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee,—and almost with tears I speak it,—there is not one so young and so villanous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. 167

Cha.

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow, I’ll give him his payment: if ever he go alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more; and so God keep your worship!

[Exit.

Oli.

Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and, indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I’ll go about.

Scene II.— A Lawn before the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Cel.

I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

Ros.

Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of, and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. 7

Cel.

Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine: so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee. 15

Ros.

Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours.

Cel.

You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir: for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. 25

Ros.

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see; what think you of falling in love? 28

Cel.

Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. 33

Ros.

What shall be our sport then?

Cel.

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. 37

Ros.

I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

Cel.

’Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly. 43

Ros.

Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to Nature’s: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature.

Enter Touchstone.

Cel.

No? when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument? 51

Ros.

Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off of Nature’s wit.

Cel.

Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s; who, perceiving our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent this natural for our whetstone: for always the dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit! whither wander you? 61

Touch.

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

Cel.

Were you made the messenger?

Touch.

No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you. 66

Ros.

Where learned you that oath, fool?

Touch.

Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught: now, I’ll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn. 73

Cel.

How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?

Ros.

Ay, marry: now unmuzzle your wisdom.

Touch.

Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave. 79

Cel.

By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

Touch.

By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard. 86

Cel.

Prithee, who is’t that thou meanest?

Touch.

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

Cel.

My father’s love is enough to honour him. Enough! speak no more of him; you’ll be whipped for taxation one of these days. 92

Touch.

The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

Cel.

By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. 98

Ros.

With his mouth full of news.

Cel.

Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young.

Ros.

Then we shall be news-cramm’d.

Cel.

All the better; we shall be more marketable. 104

Enter Le Beau.

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: what’s the news?

Le Beau.

Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.

Cel.

Sport! Of what colour? 108

Le Beau.

What colour, madam! How shall

I answer you?

Ros.

As wit and fortune will.

Touch.

Or as the Destinies decree. 112

Cel.

Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.

Touch.

Nay, if I keep not my rank,—

Ros.

Thou losest thy old smell.

Le Beau.

You amaze me, ladies: I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of. 118

Ros.

Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

Le Beau.

I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end, for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. 123

Cel.

Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

Le Beau.

There comes an old man and his three sons,— 127

Cel.

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

Le Beau.

Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence;—

Ros.

With bills on their necks, ‘Be it known unto all men by these presents.’ 133

Le Beau.

The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke’s wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him: so he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping. 141

Ros.

Alas!

Touch.

But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost? 144

Le Beau.

Why, this that I speak of.

Touch.

Thus men may grow wiser every day: it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. 148

Cel.

Or I, I promise thee.

Ros.

But is there any else longs to feel this broken music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? 153

Le Beau.

You must, if you stay here; for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. 156

Cel.

Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.

Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Come on: since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. 161

Ros.

Is yonder the man?

Le Beau.

Even he, madam.

Cel.

Alas! he is too young: yet he looks successfully. 165

Duke F.

How now, daughter and cousin! are you crept hither to see the wrestling?

Ros.

Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave. 169

Duke F.

You will take little delight in it, I can tell you, there is such odds in the man: in pity of the challenger’s youth I would fam dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.

Cel.

Call him hither, good Monsieur le Beau.

Duke F.

Do so: I’ll not be by. 176

[Duke goes apart.

Le Beau.

Monsieur the challenger, the princes call for you.

Orl.

I attend them with all respect and duty.

Ros.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler? 181

Orl.

No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. 184

Cel.

Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man’s strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt. 192

Ros.

Do, young sir: your reputation shall not therefore be misprised. We will make it our suit to the duke that the wrestling might not go forward. 196

Orl.

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. 208

Ros.

The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.

Cel.

And mine, to eke out hers.

Ros.

Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceived in you! 213

Cel.

Your heart’s desires be with you!

Cha.

Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth? 216

Orl.

Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

Duke F.

You shall try but one fall. 219

Cha.

No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

Orl.

You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before: but come your ways. 225

Ros.

Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!

Cel.

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. 228

[Charles and Orlando wrestle.

Ros.

O excellent young man!

Cel.

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

[Charles is thrown. Shout.

Duke F.

No more, no more. 232

Orl.

Yes, I beseech your Grace: I am not yet well breathed.

Duke F.

How dost thou, Charles?

Le Beau.

He cannot speak, my lord. 236

Duke F.

Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?

[Charles is borne out.

Orl.

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 240

Duke F.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else:

The world esteem’d thy father honourable,

But I did find him still mine enemy:

Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this deed, 244

Hadst thou descended from another house.

But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth:

I would thou hadst told me of another father.

[Exeunt Duke Frederick, Train, and Le Beau.

Cel.

Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

Orl.

I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, 249

His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

Ros.

My father lov’d Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father’s mind: 253

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

Ere he should thus have ventur’d.

Cel.

Gentle cousin, 256

Let us go thank him and encourage him:

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv’d:

If you do keep your promises in love 260

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

Ros.

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.

Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. 264

Shall we go, coz?

Cel.

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

Orl.

Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts

Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. 268

Ros.

He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes;

I’ll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

Cel.

Will you go, coz? 272

Ros.

Have with you. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Orl.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! 276

Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

Re-enter Le Beau.

Le Beau.

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv’d

High commendation, true applause and love,

Yet such is now the duke’s condition 281

That he misconstrues all that you have done.

The duke is humorous: what he is indeed,

More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

Orl.

I thank you, sir; and pray you, tell me this; 285

Which of the two was daughter of the duke,

That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beau.

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners: 288

But yet, indeed the smaller is his daughter:

The other is daughter to the banish’d duke,

And here detain’d by her usurping uncle,

To keep his daughter company; whose loves 292

Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

But I can tell you that of late this duke

Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece,

Grounded upon no other argument 296

But that the people praise her for her virtues,

And pity her for her good father’s sake;

And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady

Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well:

Hereafter, in a better world than this, 301

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

Orl.

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

[Exit Le Beau.

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. 305

But heavenly Rosalind!

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Celia and Rosalind.

Cel.

Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word?

Ros.

Not one to throw at a dog. 3

Cel.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros.

Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. 9

Cel.

But is all this for your father?

Ros.

No, some of it is for my child’s father:

O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

Cel.

They are but burrs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. 16

Ros.

I could shake them off my coat: these burrs are in my heart.

Cel.

Hem them away.

Ros.

I would try, if I could cry ‘hem,’ and have him. 21

Cel.

Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

Ros.

O! they take the part of a better wrestler than myself! 24

Cel.

O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

Ros.

The duke my father loved his father dearly. 32

Cel.

Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando. 36

Ros.

No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel.

Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

Ros.

Let me love him for that; and do you love him, because I do. Look, here comes the duke. 42

Cel.

With his eyes full of anger.

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.

Duke F.

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, 44

And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?

Duke F.

You, cousin:

Within these ten days if that thou be’st found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

Ros.

I do beseech your Grace, 48

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,

If that I do not dream or be not frantic,— 52

As I do trust I am not,—then, dear uncle,

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

Duke F.

Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words, 56

They are as innocent as grace itself:

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Ros.

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. 60

Duke F.

Thou art thy father’s daughter; there’s enough.

Ros.

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish’d him.

Treason is not inherited, my lord; 64

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

What’s that to me? my father was no traitor:

Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

To think my poverty is treacherous. 68

Cel.

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F.

Ay, Celia; we stay’d her for your sake;

Else had she with her father rang’d along.

Cel.

I did not then entreat to have her stay:

It was your pleasure and your own remorse. 73

I was too young that time to value her;

But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

Why so am I; we still have slept together, 76

Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke F.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, 80

Her very silence and her patience,

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous 84

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:

Firm and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass’d upon her; she is banish’d.

Cel.

Pronounce that sentence then, on me, my liege: 88

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F

You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself:

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

And in the greatness of my word, you die. 92

[Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords.

Cel.

O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee, be not thou more griev’d than I am.

Ros.

I have more cause.

Cel.

Thou hast not, cousin; 96

Prithee, be cheerful; know’st thou not, the duke

Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

Ros.

That he hath not.

Cel.

No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl?

No: let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us: 104

And do not seek to take your change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;

For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee. 108

Ros.

Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Ros.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! 112

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel.

I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,

And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

The like do you: so shall we pass along 116

And never stir assailants.

Ros.

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 120

A boar-spear in my hand; and,—in my heart

Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,—

We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,

As many other mannish cowards have 124

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

Ros.

I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 128

But what will you be call’d?

Cel.

Something that hath a reference to my state:

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros.

But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal

The clownish fool out of your father’s court? 133

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel.

He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me;

Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, 136

And get our jewels and our wealth together,

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

After my flight. Now go we in content 140

To liberty and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, like Foresters.

Duke S.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court? 4

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

The seasons’ difference; as, the icy fang

And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 9

‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 12

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 16

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

I would not change it.

Ami.

Happy is your Grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 20

Duke S.

Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,

Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should in their own confines with forked heads

Have their round haunches gor’d.

First Lord.

Indeed, my lord, 25

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you.

To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself 29

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; 32

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunters’ aim had ta’en a hurt,

Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,

The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 37

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Cours’d one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, 40

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle? 44

First Lord.

O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 48

To that which had too much:’ then, being there alone,

Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends;

‘’Tis right,’ quoth he; ‘thus misery doth part

The flux of company:’ anon, a careless herd, 52

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

And never stays to greet him; ‘Ay,’ quoth Jaques,

‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

’Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look 56

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’

Thus most invectively he pierceth through

The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we 60

Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse,

To fright the animals and to kill them up

In their assign’d and native dwelling-place.

Duke S.

And did you leave him in this contemplation? 64

Sec. Lord.

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.

Show me the place.

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he’s full of matter. 68

Sec. Lord.

I’ll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

First Lord.

I cannot hear of any that did see her. 4

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early

They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

Sec. Lord.

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft 8

Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o’erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler 13

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company. 16

Duke F.

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

I’ll make him find him. Do this suddenly,

And let not search and inquisition quail 20

To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Before Oliver’s House.

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.

Orl.

Who’s there?

Adam.

What! my young master? O my gentle master!

O my sweet master! O you memory

Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?

Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

Why would you be so fond to overcome

The bony priser of the humorous duke? 8

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies?

No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 13

O, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl.

Why, what’s the matter?

Adam.

O unhappy youth!

Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives.

Your brother,—no, no brother; yet the son,—

Yet not the son, I will not call him son 20

Of him I was about to call his father,—

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it: if he fail of that, 24

He will have other means to cut you off.

I overheard him and his practices.

This is no place; this house is but a butchery:

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 28

Orl.

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Adam.

No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl.

What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 32

A thievish living on the common road?

This I must do, or know not what to do:

Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

I rather will subject me to the malice 36

Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

Adam.

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I sav’d under your father,

Which I did store to be my foster-nurse 40

When service should in my old limbs lie lame,

And unregarded age in corners thrown.

Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed,

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 44

Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

All this I give you. Let me be your servant:

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;

For in my youth I never did apply 48

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

The means of weakness and debility;

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 52

Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;

I’ll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

Orl.

O good old man! how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world, 57

When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat but for promotion, 60

And having that, do choke their service up

Even with the having: it is not so with thee.

But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 64

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

But come thy ways, we’ll go along together,

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,

We’ll light upon some settled low content. 68

Adam.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee

To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.

From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more. 72

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

Than to die well and not my master’s debtor. 76

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Rosalind in boy’s clothes, Celia dressed like a shepherdess, and Touchstone.

Ros.

O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits.

Touch.

I care not for my spirits if my legs were not weary.

Ros.

I could find it in my heart to disgrace my man’s apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena. 8

Cel.

I pray you, bear with me: I cannot go no further.

Touch.

For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you have no money in your purse. 14

Ros.

Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch.

Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I: when I was at home, I was in a better place: but travellers must be content.

Ros.

Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk. 21

Enter Corin and Silvius.

Cor.

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

Sil.

O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!

Cor.

I partly guess, for I have lov’d ere now.

Sil.

No, Corin; being old, thou canst not guess,

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow:

But if thy love were ever like to mine,— 28

As sure I think did never man love so,—

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Cor.

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

Sil.

O! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily.

If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not lov’d: 36

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearing thy hearer with thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not broke from company 40

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not lov’d. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit.

Ros.

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own. 44

Touch.

And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, ‘Wear these for my sake.’ We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. 56

Ros.

Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

Touch.

Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it. 60

Ros.

Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touch.

And mine; but it grows something stale with me. 64

Cel.

I pray you, one of you question yond man,

If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Touch.

Holla, you clown!

Ros.

Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

Cor.

Who calls? 68

Touch.

Your betters, sir.

Cor.

Else are they very wretched.

Ros.

Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

Cor.

And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

Ros.

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 73

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,

And faints for succour.

Cor.

Fair sir, I pity her, 76

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze: 80

My master is of churlish disposition

And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality.

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed

Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, 85

By reason of his absence, there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be. 88

Ros.

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

Cor.

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

Ros.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 92

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel.

And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it. 96

Cor.

Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

Go with me: if you like upon report

The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,

I will your very faithful feeder be, 100

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and Others.

SONG.

Ami.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 4

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather. 8

Jaq.

More, more, I prithee, more.

Ami.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. 11

Jaq.

I thank it. More! I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More! I prithee, more.

Ami.

My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. 16

Jaq.

I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you them stanzos?

Ami.

What you will, Monsieur Jaques. 20

Jaq.

Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

Ami.

More at your request than to please myself. 24

Jaq.

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

Ami.

Well, I’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you. 33

Jaq.

And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble; come.

SONG

Ami.

Who doth ambition shun,

[All together here.

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Secking the food he eats, 40

And pleas’d with what he gets.

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy 44

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq.

I’ll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami.

And I’ll sing it. 48

Jaq.

Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease, 52

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he, 56

An if he will come to me.

Ami.

What’s that ‘ducdame?’

Jaq.

’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt. 61

Ami.

And I’ll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Orlando and Adam.

Adam.

Dear master, I can go no further: O! I die for food. Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 3

Orl.

Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable, hold death awhile at the arm’s end, I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou lookest cheerly, and I’ll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Forest.

A table set out. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lords like Outlaws.

Duke S.

I think he be transform’d into a beast,

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

First Lord.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 4

Duke S.

If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

First Lord.

He saves my labour by his own approach. 8

Enter Jaques.

Duke S.

Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily!

Jaq.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,

A motley fool; a miserable world! 13

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, 16

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘No, sir,’ quoth he,

‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’

And then he drew a dial from his poke, 20

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, ‘It is ten o’clock;

Thus may we see,’ quoth he, ‘how the world wags:

’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, 24

And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;

And so, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,

And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,

And thereby hangs a tale.’ When I did hear 28

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

And I did laugh sans intermission 32

An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

Duke S.

What fool is this?

Jaq.

O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, 36

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,—

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm’d

With observation, the which he vents 41

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S.

Thou shalt have one.

Jaq.

It is my only suit; 44

Provided that you weed your better judgments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them

That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 48

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:

And they that are most galled with my folly,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

The ‘why’ is plain as way to parish church: 52

He that a fool doth very wisely hit

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

The wise man’s folly is anatomiz’d 56

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of th’ infected world, 60

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S.

Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Jaq.

What, for a counter, would I do, but good?

Duke S.

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: 64

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossed sores and headed evils,

That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

Jaq.

Why, who cries out on pride,

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 72

Till that the weary very means do ebb?

What woman in the city do I name,

When that I say the city-woman bears

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? 76

Who can come in and say that I mean her,

When such a one as she such is her neighbour?

Or what is he of basest function,

That says his bravery is not on my cost,— 80

Thinking that I mean him,—but therein suits

His folly to the mettle of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right,

Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free, 85

Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,

Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here?

Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.

Orl.

Forbear, and eat no more.

Jaq.

Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl.

Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv’d. 89

Jaq.

Of what kind should this cock come of?

Duke S.

Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy distress,

Or else a rude despiser of good manners, 92

That in civility thou seem’st so empty?

Orl.

You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show

Of smooth civility; yet I am inland bred 96

And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq.

An you will not be answered with reason,

I must die. 101

Duke S.

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl.

I almost die for food; and let me have it.

Duke S.

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. 105

Orl.

Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:

I thought that all things had been savage here,

And therefore put I on the countenance 108

Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are

That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; 112

If ever you have look’d on better days,

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church,

If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear, 116

And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied,

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

Duke S.

True is it that we have seen better days, 120

And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church,

And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d;

And therefore sit you down in gentleness 124

And take upon command what help we have

That to your wanting may be minister’d.

Orl.

Then but forbear your food a little while,

Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn 128

And give it food. There is an old poor man,

Who after me hath many a weary step

Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic’d,

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Duke S.

Go find him out, 133

And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orl.

I thank ye; and be bless’d for your good comfort!

[Exit.

Duke S.

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: 136

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaq.

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances; 141

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. 144

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 148

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation 152

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances; 156

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide 160

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history, 164

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.

Duke S.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

Orl.

I thank you most for him. 168

Adam.

So had you need:

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S.

Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes. 172

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

SONG.

Ami.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

    As man’s ingratitude;  176

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

    Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh-ho! the holly!

    This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,  184

That dost not bite so nigh

    As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp  188

    As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

    Then heigh-ho! the holly!  192

      This life is most jolly.

Duke S.

If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,

As you have whisper’d faithfully you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 196

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

That lov’d your father: the residue of your fortune,

Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, 200

Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Not seen him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be:

But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: 4

Find out thy brother, wheresoe’er he is;

Seek him with candle; bring him, dead or living,

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

To seek a living in our territory. 8

Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine

Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth

Of what we think against thee. 12

Oli.

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov’d my brother in my life.

Duke F.

More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;

And let my officers of such a nature 16

Make an extent upon his house and lands.

Do this expediently and turn him going.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Orlando, with a paper.

Orl.

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:

And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

Thy huntress’ name, that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, 5

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,

That every eye, which in this forest looks,

Shall see thy virtue witness’d everywhere. 8

Run, run, Orlando: carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

[Exit.

Enter Corin and Touchstone.

Cor.

And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone? 12

Touch.

Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? 23

Cor.

No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred. 33

Touch.

Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

Cor.

No, truly. 36

Touch.

Then thou art damned.

Cor.

Nay, I hope.

Touch.

Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. 40

Cor.

For not being at court? Your reason.

Touch.

Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest good manners; if thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. 46

Cor.

Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners at the court, are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. 53

Touch.

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Cor.

Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are greasy. 56

Touch.

Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come. 60

Cor.

Besides, our hands are hard.

Touch.

Your lips will feel them the sooner: shallow again. A more sounder instance; come.

Cor.

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet. 67

Touch.

Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. 72

Cor.

You have too courtly a wit for me: I’ll rest.

Touch.

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw. 77

Cor.

Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck. 82

Touch.

That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldy ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be’st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds: I cannot see else how thou shouldst ’scape.

Cor.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother. 93

Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.

Ros.

From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind

Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 96

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin’d

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind, 100

But the fair of Rosalind.

Touch.

I’ll rime you so, eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted: it is the right butter-women’s rank to market. 105

Ros.

Out, fool!

Touch.

For a taste:—

If a hart do lack a hind,  108

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter-garments must be lin’d,  112

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind,

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,  116

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love’s prick and Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infect yourself with them? 121

Ros.

Peace! you dull fool: I found them on a tree.

Touch.

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 124

Ros.

I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i’ the country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar. 129

Touch.

You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

Enter Celia, reading a paper.

Ros.

Peace! 132

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

Cel.

Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree,  136

That shall civil sayings show.

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the stretching of a span  140

Buckles in his sum of age;

Some, of violated vows

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend:

But upon the fairest boughs,  144

Or at every sentence’ end,

Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite  148

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore Heaven Nature charg’d

That one body should be fill’d

With all graces wide enlarg’d:  152

Nature presently distill’d

Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra’s majesty,

Atalanta’s better part,  156

Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis’d

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,  160

To have the touches dearest priz’d.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Ros.

O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried, ‘Have patience, good people!’

Cel.

How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little: go with him, sirrah. 169

Touch.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. 172

[Exeunt Corin and Touchstone.

Cel.

Didst thou hear these verses?

Ros.

O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear. 176

Cel.

That’s no matter: the feet might bear the verses.

Ros.

Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. 181

Cel.

But didst thou hear without wondering, how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees? 184

Ros.

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree: I was never so be-rimed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. 189

Cel.

Trow you who hath done this?

Ros.

Is it a man?

Cel.

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour? 193

Ros.

I prithee, who?

Cel.

O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter. 197

Ros.

Nay, but who is it?

Cel.

Is it possible?

Ros.

Nay, I prithee now, with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is. 201

Cel.

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful! and after that, out of all whooping! 204

Ros.

Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparison’d like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery; I prithee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth’d bottle; either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.

Cel.

So you may put a man in your belly. 216

Ros.

Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Cel.

Nay, he hath but a little beard. 220

Ros.

Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. 224

Cel.

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both, in an instant.

Ros.

Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and true maid. 228

Cel.

I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

Ros.

Orlando?

Cel.

Orlando.

Ros.

Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee, and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word. 238

Cel.

You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first: ’tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism. 242

Ros.

But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled? 245

Cel.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

Ros.

It may well be called Jove’s tree, when it drops forth such fruit. 252

Cel.

Give me audience, good madam.

Ros.

Proceed.

Cel.

There lay he, stretch’d along like a wounded knight. 256

Ros.

Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Cel.

Cry ‘holla!’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnish’d like a hunter. 261

Ros.

O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

Cel.

I would sing my song without a burthen: thou bringest me out of tune. 264

Ros.

Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Cel.

You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here? 268

Ros.

’Tis he: slink by, and note him.

Enter Orlando and Jaques.

Jaq.

I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Orl.

And so had I; but yet, for fashion’ sake, I thank you too for your society. 273

Jaq.

God be wi’ you: let’s meet as little as we can.

Orl.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaq.

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orl.

I pray you mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly. 280

Jaq.

Rosalind is your love’s name?

Orl.

Yes, just.

Jaq.

I do not like her name.

Orl.

There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened. 285

Jaq.

What stature is she of?

Orl.

Just as high as my heart.

Jaq.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conn’d them out of rings?

Orl.

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions. 293

Jaq.

You have a nimble wit: I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery. 297

Orl.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.

Jaq.

The worst fault you have is to be in love. 301

Orl.

’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

Jaq.

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you. 305

Orl.

He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you shall see him.

Jaq.

There I shall see mine own figure. 308

Orl.

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Jaq.

I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good Signior Love. 312

Orl.

I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit Jaques.

Ros.

I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester? 317

Orl.

Very well: what would you?

Ros.

I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

Orl.

You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest. 321

Ros.

Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. 325

Orl.

And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that been as proper?

Ros.

By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. 332

Orl.

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Ros.

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized; if the interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year. 338

Orl.

Who ambles Time withal?

Ros.

With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

Orl.

Who doth he gallop withal? 348

Ros.

With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall he thinks himself too soon there.

Orl.

Who stays it still withal? 352

Ros.

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

Orl.

Where dwell you, pretty youth? 356

Ros.

With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orl.

Are you native of this place? 360

Ros.

As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orl.

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 364

Ros.

I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal. 373

Orl.

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Ros.

There were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

Orl.

I prithee, recount some of them. 380

Ros.

No, I will not cast away my physic, but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving ‘Rosalind’ on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. 389

Orl.

I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Ros.

There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

Orl.

What were his marks? 396

Ros.

A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not: but I pardon you for that, for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then, your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man: you are rather point-device in your accoutrements; as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other. 409

Orl.

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Ros.

Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does; that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orl.

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. 421

Ros.

But are you so much in love as your rimes speak?

Orl.

Neither rime nor reason can express how much. 425

Ros.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orl

Did you ever cure any so? 432

Ros.

Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.

Orl.

I would not be cured, youth. 452

Ros.

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me.

Orl.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is. 457

Ros.

Go with me to it and I’ll show it you; and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

Orl.

With all my heart, good youth. 461

Ros.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques behind.

Touch.

Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet? doth my simple feature content you? 4

Aud.

Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?

Touch.

I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. 9

Jaq.

[Aside.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatch’d house!

Touch.

When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. 17

Aud.

I do not know what ‘poetical’ is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing? 20

Touch.

No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign. 24

Aud.

Do you wish then that the gods had made me poetical?

Touch.

I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign. 29

Aud.

Would you not have me honest?

Touch.

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour’d; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. 33

Jaq.

[Aside.] A material fool.

Aud.

Well, I am not fair, and therefore I pray the gods make me honest. 36

Touch.

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Aud.

I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. 41

Touch.

Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest, and to couple us.

Jaq.

[Aside.] I would fain see this meeting.

Aud.

Well, the gods give us joy! 49

Touch.

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, ‘many a man knows no end of his goods:’ right; many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. 67

Enter Sir Oliver Martext.

Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Sir Oli.

Is there none here to give the woman? 72

Touch.

I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oli.

Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. 76

Jaq.

[Coming forward.] Proceed, proceed: I’ll give her.

Touch.

Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t. how do you, sir? You are very well met: God ’ild you for your last company: I am very glad to see you: even a toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.

Jaq.

Will you be married, motley? 84

Touch

As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. 88

Jaq.

And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber, warp, warp. 95

Touch.

[Aside.] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another: for he is not like to marry me well, and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. 100

Jaq.

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Touch.

Come, sweet Audrey:

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not 104

O sweet Oliver!

O brave Oliver!

Leave me not behind thee:

but,— 108

Wind away,

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.

[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.

Sir Oli.

’Tis no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Ros.

Never talk to me: I will weep.

Cel.

Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

Ros.

But have I not cause to weep? 4

Cel.

As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

Ros.

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Cel.

Something browner than Judas’s; marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children. 9

Ros.

I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel.

An excellent colour: your chesnut was ever the only colour. 12

Ros.

And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

Cel.

He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Ros.

But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel.

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

Ros.

Do you think so? 21

Cel.

Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut. 25

Ros.

Not true in love?

Cel.

Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. 28

Ros.

You have heard him swear downright he was.

Cel.

‘Was’ is not ‘is:’ besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father. 35

Ros.

I met the duke yesterday and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?

Cel.

O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor.

Mistress and master, you have oft inquir’d 48

After the shepherd that complain’d of love,

Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

That was his mistress.

Cel.

Well, and what of him? 52

Cor.

If you will see a pageant truly play’d,

Between the pale complexion of true love

And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, 56

If you will mark it.

Ros.

O! come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Sil.

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:

Say that you love me not, but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard, 4

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind.

Phe.

I would not be thy executioner: 8

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, 12

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; 16

Now counterfeit to swound; why now fall down;

Or, if thou canst not, O! for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee; 20

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 24

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Sil.

O dear Phebe,

If ever,—as that ever may be near,— 28

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love’s keen arrows make.

Phe.

But, till that time

Come not thou near me; and, when that time comes, 32

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As, till that time I shall not pity thee.

Ros.

[Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once, 36

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—

As by my faith, I see no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed,—

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 40

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

I see no more in you than in the ordinary

Of nature’s sale-work. Od’s my little life!

I think she means to tangle my eyes too. 44

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:

’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship. 48

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man

Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you 52

That make the world full of ill-favour’d children:

’Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper

Than any of her lineaments can show her. 56

But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love:

For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer: 61

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

Phe.

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: 64

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Ros.

He’s fallen in love with her foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

Phe.

For no ill will I bear you.

Ros.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine: 73

Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,

’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.

Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. 76

Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud: though all the world could see,

None could be so abus’d in sight as he.

Come, to our flock. 80

[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:

‘Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?’

Sil.

Sweet Phebe,—

Phe.

Ha! what sayst thou, Silvius?

Sil.

Sweet Phebe, pity me. 84

Phe.

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Sil.

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:

If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

By giving love your sorrow and my grief 88

Were both extermin’d.

Phe.

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

Sil.

I would have you.

Phe.

Why, that were covetousness.

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; 92

And yet it is not that I bear thee love:

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too; 96

But do not look for further recompense

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

Sil.

So holy and so perfect is my love,

And I in such a poverty of grace, 100

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then

A scatter’d smile, and that I’ll live upon. 104

Phe.

Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

Sil.

Not very well, but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of. 108

Phe.

Think not I love him, though I ask for him.

’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;

But what care I for words? yet words do well,

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 112

It is a pretty youth: not very pretty:

But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

He’ll make a proper man: the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 117

He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall:

His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well:

There was a pretty redness in his lip, 120

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him 124

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

I love him not nor hate him not; and yet

Have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me? 129

He said mine eyes were black and my hair black;

And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me.

I marvel why I answer’d not again: 132

But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.

I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

Sil.

Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.

I’ll write it straight;

The matter’s in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short.

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.

Jaq

I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros.

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq.

I am so; I do love it better than laughing. 5

Ros.

Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. 8

Jaq.

Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

Ros.

Why, then, ’tis good to be a post.

Jaq.

I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness. 21

Ros.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 26

Jaq.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

Ros.

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad: and to travel for it too! 31

Enter Orlando.

Orl.

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq.

Nay then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit.

Ros.

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp, and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

Orl.

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. 45

Ros.

Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

Orl.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 52

Ros.

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Orl.

Of a snail!

Ros.

Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman: besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orl.

What’s that? 60

Ros.

Why, horns; that such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife. 64

Orl.

Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Ros.

And I am your Rosalind?

Cel.

It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you. 69

Ros.

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind? 73

Orl.

I would kiss before I spoke.

Ros.

Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking,—God warn us!—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 80

Orl.

How if the kiss be denied?

Ros.

Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orl.

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? 85

Ros.

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit. 88

Orl.

What, of my suit?

Ros.

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

Orl.

I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her. 93

Ros.

Well, in her person I say I will not have you.

Orl.

Then in mine own person I die. 96

Ros.

No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot mid-summer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the cramp was drowned; and the foolish coroners of that age found it was ‘Hero of Sestos.’ But these are all lies: men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. 112

Orl.

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

Ros.

By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Orl.

Then love me, Rosalind. 120

Ros.

Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

Orl.

And wilt thou have me?

Ros.

Ay, and twenty such. 124

Orl.

What sayest thou?

Ros.

Are you not good?

Orl.

I hope so.

Ros.

Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?

Orl.

Pray thee, marry us. 132

Cel.

I cannot say the words.

Ros.

You must begin,—‘Will you, Orlando,’—

Cel.

Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind? 136

Orl.

I will.

Ros.

Ay, but when?

Orl.

Why now; as fast as she can marry us.

Ros.

Then you must say, ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’ 141

Orl.

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

Ros.

I might ask you for your commission; but, I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there’s a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

Orl.

So do all thoughts; they are winged. 148

Ros.

Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her?

Orl.

For ever and a day.

Ros.

Say ‘a day,’ without the ‘ever.’ No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Orl.

But will my Rosalind do so? 164

Ros.

By my life, she will do as I do.

Orl.

O! but she is wise.

Ros.

Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. 172

Orl.

A man that hath a wife with such a wit, he might say, ‘Wit, whither wilt?’

Ros.

Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed. 177

Orl.

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Ros.

Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O! that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool. 185

Orl.

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Ros.

Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. 189

Orl.

I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o’clock I will be with thee again.

Ros.

Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove, my friends told me as much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue of yours won me: ’tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour?

Orl.

Ay, sweet Rosalind. 197

Ros.

By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore, beware my censure, and keep your promise.

Orl.

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu. 209

Ros.

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try. Adieu.

[Exit Orlando.

Cel.

You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublot and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest. 216

Ros.

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

Cel.

Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out. 222

Ros.

No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every one’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come. 230

Cel.

And I’ll sleep.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters.

Jaq.

Which is he that killed the deer?

First Lord.

Sir, it was I.

Jaq.

Let’s present him to the duke, like a

Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose? 6

Second Lord.

Yes, sir.

Jaq.

Sing it: ’tis no matter how it be in tune so it make noise enough.

SONG.

What shall he have that kill’d the deer?

His leather skin and horns to wear.

Then sing him home 12

[The rest shall bear this burden.

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere thou wast born:

Thy father’s father wore it,

And thy father bore it: 16

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Ros.

How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando!

Cel.

I warrant you, with pure love and a troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter Silvius.

Sil.

My errand is to you, fair youth.

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: 8

[Giving a letter.

I know not the contents; but, as I guess

By the stern brow and waspish action

Which she did use as she was writing of it,

It bears an angry tenour: pardon me; 12

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros.

Patience herself would startle at this letter,

And play the swaggerer: bear this, bear all:

She says I am not fair; that I lack manners; 16

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me

Were man as rare as phœnix. ’Od’s my will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:

Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,

This is a letter of your own device. 21

Sil.

No, I protest, I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.

Ros.

Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn’d into the extremity of love. 24

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-colour’d hand; I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands:

She has a housewife’s hand; but that’s no matter:

I say she never did invent this letter; 29

This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

Sil.

Sure, it is hers.

Ros.

Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style,

A style for challengers; why, she defies me, 33

Like Turk to Christian: woman’s gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect 36

Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

Sil.

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

Ros.

She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] 40

Art thou god to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?

Can a woman rail thus?

Sil.

Call you this railing? 44

Ros.

[reads.]

Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?

Did you ever hear such railing?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me, 48

That could do no vengeance to me.

Meaning me a beast.

If the scorn of your bright eyne

Have power to raise such love in mine,  52

Alack! in me what strange effect

Would they work in mild aspect.

Whiles you chid me, I did love,

How then might your prayers move!  56

He that brings this love to thee

Little knows this love in me;

And by him seal up thy mind;

Whether that thy youth and kind  60

Will the faithful offer take

Of me and all that I can make;

Or else by him my love deny,

And then I’ll study how to die.  64

Sil.

Call you this chiding?

Cel.

Alas, poor shepherd!

Ros.

Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more company.

[Exit Silvius.

Enter Oliver.

Oli.

Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you if you know, 77

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheepcote fenc’d about with olive-trees?

Cel.

West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom: 80

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream

Left on your right hand brings you to the place.

But at this hour the house doth keep itself;

There’s none within. 84

Oli.

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

Then should I know you by description;

Such garments, and such years: ‘The boy is fair,

Of female favour, and bestows himself 88

Like a ripe sister: but the woman low,

And browner than her brother.’ Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

Cel.

It is no boast, being ask’d, to say, we are.

Oli.

Orlando doth commend him to you both,

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

Ros.

I am: what must we understand by this?

Oli.

Some of my shame; if you will know of me 97

What man I am, and how, and why, and where

This handkercher was stain’d.

Cel.

I pray you, tell it.

Oli.

When last the young Orlando parted from you 100

He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside, 104

And mark what object did present itself:

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, 108

Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreath’d itself,

Who with her head nimble in threats approach’d

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, 112

Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself,

And with indented glides did slip away

Into a bush; under which bush’s shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 116

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis

The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: 120

This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Cel.

O! I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural 124

That liv’d ’mongst men.

Oli.

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros.

But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness? 128

Oli.

Twice did he turn his back and purpos’d so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

Made him give battle to the lioness, 132

Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling

From miserable slumber I awak’d.

Cel.

Are you his brother?

Ros.

Was it you he rescu’d?

Cel.

Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him? 136

Oli.

’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame

To tell you what I was, since my conversion

So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

Ros.

But, for the bloody napkin?

Oli.

By and by.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 141

Tears our recountments had most kindly bath’d,

As how I came into that desert place:—

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 144

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,

Committing me unto my brother’s love;

Who led me instantly unto his cave,

There stripp’d himself; and here, upon his arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away, 149

Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound; 152

And, after some small space, being strong at heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

His broken promise; and to give this napkin,

Dy’d in his blood, unto the shepherd youth 157

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

Cel.

[Rosalind swoons.] Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

Oli.

Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 160

Cel.

There is more in it. Cousin! Ganymede!

Oli.

Look, he recovers.

Ros.

I would I were at home.

Cel.

We’ll lead you thither. I pray you, will you take him by the arm? 164

Oli.

Be of good cheer, youth. You a man! You lack a man’s heart.

Ros.

I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah! a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!

Oli.

This was not counterfeit: there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. 173

Ros.

Counterfeit, I assure you.

Oli.

Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. 176

Ros.

So I do; but, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.

Cel.

Come; you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us. 180

Oli.

That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

Ros.

I shall devise something. But, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Touch.

We shall find a time, Audrey: patience, gentle Audrey.

Aud.

Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying. 4

Touch.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey; a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

Aud.

Ay, I know who ’tis: he hath no interest in me in the world. Here comes the man you mean. 10

Enter William.

Touch.

It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for: we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

Will.

Good even, Audrey.

Aud.

God ye good even, William. 16

Will.

And good even to you, sir.

Touch.

Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend? 20

Will.

Five-and-twenty, sir.

Touch.

A ripe age. Is thy name William?

Will.

William, sir.

Touch.

A fair name. Wast born i’ the forest here? 25

Will.

Ay, sir, I thank God.

Touch.

‘Thank God;’ a good answer. Art rich? 28

Will.

Faith, sir, so so.

Touch.

‘So so,’ is good, very good, very excellent good: and yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise? 32

Will.

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

Touch.

Why, thou sayest well. I do now remember a saying, ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid? 41

Will.

I do, sir.

Touch.

Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

Will.

No, sir. 44

Touch.

Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric, that drink, being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he. 50

Will.

Which he, sir?

Touch.

He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in the vulgar, leave,—the society,—which in the boorish is, company,—of this female,—which in the common is, woman; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o’errun thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways: therefore tremble, and depart. 64

Aud.

Do, good William.

Will.

God rest you merry, sir.

[Exit.

Enter Corin.

Cor.

Our master and mistress seek you: come, away, away! 68

Touch.

Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Orlando and Oliver.

Orl.

Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that, but seeing, you should love her? and, loving, woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy her? 5

Oli.

Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that she loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy each other: it shall be to your good; for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. 14

Orl.

You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

Enter Rosalind.

Ros.

God save you, brother. 20

Oli.

And you, fair sister.

[Exit.

Ros.

O! my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.

Orl.

It is my arm. 24

Ros.

I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

Orl.

Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 28

Ros.

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swound when he showed me your handkercher?

Orl.

Ay, and greater wonders than that. 32

Ros.

O! I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams, and Cæsar’s thrasonical brag of ‘I came, saw, and overcame:’ for your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy: and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together: clubs cannot part them. 46

Orl.

They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O! how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes. By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. 53

Ros.

Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?

Orl.

I can live no longer by thinking. 56

Ros.

I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then,—for now I speak to some purpose,—that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger. 76

Orl.

Speakest thou in sober meanings?

Ros.

By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put you in your best array; bid your friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Phe.

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness, 84

To show the letter that I writ to you.

Ros.

I care not if I have: it is my study

To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.

You are there follow’d by a faithful shepherd:

Look upon him, love him; he worships you. 89

Phe.

Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.

Sil.

It is to be all made of sighs and tears;

And so am I for Phebe. 92

Phe.

And I for Ganymede.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman.

Sil.

It is to be all made of faith and service;

And so am I for Phebe. 97

Phe.

And I for Ganymede.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman. 100

Sil.

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

All adoration, duty, and observance;

All humbleness, all patience, and impatience;

All purity, all trial, all obeisance; 105

And so am I for Phebe.

Phe.

And so am I for Ganymede.

Orl.

And so am I for Rosalind. 108

Ros.

And so am I for no woman.

Phe.

[To Rosalind.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Sil.

[To Phebe.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you? 113

Orl.

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Ros.

Who do you speak to, ‘Why blame you me to love you?’ 117

Orl.

To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.

Ros.

Pray you, no more of this: ’tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [To Silvius.] I will help you, if I can: [To Phebe.] I would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all together. [To Phebe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married to-morrow: [To Orlando.] I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow: [To Silvius.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Orlando.] As you love Rosalind, meet: [To Silvius.] As you love Phebe, meet: and as I love no woman, I’ll meet. So, fare you well: I have left you commands. 134

Sil.

I’ll not fail, if I live.

Phe.

Nor I.

Orl.

Nor I.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Touch.

To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

Aud.

I do desire it with all my heart, and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished duke’s pages. 6

Enter two Pages.

First Page.

Well met, honest gentleman.

Touch.

By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song. 9

Sec. Page.

We are for you: sit i’ the middle.

First Page.

Shall we clap into’t roundly, without hawking or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?

Sec. Page.

I’faith, i’faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse. 17

SONG.

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o’er the green corn-field did pass,  20

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,  24

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, &c.

This carol they began that hour,  28

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower

In the spring time, &c.

And therefore take the present time,  32

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;

For love is crowned with the prime

In the spring time, &c.

Touch.

Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.

First Page.

You are deceived, sir: we kept time; we lost not our time. 40

Touch.

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.

Duke S.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

Orl.

I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;

As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 4

Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.

Ros.

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg’d.

[To the Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

Duke S.

That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. 8

Ros.

[To Orlando.] And you say, you will have her when I bring her?

Orl.

That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

Ros.

[To Phebe.] You say, that you’ll marry me, if I be willing?

Phe.

That will I, should I die the hour after.

Ros.

But if you do refuse to marry me, 13

You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

Phe.

So is the bargain.

Ros.

[To Silvius.] You say, that you’ll have Phebe, if she will? 16

Sil.

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

Ros.

I have promis’d to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter; 20

Keep your word, Phebe, that you’ll marry me,

Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd;

Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her,

If she refuse me: and from hence I go, 24

To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Duke S.

I do remember in this shepherd boy

Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

Orl.

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 28

Methought he was a brother to your daughter;

But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,

And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments

Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 32

Whom he reports to be a great magician,

Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Jaq.

There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools. 38

Touch.

Salutation and greeting to you all!

Jaq.

Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears. 43

Touch.

If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one. 49

Jaq.

And how was that ta’en up?

Touch.

Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. 52

Jaq.

How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.

Duke S.

I like him very well.

Touch.

God ’ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear, and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own: a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster. 64

Duke S.

By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

Touch.

According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases. 68

Jaq.

But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

Touch.

Upon a lie seven times removed:—bear your body more seeming, Audrey:—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard: he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called ‘the retort courteous.’ If I sent him word again, it was not well cut, he would send me word, he cut it to please himself: this is called the ‘quip modest.’ If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is called the ‘reply churlish.’ If again, it was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true: this is called the ‘reproof valiant:’ if again, it was not well cut, he would say, I lie: this is called the ‘countercheck quarrelsome’: and so to the ‘lie circumstantial,’ and the ‘lie direct.’

Jaq.

And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut? 88

Touch.

I durst go no further than the ‘lie circumstantial,’ nor he durst not give me the ‘lie direct;’ and so we measured swords and parted.

Jaq.

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie? 93

Touch.

O sir, we quarrel in print; by the book, as you have books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the ‘retort courteous;’ the second, the ‘quip modest;’ the third, the ‘reply churlish;’ the fourth, the ‘reproof valiant;’ the fifth, the ‘countercheck quarrelsome;’ the sixth, the ‘lie with circumstance;’ the seventh, the ‘lie direct.’ All these you may avoid but the lie direct; and you may avoid that too, with an ‘if.’ I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an ‘if,’ as ‘If you said so, then I said so;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your ‘if’ is the only peace-maker; much virtue in ‘if.’ 109

Jaq.

Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as good at any thing, and yet a fool.

Duke S.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in woman’s clothes, and Celia.

Still Music.

Hym.

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even 116

Atone together.

Good duke, receive thy daughter;

Hymen from heaven brought her;

Yea, brought her hither, 120

That thou mightst join her hand with his,

Whose heart within her bosom is.

Ros.

[To Duke S.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 124

Duke S.

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

Orl.

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phe.

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love adieu! 128

Ros.

[To Duke S.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he.

[To Orlando.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he:

[To Phebe.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

Hym.

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:  132

’Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here’s eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen’s bands,  136

If truth holds true contents.

[To Orlando and Rosalind.] You and you no cross shall part:

[To Oliver and Celia.] You and you are heart in heart:

[To Phebe.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:  141

[To Touchstone and Audrey.] You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,  144

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG.

Wedding is great Juno’s crown: 148

O blessed bond of board and bed!

’Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured.

Honour, high honour, and renown, 152

To Hymen, god of every town!

Duke S.

O my dear niece! welcome thou art to me:

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

Phe.

[To Silvius.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; 156

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

Enter Jaques de Boys.

Jaq. de B.

Let me have audience for a word or two:

I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,

That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.

Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 161

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address’d a mighty power, which were on foot

In his own conduct, purposely to take 164

His brother here and put him to the sword:

And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,

Where, meeting with an old religious man,

After some question with him, was converted 168

Both from his enterprise and from the world;

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,

And all their lands restor’d to them again

That were with him exil’d. This to be true, 172

I do engage my life.

Duke S.

Welcome, young man;

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding:

To one, his lands withheld; and to the other

A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 176

First, in this forest, let us do those ends

That here were well begun and well begot;

And after, every of this happy number

That have endur’d shrewd days and nights with us,

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 181

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry. 184

Play, music! and you, brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

Jaq.

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life, 188

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

Jaq. de B.

He hath.

Jaq.

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn’d.

[To Duke S.] You to your former honour I bequeath; 193

Your patience and your virtue well deserve it:

[To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:

[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great allies: 196

[To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed:

[To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victual’d. So, to your pleasures:

I am for other than for dancing measures. 200

Duke S.

Stay, Jaques, stay.

Jaq.

To see no pastime, I: what you would have

I’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave.

[Exit.

Duke S.

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites, 204

As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

[A dance. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Rosalind.

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me: my way is, to conjure you; and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women! for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men! for the love you bear to women,—as I perceive by your simpering none of you hate them,—that between you and the women, the play may please. If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.

[Exeunt.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

A Lord. }	Persons in the Induction.
Christopher Sly, a Tinker. }
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants. }
Baptista,	a rich Gentleman of Padua.
Vincentio,	an old Gentleman of Pisa.
Lucentio,	son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca.
Petruchio,	a Gentleman of Verona; Suitor to Katharina.
Gremio, }	Suitors to Bianca.
Hortensio, }	Suitors to Bianca.
Tranio, }	Servants to Lucentio
Biondello, }	Servants to Lucentio
Grumio, }	Servants to Petruchio
Curtis, }	Servants to Petruchio
Pedant,	set up to personate Vincentio.
Katharina, the Shrew, }	Daughters to Baptista.
Bianca, }	Daughters to Baptista.
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.

Scene.—Sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in Petruchio’s House in the Country.

INDUCTION.

Scene I.— Before an Alehouse on a Heath.

Enter Hostess and Sly.

Sly.

I’ll pheeze you, in faith.

Host.

A pair of stocks, you rogue!

Sly.

Y’are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!

Host.

You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? 8

Sly.

No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Host.

I know my remedy: I must go fetch the third-borough.

[Exit.

Sly.

Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.

Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsman and Servants.

Lord.

Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: 16

Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d,

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach.

Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good

At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? 20

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Hunt.

Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;

He cried upon it at the merest loss,

And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent:

Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 25

Lord.

Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen such.

But sup them well, and look unto them all: 28

To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

First Hunt.

I will, my lord.

Lord.

[Sees Sly.] What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

Sec. Hunt.

He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, 32

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord.

O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!

Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. 36

What think you, if he were convey’d to bed,

Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,

A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes,

Would not the beggar then forget himself? 41

First Hunt.

Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

Sec. Hunt.

It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d.

Lord.

Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy. 44

Then take him up and manage well the jest.

Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, 48

And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet.

Procure me music ready when he wakes,

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, 52

And with a low submissive reverence

Say, ‘What is it your honour will command?’

Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rose-water, and bestrew’d with flowers;

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 57

And say, ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands?’

Some one be ready with a costly suit,

And ask him what apparel he will wear; 60

Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease.

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;

And, when he says he is—say that he dreams, 64

For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs:

It will be pastime passing excellent,

If it be husbanded with modesty. 68

First Hunt.

My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,

As he shall think, by our true diligence,

He is no less than what we say he is.

Lord.

Take him up gently, and to bed with him,

And each one to his office when he wakes. 73

[Sly is borne out. A trumpet sounds.

Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:

[Exit Servant.

Belike, some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here. 76

Re-enter Servant.

How now! who is it?

Serv.

An it please your honour,

Players that offer service to your lordship.

Lord.

Bid them come near.

Enter Players.

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

Players.

We thank your honour. 80

Lord.

Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

A Player.

So please your lordship to accept our duty.

Lord.

With all my heart. This fellow I remember,

Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son: 84

’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well.

I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d.

A Play.

I think ’twas Soto that your honour means. 88

Lord.

’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.

Well, you are come to me in happy time,

The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 92

There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

But I am doubtful of your modesties,

Lest, over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,—

For yet his honour never heard a play,— 96

You break into some merry passion

And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

If you should smile he grows impatient.

A Player.

Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves 100

Were he the veriest antick in the world.

Lord.

Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

And give them friendly welcome every one:

Let them want nothing that my house affords.

[Exeunt one with the Players.

Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, 105

And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady:

That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber;

And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. 108

Tell him from me,—as he will win my love,—

He bear himself with honourable action,

Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished: 112

Such duty to the drunkard let him do

With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy;

And say, ‘What is’t your honour will command,

Wherein your lady and your humble wife 116

May show her duty, and make known her love?’

And then, with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

And with declining head into his bosom,

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d 120

To see her noble lord restor’d to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

And if the boy have not a woman’s gift 124

To rain a shower of commanded tears,

An onion will do well for such a shift,

Which in a napkin being close convey’d,

Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 128

See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst:

Anon I’ll give thee more instructions.

[Exit Servant.

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman: 132

I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter

When they do homage to this simple peasant.

I’ll in to counsel them: haply, my presence 136

May well abate the over merry spleen

Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Bedchamber in the Lord’s House.

Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant.

Sly.

For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.

First Serv.

Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Sec. Serv.

Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Serv.

What raiment will your honour wear to-day? 4

Sly.

I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour, nor lordship: I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. 13

Lord.

Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!

O, that a mighty man, of such descent,

Of such possessions, and so high esteem, 16

Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

Sly.

What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son, of Burtonheath; by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught: here’s—

First Serv.

O! this it is that makes your lady mourn. 28

Sec. Serv.

O! this it is that makes your servants droop.

Lord.

Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, 32

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.

Look how thy servants do attend on thee,

Each in his office ready at thy beck: 36

Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,

[Music.

And twenty caged nightingales do sing:

Or wilt thou sleep? we’ll have thee to a couch

Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed 40

On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis.

Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground:

Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp’d,

Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. 44

Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar

Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?

Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,

And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 48

First Serv.

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Sec. Serv.

Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook, 52

And Cytherea all in sedges hid,

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,

Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

Lord.

We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid,

And how she was beguiled and surpris’d, 57

As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Serv.

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds; 60

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Lord.

Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord:

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful 64

Than any woman in this waning age.

First Serv.

And till the tears that she hath shed for thee

Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world; 68

And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly.

Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?

Or do I dream? or have I dream’d till now?

I do not sleep; I see, I hear, I speak; 72

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;

And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; 76

And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.

Sec. Serv.

Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands?

[Servants present a ewer, basin, and napkin.

O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream, 81

Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept.

Sly.

These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.

But did I never speak of all that time? 84

First Serv.

O! yes, my lord, but very idle words;

For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,

Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,

And rail upon the hostess of the house, 88

And say you would present her at the leet,

Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts.

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Sly.

Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. 92

Third Serv.

Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid,

Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up,

As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,

And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell, 96

And twenty more such names and men as these,

Which never were nor no man ever saw.

Sly.

Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!

All.

Amen. 100

Sly.

I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.

Page.

How fares my noble lord?

Sly.

Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.

Where is my wife? 104

Page.

Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

Sly.

Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?

My men should call me lord: I am your goodman.

Page.

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; 108

I am your wife in all obedience.

Sly.

I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord.

Madam.

Sly.

Al’ce madam, or Joan madam? 112

Lord.

Madam, and nothing else: so lords call ladies.

Sly.

Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d

And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page.

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. 117

Sly.

’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

Page.

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two, 121

Or, if not so, until the sun be set:

For your physicians have expressly charg’d,

In peril to incur your former malady, 124

That I should yet absent me from your bed:

I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Sly.

Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry, in spite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy; 132

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Sly.

Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick? 141

Page.

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

Sly.

What! household stuff?

Page.

It is a kind of history. 144

Sly.

Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side,

And let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.

[Flourish.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Padua. A public Place.

Enter Lucentio and Tranio.

Luc.

Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy; 4

And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d

With his good will and thy good company,

My trusty servant well approv’d in all,

Here let us breathe, and haply institute 8

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my being and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 13

Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,

It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d,

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: 16

And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,

Virtue and that part of philosophy

Will I apply that treats of happiness

By virtue specially to be achiev’d. 20

Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left

And am to Padua come, as he that leaves

A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. 24

Tra.

Mi perdonate, gentle master mine,

I am in all affected as yourself,

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 28

Only, good master, while we do admire

This virtue and this moral discipline,

Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;

Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks 32

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practise rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you; 36

The mathematics and the metaphysics,

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you;

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;

In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 40

Luc.

Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness,

And take a lodging fit to entertain 44

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay awhile: what company is this?

Tra.

Master, some show to welcome us to town.

Enter Baptista, Katharina, Blanca, Gremio, and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand aside.

Bap.

Gentlemen, importune me no further,

For how I firmly am resolv’d you know; 49

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder.

If either of you both love Katharina, 52

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

Gre.

To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? 56

Kath.

[To Baptista.] I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Hor.

Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. 60

Kath.

I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:

I wis it is not half way to her heart;

But if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool,

And paint your face, and use you like a fool. 65

Hor.

From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

Gre.

And me too, good Lord!

Tra.

Hush, master! here is some good pastime toward: 68

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

Luc.

But in the other’s silence do I see

Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio! 72

Tra.

Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

Bap.

Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said,—Bianca, get you in:

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, 76

For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.

Kath.

A pretty peat! it is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

Bian.

Sister, content you in my discontent.

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: 81

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to look and practise by myself.

Luc.

Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak. 84

Hor.

Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our good will effects

Bianca’s grief.

Gre.

Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 88

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

Bap.

Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d.

Go in, Bianca.

[Exit Bianca.

And for I know she taketh most delight 92

In music, instruments, and poetry,

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,

Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, 96

Prefer them hither; for to cunning men

I will be very kind, and liberal

To mine own children in good bringing up;

And so, farewell. Katharina, you may stay; 100

For I have more to commune with Bianca.

[Exit.

Kath.

Why, and I trust I may go too; may I not?

What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,

I knew not what to take, and what to leave? Ha!

[Exit.

Gre.

You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good, here’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out: our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. 113

Hor.

So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labour and effect one thing specially. 120

Gre.

What’s that, I pray?

Hor.

Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

Gre.

A husband! a devil. 124

Hor.

I say, a husband.

Gre.

I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell? 128

Hor.

Tush, Gremio! though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. 133

Gre.

I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, to be whipped at the high-cross every morning. 136

Hor.

Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to’t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio? 145

Gre.

I am agreed: and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on. 149

[Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio.

Tra.

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

Luc.

O Tranio! till I found it to be true, 152

I never thought it possible or likely;

But see, while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love in idleness;

And now in plainness do confess to thee, 156

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,

Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl. 160

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

Tra.

Master, it is no time to chide you now;

Affection is not rated from the heart: 164

If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so,

Redime te captum, quam queas minimo.

Luc.

Gramercies, lad; go forward: this contents:

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound.

Tra.

Master, you look’d so longly on the maid,

Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.

Luc.

O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had, 172

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,

When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand.

Tra.

Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm 176

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

Luc.

Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air;

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. 180

Tra.

Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance.

I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, 184

That till the father rid his hands of her,

Master, your love must live a maid at home;

And therefore has he closely mew’d her up,

Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. 188

Luc.

Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he!

But art thou not advis’d he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

Tra.

Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’tis plotted. 192

Luc.

I have it, Tranio.

Tra.

Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

Luc.

Tell me thine first.

Tra.

You will be schoolmaster,

And undertake the teaching of the maid: 196

That’s your device.

Luc.

It is: may it be done?

Tra.

Not possible; for who shall bear your part,

And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son?

Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends; 200

Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?

Luc.

Basta; content thee; for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces 204

For man, or master: then, it follows thus:

Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,

Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should:

I will some other be; some Florentine, 208

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.

’Tis hatch’d and shall be so: Tranio, at once

Uncase thee, take my colour’d hat and cloak:

When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; 212

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

[They exchange habits.

Tra.

So had you need.

In brief then, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient; 216

For so your father charg’d me at our parting,

‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,

Although I think ’twas in another sense:

I am content to be Lucentio, 220

Because so well I love Lucentio.

Luc.

Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;

And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid

Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. 224

Here comes the rogue.

Enter Biondello.

Sirrah, where have you been?

Bion.

Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes,

Or you stol’n his? or both? pray, what’s the news? 228

Luc.

Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.

Your fellow Tranio, here, to save my life,

Puts my apparel and my countenance on, 232

And I for my escape have put on his;

For in a quarrel since I came ashore

I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried.

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, 236

While I make way from hence to save my life:

You understand me?

Bion.

I, sir! ne’er a whit.

Luc.

And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:

Tranio is changed to Lucentio. 240

Bion.

The better for him: would I were so too!

Tra.

So would I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter.

But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I advise 244

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;

But in all places else your master, Lucentio.

Luc.

Tranio, let’s go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute, to make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why, sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty.

[Exeunt.

The Presenters above speak.

First Serv.

My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. 252

Sly.

Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?

Page.

My lord, ’tis but begun.

Sly.

’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’twere done! 257

[They sit and mark.

Scene II.— The Same. Before Hortensio’s House.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

Pet.

Verona, for awhile I take my leave,

To see my friends in Padua; but, of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. 4

Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say.

Gru.

Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there any man has rebused your worship?

Pet.

Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. 8

Gru.

Knock you here, sir! why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir?

Pet.

Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;

And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate. 12

Gru.

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

Pet.

Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, an you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it;

I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. 17

[He wrings Grumio by the ears.

Gru.

Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

Pet.

Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter Hortensio.

Hor.

How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

Pet.

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say. 24

Hor.

Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signior mio Petruchio.

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

Gru.

Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out? 33

Whom would to God, I had well knock’d at first,

Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

Pet.

A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, 36

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Gru.

Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain, ‘Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly?’ And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate?’ 43

Pet.

Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Hor.

Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge. 45

Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona? 49

Pet.

Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes further than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few, 52

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may. 56

Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

Hor.

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee,

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife? 60

Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel;

And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich: but thou’rt too much my friend,

And I’ll not wish thee to her. 64

Pet.

Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we,

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife,

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, 68

Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse,

She moves me not, or not removes, at least, 72

Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas:

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua. 76

Gru.

Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

Hor.

Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, 84

I will continue that I broach’d in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous,

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: 88

Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,—

Is, that she is intolerable curst

And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,

That, were my state far worser than it is, 92

I would not wed her for a mine of gold:

Pet.

Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect:

Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough;

For I will board her, though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

Hor.

Her father is Baptista Minola, 98

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katharina Minola, 100

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

Pet.

I know her father, though I know not her;

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; 104

And therefore let me be thus bold with you,

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

Gru.

I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves or so: why, that’s nothing: an he begin once, he’ll rail in his ropetricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.

Hor.

Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: 120

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love; 124

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehears’d,

That ever Katharina will be woo’d:

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, 128

That none shall have access unto Bianca,

Till Katharine the curst have got a husband.

Gru.

Katharine the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst. 132

Hor.

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me, disguis’d in sober robes,

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca; 136

That so I may, by this device, at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her,

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Gru.

Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm.

Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha? 144

Hor.

Peace, Grumio! ’tis the rival of my love.

Petruchio, stand by awhile.

Gru.

A proper stripling, and an amorous!

Gre.

O! very well; I have perus’d the note.

Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:

All books of love, see that at any hand,

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me. Over and beside 152

Signior Baptista’s liberality,

I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,

And let me have them very well perfum’d;

For she is sweeter than perfume itself 156

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

Luc.

Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you,

As for my patron, stand you so assur’d,

As firmly as yourself were still in place; 160

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

Gre.

O! this learning, what a thing it is.

Gru.

O! this woodcock, what an ass it is. 164

Pet.

Peace, sirrah!

Hor.

Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

Gre.

And you’re well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. 168

I promis’d to inquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;

And, by good fortune, I have lighted well

On this young man; for learning and behaviour

Fit for her turn; well read in poetry 173

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

Hor.

’Tis well: and I have met a gentleman

Hath promis’d me to help me to another, 176

A fine musician to instruct our mistress:

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me.

Gre.

Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove. 180

Gru.

[Aside.] And that his bags shall prove.

Hor.

Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love:

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,

I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. 184

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katharine;

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 188

Gre.

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

Pet.

I know she is an irksome, brawling scold:

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. 192

Gre.

No, sayst me so, friend? What countryman?

Pet.

Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son:

My father dead, my fortune lives for me;

And I do hope good days and long to see. 196

Gre.

O, sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange!

But if you have a stomach, to’t i’ God’s name:

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wild-cat?

Pet.

Will I live? 200

Gru.

Will he woo her? ay, or I’ll hang her.

Pet.

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 204

Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? 208

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear 212

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?

Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

Gru.

[Aside.] For he fears none.

Gre.

Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arriv’d, 216

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

Hor.

I promis’d we would be contributors,

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

Gre.

And so we will, provided that he win her.

Gru.

[Aside.] I would I were as sure of a good dinner. 221

Enter Tranio, bravely apparelled; and Biondello.

Tra.

Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola? 224

Bion.

He that has the two fair daughters: is’t he you mean?

Tra.

Even he, Biondello!

Gre.

Hark you, sir; you mean not her to—

Tra.

Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you to do? 228

Pet.

Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

Tra.

I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away.

Luc.

[Aside.] Well begun, Tranio.

Hor.

Sir, a word ere you go:

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no? 232

Tra.

And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

Gre.

No; if without more words you will get you hence.

Tra.

Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free

For me as for you?

Gre.

But so is not she. 236

Tra.

For what reason, I beseech you?

Gre.

For this reason, if you’ll know,

That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.

Hor.

That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. 240

Tra.

Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen,

Do me this right; hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman,

To whom my father is not all unknown; 244

And were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers;

Then well one more may fair Bianca have, 248

And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

Gre.

What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.

Luc.

Sir, give him head: I know he’ll prove a jade. 252

Pet.

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Hor.

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

Tra.

No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue 257

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Pet.

Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.

Gre.

Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. 261

Pet.

Sir, understand you this of me in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors, 264

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed;

The younger then is free, and not before.

Tra.

If it be so, sir, that you are the man 268

Must stead us all, and me among the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. 273

Hor.

Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, 276

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Tra.

Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health, 280

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Gru.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Bion.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Hor.

The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:—

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Padua. A Room in Baptista’s House.

Enter Katharina and Bianca.

Bian.

Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;

That I disdain: but for these other gawds,

Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself, 4

Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;

Or what you will command me will I do,

So well I know my duty to my elders. 7

Kath.

Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell

Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not.

Bian.

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other. 12

Kath.

Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio?

Bian.

If you affect him, sister, here I swear

I’ll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.

Kath.

O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:

You will have Gremio to keep you fair. 17

Bian.

Is it for him you do envy me so?

Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive

You have but jested with me all this while: 20

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

Kath.

If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

[Strikes her.

Enter Baptista.

Bap.

Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?

Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. 24

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word? 28

Kath.

Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d.

[Flies after Bianca.

Bap.

What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

[Exit Bianca.

Kath.

What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see

She is your treasure, she must have a husband;

I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, 33

And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.

Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep

Till I can find occasion of revenge.

[Exit.

Bap.

Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I?

But who comes here?

Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a Musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books.

Gre.

Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

Bap.

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen! 41

Pet.

And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter

Call’d Katharina, fair and virtuous?

Bap.

I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katharina.

Gre.

You are too blunt: go to it orderly. 45

Pet.

You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, 48

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,

Am bold to show myself a forward guest

Within your house, to make mine eye the witness

Of that report which I so oft have heard. 53

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

[Presenting Hortensio.

Cunning in music and the mathematics, 56

To instruct her fully in those sciences,

Whereof I know she is not ignorant.

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:

His name is Licio, born in Mantua. 60

Bap.

You’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.

But for my daughter Katharine, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

Pet.

I see you do not mean to part with her,

Or else you like not of my company. 65

Bap.

Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

Pet.

Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son;

A man well known throughout all Italy. 69

Bap.

I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

Gre.

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,

Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. 72

Backare! you are marvellous forward.

Pet.

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

Gre.

I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing.

Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar, [Presenting Lucentio.] that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service. 84

Bap.

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio.—[To Tranio.] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming? 88

Tra.

Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,

That, being a stranger in this city here,

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,

Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. 92

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,

In the preferment of the eldest sister.

This liberty is all that I request,

That, upon knowledge of my parentage, 96

I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo,

And free access and favour as the rest:

And, toward the education of your daughters,

I here bestow a simple instrument, 100

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

Bap.

Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray?

Tra.

Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. 104

Bap.

A mighty man of Pisa; by report

I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.

[To Hortensio.] Take you the lute, [To Lucentio.] and you the set of books;

You shall go see your pupils presently. 108

Holla, within!

Enter a Servant.

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my two daughters, and then tell them both

These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

[Exit Servant, with Hortensio, Lucentio, and Biondello.

We will go walk a little in the orchard, 112

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

Pet.

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo. 116

You knew my father well, and in him me,

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,

Which I have better’d rather than decreas’d:

Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, 120

What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

Bap.

After my death the one half of my lands,

And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

Pet.

And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of

Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, 125

In all my lands and leases whatsoever.

Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,

That covenants may be kept on either hand. 128

Bap.

Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,

That is, her love; for that is all in all.

Pet.

Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,

I am as peremptory as she proud-minded; 132

And where two raging fires meet together

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:

Though little fire grows great with little wind,

Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all; 136

So I to her, and so she yields to me;

For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

Bap.

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!

But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. 140

Pet.

Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,

That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke.

Bap.

How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

Hor.

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Bap.

What, will my daughter prove a good musician? 145

Hor.

I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Bap.

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? 148

Hor.

Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, 152

‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she; ‘I’ll fume with them;’

And, with that word, she struck me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way;

And there I stood amazed for a while, 156

As on a pillory, looking through the lute;

While she did call me rascal fiddler,

And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms

As she had studied to misuse me so. 160

Pet.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!

I love her ten times more than e’er I did:

O! how I long to have some chat with her!

Bap.

[To Hortensio.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited: 164

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;

She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? 168

Pet.

I pray you do; I will attend her here,

[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, and Hortensio.

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: 172

Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:

Say she be mute and will not speak a word;

Then I’ll commend her volubility, 176

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:

If she do bid me pack; I’ll give her thanks,

As though she bid me stay by her a week:

If she deny to wed; I’ll crave the day 180

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter Katharina.

Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.

Kath.

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: 184

They call me Katharine that do talk of me.

Pet.

You lie, in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom;

Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 189

For dainties are all cates: and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;

Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town, 192

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—

Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.

Kath.

Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither 196

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,

You were a moveable.

Pet.

Why, what’s a moveable?

Kath.

A joint-stool.

Pet.

Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

Kath.

Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

Pet.

Women are made to bear, and so are you.

Kath.

No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. 202

Pet.

Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;

For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—

Kath.

Too light for such a swain as you to catch,

And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

Pet.

Should be! should buz!

Kath.

Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.

Pet.

O slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee? 208

Kath.

Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

Pet.

Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith you are too angry.

Kath.

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

Pet.

My remedy is, then, to pluck it out. 212

Kath.

Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

Pet.

Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

In his tail.

Kath.

In his tongue.

Pet.

Whose tongue?

Kath.

Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell. 216

Pet.

What! with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again.

Good Kate, I am a gentleman.

Kath.

That I’ll try.

[Striking him.

Pet.

I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.

Kath.

So may you lose your arms: 220

If you strike me, you are no gentleman;

And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

Pet.

A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.

Kath.

What is your crest? a coxcomb? 224

Pet.

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

Kath.

No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

Pet.

Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

Kath.

It is my fashion when I see a crab. 228

Pet.

Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.

Kath.

There is, there is.

Pet.

Then show it me.

Kath.

Had I a glass, I would.

Pet.

What, you mean my face?

Kath.

Well aim’d of such a young one.

Pet.

Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you. 233

Kath.

Yet you are wither’d.

Pet.

’Tis with cares.

Kath.

I care not.

Pet.

Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so.

Kath.

I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go. 236

Pet.

No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle.

’Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar;

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, 240

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers:

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will;

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk; 244

But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers,

With gentle conference, soft and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O slanderous world! Kate, like the hazel-twig,

Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue 249

As hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

Kath.

Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command. 252

Pet.

Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,

And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

Kath.

Where did you study all this goodly speech? 257

Pet.

It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

Kath.

A witty mother! witless else her son.

Pet.

Am I not wise?

Kath.

Yes; keep you warm. 260

Pet.

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy bed:

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on; 264

And will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,—

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,—

Thou must be married to no man but me: 269

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate;

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Conformable as other household Kates. 272

Here comes your father: never make denial;

I must and will have Katharine to my wife.

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio.

Bap.

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

Pet.

How but well, sir? how but well? 276

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

Bap.

Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in your dumps?

Kath.

Call you me daughter? now, I promise you

You have show’d a tender fatherly regard, 280

To wish me wed to one half lunatic;

A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Pet.

Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world, 284

That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her:

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; 288

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity;

And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together,

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 292

Kath.

I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

Gre.

Hark, Petruchio: she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

Tra.

Is this your speeding? nay then, good night our part!

Pet.

Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself: 296

If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you?

’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone,

That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe 300

How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate.

She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love. 304

O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.

Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice 308

To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day.

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine.

Bap.

I know not what to say; but give me your hands. 312

God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match.

Gre.

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Tra.

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Pet.

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace: 316

We will have rings, and things, and fine array;

And, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.

[Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina, severally.

Gre.

Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

Bap.

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, 320

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

Tra.

’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:

’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

Bap.

The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

Gre.

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:

Now is the day we long have looked for:

I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 328

Tra.

And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

Gre.

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

Tra.

Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

Gre.

But thine doth fry.

Skipper, stand back: ’tis age that nourisheth.

Tra.

But youth in ladies eyes that flourisheth.

Bap.

Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife:

’Tis deeds must win the prize; and he, of both,

That can assure my daughter greatest dower 337

Shall have my Bianca’s love.

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

Gre.

First, as you know, my house within the city 340

Is richly furnished with plate and gold:

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;

My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;

In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; 344

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needle-work, 348

Pewter and brass, and all things that belong

To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm

I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,

Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, 352

And all things answerable to this portion.

Myself am struck in years, I must confess;

And if I die to-morrow, this is hers,

If whilst I live she will be only mine. 356

Tra.

That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me:

I am my father’s heir and only son:

If I may have your daughter to my wife,

I’ll leave her houses three or four as good, 360

Within rich Pisa walls, as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all of which shall be her jointure. 364

What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

Gre.

Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

My land amounts not to so much in all:

That she shall have; besides an argosy 368

That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.

What, have I chok’d you with an argosy?

Tra.

Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,

And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,

And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

Gre.

Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more;

And she can have no more than all I have: 376

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

Tra.

Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,

By your firm promise. Gremio is out-vied.

Bap.

I must confess your offer is the best;

And, let your father make her the assurance, 381

She is your own; else, you must pardon me:

If you should die before him, where’s her dower?

Tra.

That’s but a cavil: he is old, I young.

Gre.

And may not young men die as well as old? 385

Bap.

Well, gentlemen,

I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know,

My daughter Katharine is to be married: 388

Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance;

If not, to Signior Gremio:

And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. 392

Gre.

Adieu, good neighbour. [Exit Baptista.] Now I fear thee not:

Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all, and in his waning age

Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy! 396

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

[Exit.

Tra.

A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide!

Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten.

’Tis in my head to do my master good: 400

I see no reason, but suppos’d Lucentio

Must get a father, called ‘suppos’d Vincentio;’

And that’s a wonder: fathers, commonly

Do get their children; but in this case of wooing, 404

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Padua. A Room in Baptista’s House.

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca.

Luc.

Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katharine welcom’d you withal?

Hor.

But, wrangling pedant, this is 4

The patroness of heavenly harmony:

Then give me leave to have prerogative;

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. 8

Luc.

Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music was ordain’d!

Was it not to refresh the mind of man

After his studies or his usual pain? 12

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And while I pause, serve in your harmony.

Hor.

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

Bian.

Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, 16

To strive for that which resteth in my choice.

I am no breeching scholar in the schools;

I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself. 20

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down:

Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;

His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d.

Hor.

You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

[Retires.

Luc.

That will be never: tune vour instrument. 25

Bian.

Where left we last?

Luc.

Here, madam:—

Hac ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; 28

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Bian.

Construe them.

Luc.

Hac ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am Lucentio, hic est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love; Hic steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a wooing, Priami, is my man Tranio, regia, bearing my port, celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. 37

Hor.

[Returning.] Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Bian.

Let’s hear.—

[Hortensio plays.

O fie! the treble jars. 40

Luc.

Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bian.

Now let me see if I can construe it: Hac ibat Simois, I know you not, hic est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; Hic steterat Priami, take heed he hear us not, regia, presume not; celsa senis, despair not.

Hor.

Madam, ’tis now in tune.

Luc.

All but the base.

Hor.

The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. 48

How fiery and forward our pedant is!

[Aside.] Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:

Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

Bian.

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Luc.

Mistrust it not; for, sure, Æacides 53

Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

Bian.

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt: 56

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.

Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

Hor.

[To Lucentio.] You may go walk, and give me leave a while: 60

My lessons make no music in three parts.

Luc.

Are you so formal, sir? [Aside.] Well, I must wait,

And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,

Our fine musician groweth amorous. 64

Hor.

Madam, before you touch the instrument,

To learn the order of my fingering,

I must begin with rudiments of art;

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, 68

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,

Than hath been taught by any of my trade:

And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

Bian.

Why, I am past my gamut long ago. 72

Hor.

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Bian.

‘Gamut’ I am, the ground of all accord,

‘A re,’ to plead Hortensio’s passion;

‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord, 76

‘C fa ut,’ that loves with all affection:

‘D sol re,’ one clef, two notes have I:

‘E la mi,’ show pity, or I die.

Call you this gamut? tut, I like it not: 80

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,

To change true rules for odd inventions.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,

And help to dress your sister’s chamber up: 84

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

Bian.

Farewell, sweet masters both: I must be gone.

[Exeunt Bianca and Servant.

Luc.

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

[Exit.

Hor.

But I have cause to pry into this pedant: 88

Methinks he looks as though he were in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble

To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale,

Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, 92

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and Attendants.

Bap.

[To Tranio.] Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day

That Katharine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? what mockery will it be 4

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

Kath.

No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forc’d 8

To give my hand oppos’d against my heart

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen;

Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure.

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, 12

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;

And to be noted for a merry man,

He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,

Make friends invite, and proclaim the banns; 16

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.

Now must the world point at poor Katharine,

And say, ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife,

If it would please him come and marry her.’ 20

Tra.

Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word:

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;

Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. 25

Kath.

Would Katharine had never seen him though!

[Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others.

Bap.

Go, girl: I cannot blame thee now to weep,

For such an injury would vex a very saint, 28

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter Biondello.

Bion.

Master, master! news! old news, and such news as you never heard of!

Bap.

Is it new and old too? how may that be? 33

Bion.

Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming?

Bap.

Is he come? 36

Bion.

Why, no, sir.

Bap.

What then?

Bion.

He is coming.

Bap.

When will he be here? 40

Bion.

When he stands where I am and sees you there.

Tra.

But, say, what to thine old news? 43

Bion.

Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. 65

Bap.

Who comes with him?

Bion.

O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the ‘humour of forty fancies’ pricked in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.

Tra.

’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;

Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. 76

Bap.

I am glad he is come, howsoe’er he comes.

Bion.

Why, sir, he comes not.

Bap.

Didst thou not say he comes?

Bion.

Who? that Petruchio came? 80

Bap.

Ay, that Petruchio came.

Bion.

No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

Bap.

Why, that’s all one. 84

Bion.

Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one, 88

And yet not many.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

Pet.

Come, where be these gallants? who is at home?

Bap.

You are welcome, sir.

Pet.

And yet I come not well.

Bap.

And yet you halt not.

Tra.

Not so well apparell’d 92

As I wish you were.

Pet.

Were it better, I should rush in thus.

But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride?

How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown: 96

And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet, or unusual prodigy?

Bap.

Why, sir, you know this is your weddingday: 100

First were we sad, fearing you would not come;

Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,

An eye-sore to our solemn festival. 104

Tra.

And tell us what occasion of import

Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,

And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

Pet.

Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear:

Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, 109

Though in some part enforced to digress;

Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal. 112

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her:

The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

Tra.

See not your bride in these unreverent robes:

Go to my chamber; put on clothes of mine. 116

Pet.

Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.

Bap.

But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Pet.

Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words:

To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. 120

Could I repair what she will wear in me

As I can change these poor accoutrements,

’Twere well for Kate and better for myself.

But what a fool am I to chat with you 124

When I should bid good morrow to my bride,

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

[Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio, and Biondello.

Tra.

He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

We will persuade him, be it possible, 128

To put on better ere he go to church.

Bap.

I’ll after him, and see the event of this.

[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and Attendants.

Tra.

But to her love concerneth us to add

Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass, 132

As I before imparted to your worship,

I am to get a man,—whate’er he be

It skills not much, we’ll fit him to our turn,—

And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, 136

And make assurance here in Padua,

Of greater sums than I have promised.

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,

And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 140

Luc.

Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster

Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,

’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;

Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,

I’ll keep mine own, despite of all the world. 145

Tra.

That by degrees we mean to look into,

And watch our vantage in this business.

We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, 148

The narrow-prying father, Minola,

The quaint musician, amorous Licio;

All for my master’s sake, Lucentio.

Re-enter Gremio.

Signior Gremio, came you from the church? 152

Gre.

As willingly as e’er I came from school.

Tra.

And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

Gre.

A bridegroom say you? ’Tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

Tra.

Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible.

Gre.

Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

Tra.

Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.

Gre.

Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him.

I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest 161

Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife,

‘Ay, by gogs-wouns!’ quoth he; and swore so loud,

That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book; 164

And, as he stoop’d again to take it up,

The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff

That down fell priest and book and book and priest:

‘Now take them up,’ quoth he, ‘if any list.’ 168

Tra.

What said the wench when he arose again?

Gre.

Trembled and shook; for why he stampt and swore,

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done, 172

He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he; as if

He had been aboard, carousing to his mates

After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel,

And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face; 176

Having no other reason

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly,

And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking.

This done, he took the bride about the neck, 180

And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack

That at the parting all the church did echo:

And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;

And after me, I know, the rout is coming. 184

Such a mad marriage never was before.

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.

[Music.

Re-enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train.

Pet.

Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:

I know you think to dine with me to-day, 188

And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer;

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

Bap.

Is’t possible you will away to-night? 192

Pet.

I must away to-day, before night come.

Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all, 196

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.

Dine with my father, drink a health to me,

For I must hence; and farewell to you all. 200

Tra.

Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

Pet.

It may not be.

Gre.

Let me entreat you.

Pet.

It cannot be.

Kath.

Let me entreat you.

Pet.

I am content.

Kath.

Are you content to stay? 204

Pet.

I am content you shall entreat me stay,

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

Kath.

Now, if you love me, stay.

Pet.

Grumio, my horse!

Gru.

Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses. 209

Kath.

Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;

No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself, 212

The door is open, sir, there lies your way;

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;

For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself.

’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom, 216

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

Pet.

O Kate! content thee: prithee, be not angry.

Kath.

I will be angry: what hast thou to do?

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. 220

Gre.

Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

Kath.

Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:

I see a woman may be made a fool,

If she had not a spirit to resist. 224

Pet.

They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.

Obey the bride, you that attend on her;

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, 228

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own. 232

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything;

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;

I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he 237

That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon, we’re beset with thieves;

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. 240

Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate:

I’ll buckler thee against a million.

[Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grumio.

Bap.

Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

Gre.

Went they not quickly I should die with laughing. 244

Tra.

Of all mad matches never was the like.

Luc.

Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?

Bian.

That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.

Gre.

I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. 248

Bap.

Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants

For to supply the places at the table,

You know there wants no junkets at the feast.

Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place, 252

And let Bianca take her sister’s room.

Tra.

Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

Bap.

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Hall in Petruchio’s Country House.

Enter Grumio.

Gru.

Fie, fie, on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? was ever man so rayed? was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me; but I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis. 12

Enter Curtis.

Curt.

Who is that calls so coldly?

Gru.

A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. 17

Curt.

Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Gru.

O! ay, Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water. 21

Curt.

Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported?

Gru.

She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but, thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.

Curt.

Away, you three-inch-fool! I am no beast. 28

Gru.

Am I but three inches? why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,—thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

Curt.

I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world? 36

Gru.

A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore, fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. 40

Curt.

There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news?

Gru.

Why, ‘Jack, boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as thou wilt. 44

Curt.

Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

Gru.

Why therefore fire: for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept; the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order? 53

Curt.

All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news?

Gru.

First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. 57

Curt.

How?

Gru.

Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. 60

Curt.

Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

Gru.

Lend thine ear.

Curt.

Here.

Gru.

[Striking him.] There. 64

Curt.

This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

Gru.

And therefore it is called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,—

Curt.

Both of one horse?

Gru.

What’s that to thee? 72

Curt.

Why, a horse.

Gru.

Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled: how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat me because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed before; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.

Curt.

By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. 88

Gru.

Ay; and that, thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest: let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horsetail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready? 97

Curt.

They are.

Gru.

Call them forth.

Curt.

Do you hear? ho! you must meet my master to countenance my mistress. 101

Gru.

Why, she hath a face of her own.

Curt.

Who knows not that?

Gru.

Thou, it seems, that callest for company to countenance her. 105

Curt.

I call them forth to credit her.

Gru.

Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. 108

Enter several Servants.

Nath.

Welcome home, Grumio!

Phil.

How now, Grumio?

Jos.

What, Grumio!

Nich.

Fellow Grumio! 112

Nath.

How now, old lad!

Gru.

Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat? 117

Nath.

All things is ready. How near is our master?

Gru.

E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,—Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master.

Enter Petruchio and Katharina.

Pet.

Where be these knaves? What! no man at door

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? 124

Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?—

All Serv.

Here, here, sir; here, sir.

Pet.

Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!

You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! 128

What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?

Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

Gru.

Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

Pet.

You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! 132

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,

And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

Gru.

Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel, 136

There was no link to colour Peter’s hat,

And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing,

There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;

The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly; 140

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

Pet.

Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in.

[Exeunt some of the Servants.

Where is the life that late I led?

Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.

Soud, soud, soud, soud! 145

Re-enter Servants with supper.

Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.—

Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! When?

It was the friar of orders grey, 148

As he forth walked on his way:

Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:

[Strikes him.

Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.

Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!

Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence 153

And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:

[Exit Servant.

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with.

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.—

[Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him.

You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

Kath.

Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.

Pet.

A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! 160

Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?—

What’s this? mutton?

First Serv.

Ay.

Pet.

Who brought it?

First Serv.

I.

Pet.

’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. 164

What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?

How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,

And serve it thus to me that love it not?

[Throws the meat, &c. at them.

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.

You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves!

What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight.

Kath.

I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:

The meat was well if you were so contented. 172

Pet.

I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away;

And I expressly am forbid to touch it,

For it engenders choler, planteth anger;

And better ’twere that both of us did fast, 176

Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,

Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.

Be patient; to-morrow’t shall be mended,

And for this night we’ll fast for company: 180

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

[Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Curtis.

Nath.

Peter, didst ever see the like?

Peter.

He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter Curtis.

Gru.

Where is he? 184

Curt.

In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;

And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,

Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,

And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 189

Away, away! for he is coming hither.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Petruchio.

Pet.

Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And ’tis my hope to end successfully. 192

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,

And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard, 196

To make her come and know her keeper’s call;

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat; 200

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not:

As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I’ll find about the making of the bed;

And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets:

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her;

And in conclusion she shall watch all night: 208

And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,

And with the clamour keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;

And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. 212

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Padua. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Tranio and Hortensio.

Tra.

Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

Hor.

Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 4

Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching.

[They stand aside.

Enter Bianca and Lucentio.

Luc.

Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

Bian.

What, master, read you? first resolve me that.

Luc.

I read that I profess, the Art to Love. 8

Bian.

And may you prove, sir, master of your art!

Luc.

While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.

[They retire.

Hor.

Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray,

You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca

Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. 13

Tra.

O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!

I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

Hor.

Mistake no more: I am not Licio, 16

Nor a musician, as I seem to be;

But one that scorns to live in this disguise,

For such a one as leaves a gentleman,

And makes a god of such a cullion: 20

Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio.

Tra.

Signior Hortensio, I have often heard

Of your entire affection to Bianca;

And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,

I will with you, if you be so contented, 25

Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

Hor.

See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow 28

Never to woo her more; but I do forswear her,

As one unworthy all the former favours

That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

Tra.

And here I take the like unfeigned oath,

Never to marry with her though she would entreat.

Fie on her! see how beastly she doth court him.

Hor.

Would all the world, but he had quite forsworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, 36

I will be married to a wealthy widow

Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me

As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. 40

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love: and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.

[Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance.

Tra.

Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace 44

As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case!

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,

And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

Bian.

Tranio, you jest. But have you both forsworn me? 48

Tra.

Mistress, we have.

Luc.

Then we are rid of Licio.

Tra.

I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.

Bian.

God give him joy! 52

Tra.

Ay, and he’ll tame her.

Bian.

He says so, Tranio.

Tra.

Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

Bian.

The taming-school! what, is there such a place?

Tra.

Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master; 56

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,

To tame a shrew, and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter Biondello, running.

Bion.

O master, master! I have watch’d so long

That I’m dog-weary; but at last I spied 60

An ancient angel coming down the hill

Will serve the turn.

Tra.

What is he, Biondello?

Bion.

Master, a mercatante, or a pedant,

I know not what; but formal in apparel, 64

In gait and countenance surely like a father.

Luc.

And what of him, Tranio?

Tra.

If he be credulous and trust my tale,

I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, 68

And give assurance to Baptista Minola,

As if he were the right Vincentio.

Take in your love, and then let me alone.

[Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca.

Enter a Pedant.

Ped.

God save you, sir!

Tra.

And you, sir! you are welcome.

Travel you far on, or are you at the furthest? 73

Ped.

Sir, at the furthest for a week or two;

But then up further, and as far as Rome;

And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. 76

Tra.

What countryman, I pray?

Ped.

Of Mantua.

Tra.

Of Mantua, sir! marry, God forbid!

And come to Padua, careless of your life?

Ped.

My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard. 80

Tra.

’Tis death for any one in Mantua

To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?

Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the duke,—

For private quarrel ’twixt your duke and him,—

Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. 85

’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come,

You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

Ped.

Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so; 88

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence, and must here deliver them.

Tra.

Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you: 92

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

Ped.

Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been;

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens.

Tra.

Among them, know you one Vincentio?

Ped.

I know him not, but I have heard of him;

A merchant of incomparable wealth. 98

Tra.

He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

Bion.

[Aside.] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

Tra.

To save your life in this extremity,

This favour will I do you for his sake; 104

And think it not the worst of all your fortunes

That you are like to Sir Vincentio.

His name and credit shall you undertake,

And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d,

Look that you take upon you as you should! 109

You understand me, sir; so shall you stay

Till you have done your business in the city.

If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. 112

Ped.

O sir, I do; and will repute you ever

The patron of my life and liberty.

Tra.

Then go with me to make the matter good.

This, by the way, I let you understand: 116

My father is here look’d for every day,

To pass assurance of a dower in marriage

’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:

In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you. 120

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Petruchio’s House.

Enter Katharina and Grumio.

Gru.

No, no, forsooth; I dare not, for my life.

Kath.

The more my wrong the more his spite appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars, that come unto my father’s door, 4

Upon entreaty have a present alms;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat, 8

Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love; 12

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat

’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.

I prithee go and get me some repast;

I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 16

Gru.

What say you to a neat’s foot?

Kath.

’Tis passing good: I prithee let me have it.

Gru.

I fear it is too choleric a meat.

How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d? 20

Kath.

I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.

Gru.

I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

Kath.

A dish that I do love to feed upon. 24

Gru.

Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath.

Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Gru.

Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,

Or else you get no beef of Grumio. 28

Kath.

Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

Gru.

Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Kath.

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

[Beats him.

That feed’st me with the very name of meat. 32

Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,

That triumph thus upon my misery!

Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.

Pet.

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort? 36

Hor.

Mistress, what cheer?

Kath.

Faith, as cold as can be.

Pet.

Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,

To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee: 40

[Sets the dish on a table.

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.

What! not a word? Nay then, thou lov’st it not,

And all my pains is sorted to no proof.

Here, take away this dish.

Kath.

I pray you, let it stand. 44

Pet.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks,

And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

Kath.

I thank you, sir.

Hor.

Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.

Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company. 49

Pet.

[Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov’st me.

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!

Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, 52

Will we return unto thy father’s house,

And revel it as bravely as the best,

With silken coats and caps and golden rings,

With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;

With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, 57

With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery.

What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 60

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;

Lay forth the gown.—

Enter Haberdasher.

What news with you, sir?

Hab.

Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

Pet.

Why, this was moulded on a porringer;

A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy: 65

Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:

Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. 68

Kath.

I’ll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

Pet.

When you are gentle, you shall have one too;

And not till then.

Hor.

[Aside.] That will not be in haste.

Kath.

Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, 73

And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:

Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 76

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,

Or else my heart, concealing it, will break:

And rather than it shall, I will be free

Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 80

Pet.

Why, thou sayst true; it is a paltry cap,

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie.

I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not.

Kath.

Love me or love me not, I like the cap,

And it I will have, or I will have none. 85

[Exit Haberdasher.

Pet.

Thy gown? why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t.

O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?

What’s this? a sleeve? ’tis like a demi-cannon:

What! up and down, carv’d like an apple-tart?

Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,

Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.

Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? 92

Hor.

[Aside.] I see, she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

Tai.

You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

Pet.

Marry, and did: but if you be remember’d,

I did not bid you mar it to the time. 97

Go, hop me over every kennel home,

For you shall hop without my custom, sir.

I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. 100

Kath.

I never saw a better-fashion’d gown,

More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable.

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Pet.

Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. 104

Tai.

She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

Pet.

O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,

Thou thimble, 108

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!

Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread!

Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard 113

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown.

Tai.

Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made 116

Just as my master had direction.

Grumio gave order how it should be done.

Gru.

I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

Tai.

But how did you desire it should be made? 120

Gru.

Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

Tai.

But did you not request to have it cut?

Gru.

Thou hast faced many things.

Tai.

I have. 124

Gru.

Face not me: thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest. 129

Tai.

Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

Pet.

Read it.

Gru.

The note lies in’s throat if he say I said so.

Tai.

Imprimis. A loose-bodied gown.

Gru.

Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread. I said, a gown.

Pet.

Proceed.

Tai.

With a small compassed cape.

Gru.

I confess the cape. 140

Tai.

With a trunk sleeve.

Gru.

I confess two sleeves.

Tai.

The sleeves curiously cut.

Pet.

Ay, there’s the villany. 144

Gru.

Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

Tai.

This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it.

Gru.

I am for thee straight: take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

Hor.

God-a-mercy, Grumio! then he shall have no odds.

Pet.

Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. 156

Gru.

You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress.

Pet.

Go, take it up unto thy master’s use.

Gru.

Villain, not for thy life! take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s use! 161

Pet.

Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that?

Gru.

O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.

Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use!

O, fie, fie, fie! 165

Pet.

[Aside.] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.

[To Tailor.] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

Hor.

[Aside to Tailor.] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow: 168

Take no unkindness of his hasty words.

Away! I say; commend me to thy master.

[Exit Tailor.

Pet.

Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s,

Even in these honest mean habiliments. 172

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor:

For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich;

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 176

What is the jay more precious than the lark

Because his feathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel

Because his painted skin contents the eye? 180

O, no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse

For this poor furniture and mean array.

If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me;

And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith,

To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. 185

Go, call my men, and let us straight to him;

And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;

There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.

Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock,

And well we may come there by dinner-time.

Kath.

I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two;

And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there. 192

Pet.

It shall be seven ere I go to horse.

Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,

You are still crossing it. Sirs, let’t alone:

I will not go to-day; and ere I do, 196

It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

Hor.

Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Padua. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio.

Tra.

Sir, this is the house: please it you that I call?

Ped.

Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,

Signior Baptista may remember me,

Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, 4

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

Tra.

’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,

With such austerity as ’longeth to a father.

Ped.

I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy; 8

’Twere good he were school’d.

Enter Biondello.

Tra.

Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,

Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:

Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio. 12

Bion.

Tut! fear not me.

Tra.

But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

Bion.

I told him that your father was at Venice,

And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

Tra.

Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink. 17

Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

Enter Baptista and Lucentio.

Signior Baptista, you are happily met.

[To the Pedant.] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of: 20

I pray you, stand good father to me now,

Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

Ped.

Soft, son!

Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua 24

To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio

Made me acquainted with a weighty cause

Of love between your daughter and himself:

And,—for the good report I hear of you, 28

And for the love he beareth to your daughter,

And she to him,—to stay him not too long,

I am content, in a good father’s care,

To have him match’d; and, if you please to like

No worse than I, upon some agreement 33

Me shall you find ready and willing

With one consent to have her so bestow’d;

For curious I cannot be with you, 36

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Bap.

Sir, pardon me in what I have to say:

Your plainness and your shortness please me well.

Right true it is, your son Lucentio here 40

Doth love my daughter and she loveth him,

Or both dissemble deeply their affections:

And therefore, if you say no more than this,

That like a father you will deal with him 44

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done:

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

Tra.

I thank you, sir. Where, then, do you know best 48

We be affied and such assurance ta’en

As shall with either part’s agreement stand?

Bap.

Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know,

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants. 52

Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,

And happily we might be interrupted.

Tra.

Then at my lodging an it like you:

There doth my father lie, and there this night

We’ll pass the business privately and well. 57

Send for your daughter by your servant here;

My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.

The worst is this, that, at so slender warning, 60

You’re like to have a thin and slender pittance.

Bap.

It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,

And bid Bianca make her ready straight;

And, if you will, tell what hath happened: 64

Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,

And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.

Luc.

I pray the gods she may with all my heart!

Tra.

Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. 68

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?

Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer.

Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

Bap.

I follow you. 72

[Exeunt Tranio, Pedant, and Baptista.

Bion.

Cambio!

Luc.

What sayst thou, Biondello?

Bion.

You saw my master wink and laugh upon you? 76

Luc.

Biondello, what of that?

Bion.

Faith, nothing; but he has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. 80

Luc.

I pray thee, moralize them.

Bion.

Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

Luc.

And what of him? 84

Bion.

His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.

Luc.

And then?

Bion.

The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours. 89

Luc.

And what of all this?

Bion.

I cannot tell, expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum. To the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses.

If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say, 96

But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

[Going.

Luc.

Hearest thou, Biondello?

Bion.

I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.

[Exit.

Luc.

I may, and will, if she be so contented:

She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt?

Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her:

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. 109

[Exit.

Scene V.— A public Road.

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Servants.

Pet.

Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

Kath.

The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.

Pet.

I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

Kath.

I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 5

Pet.

Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or ere I journey to your father’s house. 8

Go one and fetch our horses back again.

Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

Hor.

Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Kath.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, 12

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.

An if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Pet.

I say it is the moon.

Kath.

I know it is the moon. 16

Pet.

Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

Kath.

Then God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun:

But sun it is not when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind. 20

What you will have it nam’d, even that it is;

And so, it shall be so for Katharine.

Hor.

Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

Pet.

Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, 24

And not unluckily against the bias.

But soft! what company is coming here?

Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress.

[To Vincentio.] Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, 28

Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks!

What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,

As those two eyes become that heavenly face? 32

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.

Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.

Hor.

A’ will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. 36

Kath.

Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child;

Happier the man, whom favourable stars 40

Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow!

Pet.

Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,

And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is. 44

Kath.

Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,

That have been so bedazzled with the sun

That everything I look on seemeth green:

Now I perceive thou art a reverend father; 48

Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

Pet.

Do, good old grandsire; and withal make known

Which way thou travellest: if along with us,

We shall be joyful of thy company. 52

Vin.

Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,

That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me,

My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling, Pisa;

And bound I am to Padua, there to visit 56

A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

Pet.

What is his name?

Vin.

Lucentio, gentle sir.

Pet.

Happily met; the happier for thy son.

And now by law, as well as reverend age, 60

I may entitle thee my loving father:

The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,

Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,

Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem, 64

Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;

Beside, so qualified as may beseem

The spouse of any noble gentleman.

Let me embrace with old Vincentio; 68

And wander we to see thy honest son,

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

Vin.

But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,

Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest 72

Upon the company you overtake?

Hor.

I do assure thee, father, so it is.

Pet.

Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

[Exeunt all but Hortensio.

Hor.

Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. 77

Have to my widow! and if she be froward,

Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Padua. Before Lucentio’s House.

Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio, and Bianca; Gremio walking on the other side.

Bion.

Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready.

Luc.

I fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need thee at home; therefore leave us. 4

Bion.

Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master as soon as I can.

[Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello.

Gre.

I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. 8

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, and Attendants.

Pet.

Sir, here’s the door, this is Lucentio’s house:

My father’s bears more toward the marketplace;

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

Vin.

You shall not choose but drink before you go. 12

I think I shall command your welcome here,

And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.

[Knocks.

Gre.

They’re busy within; you were best knock louder. 16

Enter Pedant above, at a window.

Ped.

What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

Vin.

Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

Ped.

He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. 21

Vin.

What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal?

Ped.

Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live. 25

Pet.

Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.

Ped.

Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window. 32

Vin.

Art thou his father?

Ped.

Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

Pet.

[To Vincentio.] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man’s name.

Ped.

Lay hands on the villain: I believe, a’ means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. 41

Re-enter Biondello.

Bion.

I have seen them in the church together: God send ’em good shipping! But who is here? mine old master, Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing. 45

Vin.

[Seeing Biondello.] Come hither, crack-hemp.

Bion.

I hope I may choose, sir. 48

Vin.

Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?

Bion.

Forgot you! no, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. 52

Vin.

What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio?

Bion.

What, my old, worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir: see where he looks out of the window. 57

Vin.

Is’t so, indeed?

[Beats Biondello.

Bion.

Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.

[Exit.

Ped.

Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! 61

[Exit from the window.

Pet.

Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside, and see the end of this controversy.

[They retire.

Re-enter Pedant below; Baptista, Tranio, and Servants.

Tra.

Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant? 65

Vin.

What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.

Tra.

How now! what’s the matter? 72

Bap.

What, is the man lunatic?

Tra.

Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

Vin.

Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo. 80

Bap.

You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name?

Vin.

His name! as if I knew not his name: I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. 85

Ped.

Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. 88

Vin.

Lucentio! O! he hath murdered his master. Lay hold on him, I charge you in the duke’s name. O my son, my son! tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio? 92

Tra.

Call forth an officer.

Enter one with an Officer.

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming.

Vin.

Carry me to the gaol! 96

Gre.

Stay, officer: he shall not go to prison.

Bap.

Talk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go to prison.

Gre.

Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

Ped.

Swear, if thou darest.

Gre.

Nay, I dare not swear it. 104

Tra.

Then thou wert best say, that I am not Lucentio.

Gre.

Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

Bap.

Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! 109

Vin.

Thus strangers may be haled and abused: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca.

Bion.

O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. 114

Luc.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, sweet father.

Vin.

Lives my sweetest son?

[Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant run out.

Bian.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, dear father.

Bap.

How hast thou offended?

Where is Lucentio?

Luc.

Here’s Lucentio, 117

Right son to the right Vincentio;

That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,

While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne.

Gre.

Here’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

Vin.

Where is that damned villain Tranio,

That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so? 124

Bap.

Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

Bian.

Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio.

Luc.

Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio, 128

While he did bear my countenance in the town;

And happily I have arriv’d at last

Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to; 132

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

Vin.

I’ll slit the villain’s nose, that would have sent me to the gaol.

Bap.

[To Lucentio.] But do you hear, sir?

Have you married my daughter without asking my good will? 138

Vin.

Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villany.

[Exit.

Bap.

And I, to sound the depth of this knavery.

[Exit.

Luc.

Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.

[Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca.

Gre.

My cake is dough; but I’ll in among the rest,

Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast.

[Exit.

Petruchio and Katharina advance.

Kath.

Husband, let’s follow, to see the end of this ado. 149

Pet.

First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

Kath.

What! in the midst of the street?

Pet.

What! art thou ashamed of me? 152

Kath.

No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

Pet.

Why, then let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.

Kath.

Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

Pet.

Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:

Better once than never, for never too late. 157

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Lucentio’s House.

A Banquet set out. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Widow. Tranio, Biondello, Grumio, and Others, attending.

Luc.

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:

And time it is, when raging war is done,

To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown.

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, 4

While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.

Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina,

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,

Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:

My banquet is to close our stomachs up, 9

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;

For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

[They sit at table.

Pet.

Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! 12

Bap.

Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

Pet.

Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

Hor.

For both our sakes I would that word were true.

Pet.

Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. 16

Wid.

Then never trust me, if I be afeard.

Pet.

You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:

I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you.

Wid.

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. 20

Pet.

Roundly replied.

Kath.

Mistress, how mean you that?

Wid.

Thus I conceive by him.

Pet.

Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

Hor.

My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. 24

Pet.

Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

Kath.

‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:’

I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.

Wid.

Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, 28

Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe:

And now you know my meaning.

Kath.

A very mean meaning.

Wid.

Right, I mean you.

Kath.

And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. 32

Pet.

To her, Kate!

Hor.

To her, widow!

Pet.

A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

Hor.

That’s my office. 36

Pet.

Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad.

[Drinks to Hortensio.

Bap.

How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

Gre.

Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

Bian.

Head and butt! a hasty-witted body

Would say your head and butt were head and horn. 41

Vin.

Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

Bian.

Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again.

Pet.

Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun, 44

Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

Bian.

Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush;

And then pursue me as you draw your bow.

You are welcome all. 48

[Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow.

Pet.

She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;

This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not:

Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d.

Tra.

O sir! Lucentio slipp’d me, like his greyhound, 52

Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

Pet.

A good swift simile, but something currish.

Tra.

’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:

’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

Bap.

O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

Luc.

I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

Hor.

Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?

Pet.

A’ has a little gall’d me, I confess; 60

And, as the jest did glance away from me,

’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

Bap.

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 64

Pet.

Well, I say no: and therefore, for assurance,

Let’s each one send unto his wife;

And he whose wife is most obedient

To come at first when he doth send for her, 68

Shall win the wager which we will propose.

Hor.

Content. What is the wager?

Luc.

Twenty crowns.

Pet.

Twenty crowns!

I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound, 72

But twenty times so much upon my wife.

Luc.

A hundred then.

Hor.

Content.

Pet.

A match! ’tis done.

Hor.

Who shall begin?

Luc.

That will I.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 76

Bion.

I go.

[Exit.

Bap.

Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes.

Luc.

I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter Biondello.

How now! what news?

Bion.

Sir, my mistress sends you word

That she is busy and she cannot come. 81

Pet.

How! she is busy, and she cannot come!

Is that an answer?

Gre.

Ay, and a kind one too:

Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

Pet.

I hope, better. 85

Hor.

Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife

To come to me forthwith.

[Exit Biondello.

Pet.

O ho! entreat her!

Nay, then she must needs come.

Hor.

I am afraid, sir, 88

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter Biondello.

Now, where’s my wife?

Bion.

She says you have some goodly jest in hand:

She will not come: she bids you come to her. 92

Pet.

Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,

Intolerable, not to be endur’d!

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; say,

I command her come to me.

[Exit Grumio.

Hor.

I know her answer. 96

Pet.

What?

Hor.

She will not.

Pet.

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Re-enter Katharina.

Bap.

Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina! 100

Kath.

What is your will, sir, that you send for me?

Pet.

Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?

Kath.

They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

Pet.

Go, fetch them hither: if they deny to come, 104

Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.

Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

[Exit Katharina.

Luc.

Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

Hor.

And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

Pet.

Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, 109

An awful rule and right supremacy;

And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy.

Bap.

Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won; and I will add 113

Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;

Another dowry to another daughter,

For she is chang’d, as she had never been. 116

Pet.

Nay, I will win my wager better yet,

And show more sign of her obedience,

Her new-built virtue and obedience.

See where she comes, and brings your froward wives 120

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow.

Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not:

Off with that bauble, throw it under foot.

[Katharina pulls off her cap, and throws it down.

Wid.

Lord! let me never have a cause to sigh, 124

Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

Bian.

Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

Luc.

I would your duty were as foolish too:

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 128

Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.

Bian.

The more fool you for laying on my duty.

Pet.

Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 132

Wid.

Come, come, you’re mocking: we will have no telling.

Pet.

Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

Wid.

She shall not.

Pet.

I say she shall: and first begin with her. 136

Kath.

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, 140

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; 144

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, 148

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labour both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; 152

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks, and true obedience;

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 156

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel, 160

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?—

I am asham’d that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 164

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts 168

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms!

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason haply more, 172

To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

But now I see our lances are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. 176

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband’s foot:

In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready; may it do him ease. 180

Pet.

Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

Luc.

Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t.

Vin.

’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

Luc.

But a harsh hearing when women are froward. 184

Pet.

Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.

We three are married, but you two are sped.

’Twas I won the wager, [To Lucentio.] though you hit the white;

And, being a winner, God give you good night! 188

[Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina.

Hor.

Now, go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew.

Luc.

’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.

[Exeunt.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King of France.
Duke of Florence.
Bertram,	Count of Rousillon.
Lafeu,	an old Lord.
Parolles,	a follower of Bertram.
Steward to the Countess of Rousillon.
Lavache,	a Clown in her household.
A Page.
Countess of Rousillon,	Mother to Bertram.
Helena,	a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.
An Old Widow of Florence.
Diana,	Daughter to the Widow.
Violenta, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Mariana, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.

Scene.—Rousillon, Paris, Florence, Marseilles.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, and Lafeu, all in black.

Count.

In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

Ber.

And I, in going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew; but I must attend his majesty’s command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection. 6

Laf.

You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you, whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance. 12

Count.

What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?

Laf.

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time. 19

Count.

This young gentlewoman had a father,—O, that ‘had!’ how sad a passage ’tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease. 27

Laf.

How called you the man you speak of, madam?

Count.

He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon. 32

Laf.

He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly. He was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality. 37

Ber.

What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

Laf.

A fistula, my lord. 40

Ber.

I heard not of it before.

Laf.

I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? 44

Count.

His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises: her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness. 53

Laf.

Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

Count.

’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, than have it. 62

Hel.

I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. 64

Laf.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Hel.

If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. 68

Ber.

Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

Laf.

How understand we that?

Count.

Be thou blest, Bertram; and succeed thy father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue 72

Contend for empire in thee; and thy goodness

Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy

Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 76

Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence,

But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will

That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,

Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; 80

’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord,

Advise him.

Laf.

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

Count.

Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

[Exit.

Ber.

[To Helena.] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. 88

Laf.

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.

Hel.

O! were that all. I think not on my father;

And these great tears grace his remembrance more 92

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

I have forgot him: my imagination

Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.

I am undone: there is no living, none, 96

If Bertram be away. It were all one

That I should love a bright particular star

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light 100

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw 105

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart’s table; heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: 108

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?

One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;

And yet I know him a notorious liar, 112

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones

Look bleak in the cold wind: withal, full oft we see 116

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Enter Parolles.

Par.

Save you, fair queen!

Hel.

And you, monarch!

Par.

No. 120

Hel.

And no.

Par.

Are you meditating on virginity?

Hel.

Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him? 126

Par.

Keep him out.

Hel.

But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some war-like resistance.

Par.

There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up. 132

Hel.

Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men?

Par.

Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found: by being ever kept, it is ever lost.’Tis too cold a companion: away with’t!

Hel.

I will stand for’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin. 148

Par.

There’s little can be said in’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself, and should be buried in highways, out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese, consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by’t! Out with’t! within the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with’t! 164

Hel.

How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

Par.

Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity that will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with’t, while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a withered pear. Will you anything with it? 180

Hel.

Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,

A phœnix, captain, and an enemy, 184

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;

His humble ambition, proud humility,

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 188

His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—

I know not what he shall. God send him well!

The court’s a learning-place, and he is one— 193

Par.

What one, i’ faith?

Hel.

That I wish well. ’Tis pity—

Par.

What’s pity? 196

Hel.

That wishing well had not a body in’t,

Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,

Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

Might with effects of them follow our friends, 200

And show what we alone must think, which never

Returns us thanks.

Enter a Page.

Page.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

[Exit.

Par.

Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.

Hel.

Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star. 208

Par.

Under Mars, I.

Hel.

I especially think, under Mars.

Par.

Why under Mars?

Hel.

The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars. 213

Par.

When he was predominant.

Hel.

When he was retrograde, I think rather.

Par.

Why think you so? 216

Hel.

You go so much backward when you fight.

Par.

That’s for advantage.

Hel.

So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. 223

Par.

I am so full of businesses I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell.

[Exit.

Hel.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 236

Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull

Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.

What power is it which mounts my love so high;

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 241

To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose

What hath been cannot be: who ever strove 245

To show her merit, that did miss her love?

The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me,

But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and Others attending.

King.

The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue

A braving war.

First Lord.

So ’tis reported, sir.

King.

Nay, ’tis most credible: we here receive it 4

A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria,

With caution that the Florentine will move us

For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend

Prejudicates the business, and would seem 8

To have us make denial.

First Lord.

His love and wisdom,

Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King.

He hath arm’d our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes: 12

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

Sec. Lord.

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 16

For breathing and exploit.

King.

What’s he comes here?

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.

First Lord.

It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Betram.

King.

Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face;

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, 20

Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber.

My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

King.

I would I had that corporal soundness now, 24

As when thy father and myself in friendship

First tried our soldiership! He did look far

Into the service of the time and was

Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long; 28

But on us both did haggish age steal on,

And wore us out of act. It much repairs me

To talk of your good father. In his youth

He had the wit which I can well observe 32

To-day in our young lords; but they may jest

Till their own scorn return to them unnoted

Ere they can hide their levity in honour.

So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness 36

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

His equal had awak’d them; and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time 40

His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him

He us’d as creatures of another place,

And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,

Making them proud of his humility, 44

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man

Might be a copy to these younger times,

Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now

But goers backward.

Ber.

His good remembrance, sir, 48

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

King.

Would I were with him! He would always say,— 52

Methinks I hear him now: his plausive words

He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them,

To grow there and to bear. ‘Let me not live,’—

Thus his good melancholy oft began, 56

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,

When it was out,—‘Let me not live,’ quoth he,

‘After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff

Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 60

All but new things disdain; whose judgments are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions.’ This he wish’d:

I, after him, do after him wish too, 64

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

To give some labourers room.

Sec. Lord.

You are lov’d, sir;

They that least lend it you shall lack you first. 68

King.

I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, count,

Since the physician at your father’s died?

He was much fam’d.

Ber.

Some six months since, my lord.

King.

If he were living, I would try him yet:

Lend me an arm: the rest have worn me out 73

With several applications: nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son’s no dearer.

Ber.

Thank your majesty. 76

[Exeunt. Flourish.

Scene III.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown.

Count.

I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew.

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them. 8

Count.

What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

Clo.

’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow. 16

Count.

Well, sir.

Clo.

No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned. But, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clo.

I do beg your good will in this case.

Count.

In what case? 24

Clo.

In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage; and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body, for they say barnes are blessings. 28

Count.

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clo.

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives. 33

Count.

Is this all your worship’s reason?

Clo.

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are. 36

Count.

May the world know them?

Clo.

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent. 40

Count.

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo.

I am out o’ friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake. 44

Count.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo.

You’re shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to in the crop: if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsome’er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together like any deer i’ the herd. 60

Count.

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clo.

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: 64

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind. 68

Count.

Get you gone, sir: I’ll talk with you more anon.

Stew.

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak. 72

Count.

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.

Clo.

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,

Why the Grecians sacked Troy?  76

Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam’s joy?

With that she sighed as she stood,

With that she sighed as she stood,  80

And gave this sentence then;

Among nine bad if one be good,

Among nine bad if one be good,

There’s yet one good in ten.  84

Count.

What! one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo.

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o’ the song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! we’d find no fault with the tithe-woman if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a’! An we might have a good woman born but for every blazing star, or at an earthquake,’twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out ere a’ pluck one.

Count.

You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you! 96

Clo.

That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.

[Exit.

Count.

Well, now.

Stew.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely. 105

Count.

Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand. 111

Stew.

Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal, sithence in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it. 128

Count.

You have discharged this honestly: keep it to yourself. Many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will speak with you further anon.

[Exit Steward.

Enter Helena.

Even so it was with me when I was young: 136

If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn

Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born:

It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, 140

Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth:

By our remembrances of days foregone,

Such were our faults; or then we thought them none.

Her eye is sick on’t: I observe her now. 144

Hel.

What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.

You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Hel.

Mine honourable mistress.

Count.

Nay, a mother:

Why not a mother? When I said, ‘a mother,’

Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ‘mother’ 149

That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;

And put you in the catalogue of those

That were enwombed mine: ’tis often seen 152

Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds

A native slip to us from foreign seeds;

You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,

Yet I express to you a mother’s care. 156

God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter,

That this distemper’d messenger of wet,

The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye? 160

Why? that you are my daughter?

Hel.

That I am not.

Count.

I say, I am your mother.

Hel.

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour’d name; 164

No note upon my parents, his all noble:

My master, my dear lord he is; and I

His servant live, and will his vassal die.

He must not be my brother.

Count.

Nor I your mother? 168

Hel.

You are my mother, madam: would you were,—

So that my lord your son were not my brother,—

Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,

I care no more for than I do for heaven, 172

So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Count.

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 176

So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?

My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see

The mystery of your loneliness, and find

Your salt tears’ head: now to all sense ’tis gross

You love my son: invention is asham’d, 181

Against the proclamation of thy passion,

To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;

But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks 184

Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours

That in their kind they speak it: only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 188

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so?

If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;

If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 192

To tell me truly.

Hel.

Good madam, pardon me!

Count.

Do you love my son?

Hel.

Your pardon, noble mistress!

Count.

Love you my son?

Hel.

Do not you love him, madam?

Count.

Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond 196

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection, for your passions

Have to the full appeach’d.

Hel.

Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you 200

That before you, and next unto high heaven,

I love your son.

My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love:

Be not offended, for it hurts not him 204

That he is lov’d of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

Yet never know how that desert should be. 208

I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve

I still pour in the waters of my love,

And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, 212

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

Let not your hate encounter with my love 216

For loving where you do: but, if yourself,

Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

Did ever in so true a flame of liking

Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian

Was both herself and Love; O! then, give pity

To her, whose state is such that cannot choose

But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

That seeks not to find that her search implies,

But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 225

Count.

Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,

To go to Paris?

Hel.

Madam, I had.

Count.

Wherefore? tell true.

Hel.

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me

In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, 233

As notes whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note. Amongst the rest,

There is a remedy, approv’d, set down 236

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render’d lost.

Count.

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Hel.

My lord your son made me to think of this; 240

Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,

Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

Count.

But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid, 244

He would receive it? He and his physicians

Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,

They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 248

Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Hel.

There’s something in’t,

More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st

Of his profession, that his good receipt 252

Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

But give me leave to try success, I’d venture

The well-lost life of mine on his Grace’s cure, 256

By such a day, and hour.

Count.

Dost thou believe’t?

Hel.

Ay, madam, knowingly.

Count.

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings 260

To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home

And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.

Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 264

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and Attendants.

King.

Farewell, young lords: these war-like principles

Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, farewell:

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain, all

The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis receiv’d, 4

And is enough for both.

First Lord.

’Tis our hope, sir,

After well enter’d soldiers, to return

And find your Grace in health.

King.

No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

Will not confess he owes the malady 9

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy— 12

Those bated that inherit but the fall

Of the last monarchy—see that you come

Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek

That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell. 17

Sec. Lord.

Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

King.

Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:

They say, our French lack language to deny 20

If they demand: beware of being captives,

Before you serve.

Both Lords.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

King.

Farewell. Come hither to me.

[Exit attended.

First Lord.

O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us! 24

Par.

’Tis not his fault, the spark.

Sec. Lord.

O! ’tis brave wars.

Par.

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

Ber.

I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

‘Too young,’ and ‘the next year,’ and ‘’tis too early.’ 28

Par.

An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.

Ber.

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up and no sword worn 32

But one to dance with! By heaven! I’ll steal away.

First Lord.

There’s honour in the theft.

Par.

Commit it, count.

Sec. Lord.

I am your accessary; and so farewell.

Ber.

I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body. 37

First Lord.

Farewell, captain.

Sec. Lord.

Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

Par.

Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek: it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live, and observe his reports for me 46

Sec. Lord.

We shall, noble captain.

[Exeunt Lords.

Par.

Mars dote on you for his novices! What will ye do?

Ber.

Stay; the king. 50

Re-enter King; Parolles and Bertram retire.

Par.

Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Ber.

And I will do so. 60

Par.

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy swordmen.

[Exeunt Bertram and Parolles.

Enter Lafeu.

Laf.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

King.

I’ll fee thee to stand up. 64

Laf.

Then here’s a man stands that has brought his pardon.

I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy,

And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

King.

I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

And ask’d thee mercy for’t. 69

Laf.

Good faith, across: but, my good lord, ’tis thus;

Will you be cur’d of your infirmity?

King.

No. 72

Laf.

O! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?

Yes, but you will my noble grapes an if

My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a medicine

That’s able to breathe life into a stone, 76

Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary

With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch

Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,

To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand 80

And write to her a love-line.

King.

What ‘her’ is this?

Laf.

Why, Doctor She. My lord, there’s one arriv’d

If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,

If seriously I may convey my thoughts 84

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one, that in her sex, her years, profession,

Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more

Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, 88

For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

King.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration, that we with thee

May spend our wonder too, or take off thine 92

By wond’ring how thou took’st it.

Laf.

Nay, I’ll fit you,

And not be all day neither.

[Exit.

King.

Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena.

Laf.

Nay, come your ways.

King.

This haste hath wings indeed.

Laf.

Nay, come your ways; 97

This is his majesty, say your mind to him:

A traitor you do look like; but such traitors

His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid’s uncle,

That dare leave two together. Fare you well. 101

[Exit.

King.

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Hel.

Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father; 104

In what he did profess well found.

King.

I knew him.

Hel.

The rather will I spare my praises towards him;

Knowing him is enough. On’s bed of death

Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, 108

Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,

And of his old experience the only darling,

He bade me store up as a triple eye,

Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so;

And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d 113

With that malignant cause wherein the honour

Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power,

I come to tender it and my appliance, 116

With all bound humbleness.

King.

We thank you, maiden;

But may not be so credulous of cure,

When our most learned doctors leave us, and

The congregated college have concluded 120

That labouring art can never ransom nature

From her inaidable estate; I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady 124

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

Hel.

My duty then, shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you; 129

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one, to bear me back again.

King.

I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful. 132

Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks I give

As one near death to those that wish him live;

But what at full I know, thou know’st no part,

I knowing all my peril, thou no art. 136

Hel.

What I can do can do no hurt to try,

Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy.

He that of greatest works is finisher

Oft does them by the weakest minister: 140

So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,

When judges have been babes; great floods have flown

From simple sources; and great seas have dried

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 145

Where most it promises; and oft it hits

Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

King.

I must not hear thee: fare thee well, kind maid. 148

Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid:

Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

Hel.

Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d.

It is not so with Him that all things knows, 152

As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows;

But most it is presumption in us when

The help of heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; 156

Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim;

But know I think, and think I know most sure, 160

My art is not past power nor you past cure.

King.

Art thou so confident? Within what space

Hop’st thou my cure?

Hel.

The great’st grace lending grace,

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 164

Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp

Moist Hesperus hath quench’d his sleepy lamp,

Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass 168

Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,

What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,

Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.

King.

Upon thy certainty and confidence

What dar’st thou venture?

Hel.

Tax of impudence, 173

A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame,

Traduc’d by odious ballads: my maiden’s name

Sear’d otherwise; nay worse—if worse—extended 176

With vilest torture let my life be ended.

King.

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak,

His powerful sound within an organ weak;

And what impossibility would slay 180

In common sense, sense saves another way.

Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

Worth name of life in thee hath estimate;

Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all 184

That happiness and prime can happy call:

Thou this to hazard needs must intimate

Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.

Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, 188

That ministers thine own death if I die.

Hel.

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee; 192

But, if I help, what do you promise me?

King.

Make thy demand.

Hel.

But will you make it even?

King.

Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopes of heaven.

Hel.

Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand 196

What husband in thy power I will command:

Exempted be from me the arrogance

To choose from forth the royal blood of France,

My low and humble name to propagate 200

With any branch or image of thy state;

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know

Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

King.

Here is my hand; the premises observ’d, 204

Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d:

So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,

Though more to know could not be more to trust, 209

From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest.

Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed 212

As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess and Clown.

Count.

Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.

Clo.

I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my business is but to the court. 5

Count.

To the court! why what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? ‘But to the court!’ 8

Clo.

Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court. But, for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

Count.

Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits all questions. 17

Clo.

It is like a barber’s chair that fits all buttocks; the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock. 20

Count.

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

Clo.

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for Mayday, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Count.

Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions? 32

Clo.

From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.

Count.

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands. 36

Clo.

But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that belongs to’t: ask me if I am a courtier; it shall do you no harm to learn. 40

Count.

To be young again, if we could. I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier? 44

Clo.

O Lord, sir! there’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.

Count.

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you. 48

Clo.

O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me.

Count.

I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat. 52

Clo.

O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant you.

Count.

You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. 56

Clo.

O Lord, sir! Spare not me.

Count.

Do you cry, ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whipping, and ‘Spare not me?’ Indeed your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping: you would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t. 62

Clo.

I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not serve ever. 65

Count.

I play the noble housewife with the time,

To entertain’t so merrily with a fool.

Clo.

O Lord, sir! why, there’t serves well again. 68

Count.

An end, sir: to your business. Give Helen this,

And urge her to a present answer back:

Commend me to my kinsmen and my son.

This is not much. 72

Clo.

Not much commendation to them.

Count.

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

Clo.

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

Count.

Haste you again.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.

Laf.

They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

Par.

Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times. 8

Ber.

And so ’tis.

Laf.

To be relinquished of the artists,—

Par.

So I say.

Laf.

Both of Galen and Paracelsus. 12

Par.

So I say.

Laf.

Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

Par.

Right; so I say.

Laf.

That gave him out incurable,— 16

Par.

Why, there ’tis; so say I too.

Laf.

Not to be helped,—

Par.

Right; as ’twere, a man assured of a—

Laf.

Uncertain life, and sure death. 20

Par.

Just, you say well: so would I have said.

Laf.

I may truly say it is a novelty to the world. 24

Par.

It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in—what do you call there—

Laf.

A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor. 29

Par.

That’s it I would have said; the very same.

Laf.

Why, your dolphin is not lustier: ’fore me, I speak in respect— 33

Par.

Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he is of a most facinorous spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the— 37

Laf.

Very hand of heaven—

Par.

Ay, so I say.

Laf.

In a most weak and debile minister, great power, great transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone the recovery of the king, as to be generally thankful. 44

Par.

I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

Enter King, Helena, and Attendants.

Laf.

Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto. 49

Par.

Mort du vinaigre! Is not this Helen?

Laf.

’Fore God, I think so.

King.

Go, call before me all the lords in court.

[Exit an Attendant.

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side: 53

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense

Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive

The confirmation of my promised gift, 56

Which but attends thy naming.

Enter several Lords.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O’er whom both sov’reign power and father’s voice 60

I have to use: thy frank election make;

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

Hel.

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one.

Laf.

I’d give bay Curtal, and his furniture, 65

My mouth no more were broken than these boys’

And writ as little beard.

King.

Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father. 68

Hel.

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.

All.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

Hel.

I am a simple maid; and therein wealthiest 72

That I protest I simply am a maid.

Please it your majesty, I have done already:

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,

‘We blush, that thou shouldst choose; but, be refus’d, 76

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

We’ll ne’er come there again.’

King.

Make choice; and see,

Who shuns thy love, shuns all his love in me.

Hel.

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, 80

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?

First Lord.

And grant it.

Hel.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

Laf.

I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life. 85

Hel.

The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,

Before I speak, too threateningly replies:

Love make your fortunes twenty times above 88

Her that so wishes, and her humble love!

Sec. Lord.

No better, if you please.

Hel.

My wish receive,

Which great Love grant! and so I take my leave.

Laf.

Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine, I’d have them whipp’d or I would send them to the Turk to make eunuchs of.

Hel.

[To third Lord.] Be not afraid that I your hand should take;

I’ll never do you wrong for your own sake: 96

Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

Laf.

These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em. 101

Hel.

You are too young, too happy, and too good,

To make yourself a son out of my blood.

Fourth Lord.

Fair one, I think not so. 104

Laf.

There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drunk wine. But if thou be’st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen: I have known thee already. 108

Hel.

[To Bertram.] I dare not say I take you; but I give

Me and my service, ever whilst I live,

Into your guiding power. This is the man.

King.

Why then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife. 112

Ber.

My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness

In such a business give me leave to use

The help of mine own eyes.

King.

Know’st thou not, Bertram,

What she has done for me?

Ber.

Yes, my good lord; 116

But never hope to know why I should marry her.

King.

Thou know’st she has rais’d me from my sickly bed.

Ber.

But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

Must answer for your raising? I know her well:

She had her breeding at my father’s charge. 121

A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain

Rather corrupt me ever!

King.

’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which 124

I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together,

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off

In differences so mighty. If she be 128

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st,

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislik’st

Of virtue for the name; but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 132

The place is dignified by the doer’s deed:

Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none,

It is a dropsied honour. Good alone

Is good without a name: vileness is so: 136

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;

In these to nature she’s immediate heir,

And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn

Which challenges itself as honour’s born, 141

And is not like the sire: honours thrive

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our foregoers. The mere word’s a slave,

Debosh’d on every tomb, on every grave 145

A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb

Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb

Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 149

I can create the rest: virtue and she

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

Ber.

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do’t.

King.

Thou wrong’st thyself if thou shouldst strive to choose. 153

Hel.

That you are well restor’d, my lord, I’m glad:

Let the rest go.

King.

My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat 156

I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,

That dost in vile misprision shackle up

My love and her desert; thou canst not dream

We, poising us in her defective scale, 161

Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,

It is in us to plant thine honour where

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good: 165

Believe not thy disdain, but presently

Do thine own fortunes that obedient right

Which both thy duty owes and our power claims;

Or I will throw thee from my care for ever 169

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 172

Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

Ber.

Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

My fancy to your eyes. When I consider

What great creation and what dole of honour 176

Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,

Is, as ’twere, born so.

King.

Take her by the hand, 180

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

A balance more replete.

Ber.

I take her hand.

King.

Good fortune and the favour of the king 184

Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony

Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,

And be perform’d to-night: the solemn feast

Shall more attend upon the coming space, 188

Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her,

Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.

[Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena, Lords, and Attendants.

Laf.

Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.

Par.

Your pleasure, sir? 192

Laf.

Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.

Par.

Recantation! My lord! my master!

Laf.

Ay; is it not a language I speak? 196

Par.

A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!

Laf.

Are you companion to the Count Rousillon? 200

Par.

To any count; to all counts; to what is man.

Laf.

To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style. 204

Par.

You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

Laf.

I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee. 208

Par.

What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Laf.

I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow: thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care not; yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou’rt scarce worth.

Par.

Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,— 220

Laf.

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.

Par.

My lord, you give me most egregious indignity. 228

Laf.

Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

Par.

I have not, my lord, deserved it.

Laf.

Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple. 233

Par.

Well, I shall be wiser.

Laf.

E’en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know. 241

Par.

My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

Laf.

I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am past; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

[Exit.

Par.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, an if I could but meet him again! 255

Re-enter Lafeu.

Laf.

Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you: you have a new mistress.

Par.

I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good lord: whom I serve above is my master. 261

Laf.

Who? God?

Par.

Ay, sir.

Laf.

The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? dost make hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee: methinks thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee. 272

Par.

This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

Laf.

Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the heraldry of your birth and virtue gives you commission. You are not worth another word, else I’d call you knave. I leave you.

[Exit.

Par.

Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good. Let it be concealed awhile.

Re-enter Bertram.

Ber.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

Par.

What is the matter, sweet heart? 285

Ber.

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

Par.

What, what, sweet heart? 288

Ber.

O my Parolles, they have married me!

I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Par.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a man’s foot. To the wars! 292

Ber.

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is

I know not yet.

Par.

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy! to the wars!

He wears his honour in a box, unseen, 296

That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,

Spending his manly marrow in her arms,

Which should sustain the bound and high curvet

Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions! 300

France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades;

Therefore, to the war!

Ber.

It shall be so: I’ll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, 304

And wherefore I am fled; write to the king

That which I durst not speak: his present gift

Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,

Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife 308

To the dark house and the detested wife.

Par.

Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

Ber.

Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.

I’ll send her straight away: to-morrow 312

I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Par.

Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard:

A young man married is a man that’s marr’d:

Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go: 316

The king has done you wrong: but, hush! ’tis so.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter Helena and Clown.

Hel.

My mother greets me kindly: is she well?

Clo.

She is not well; but yet she has her health; she’s very merry; but yet she is not well: but thanks be given, she’s very well, and wants nothing i’ the world; but yet she is not well.

Hel.

If she be very well, what does she ail that she’s not very well? 8

Clo.

Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things.

Hel.

What two things?

Clo.

One, that she’s not in heaven, whither

God send her quickly! the other, that she’s in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

Enter Parolles.

Par.

Bless you, my fortunate lady!

Hel.

I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortunes. 17

Par.

You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O! my knave, how does my old lady? 20

Clo.

So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money, I would she did as you say.

Par.

Why, I say nothing.

Clo.

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing. 28

Par.

Away! thou’rt a knave.

Clo.

You should have said, sir, before a knave thou’rt a knave; that is, before me thou’rt a knave: this had been truth, sir. 32

Par.

Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

Clo.

Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter.

Par.

A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. 40

Madam, my lord will go away to-night;

A very serious business calls on him.

The great prerogative and rite of love,

Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge, 44

But puts it off to a compell’d restraint;

Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with sweets,

Which they distil now in the curbed time,

To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy, 48

And pleasure drown the brim.

Hel.

What’s his will else?

Par.

That you will take your instant leave o’ the king,

And make this haste as your own good proceeding,

Strengthen’d with what apology you think 52

May make it probable need.

Hel.

What more commands he?

Par.

That, having this obtain’d, you presently

Attend his further pleasure.

Hel.

In everything I wait upon his will. 56

Par.

I shall report it so.

Hel.

I pray you. Come, sirrah.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Lafeu and Bertram.

Laf.

But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

Ber.

Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

Laf.

You have it from his own deliverance. 4

Ber.

And by other warranted testimony.

Laf.

Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting.

Ber.

I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant. 9

Laf.

I have then sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you, make us friends; I will pursue the amity.

Enter Parolles.

Par.

[To Bertram.] These things shall be done, sir. 17

Laf.

Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?

Par.

Sir?

Laf.

O! I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, is a good workman, a very good tailor. 21

Ber.

[Aside to Parolles.] Is she gone to the king?

Par.

She is. 24

Ber.

Will she away to-night?

Par.

As you’ll have her.

Ber.

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given orders for our horses; and to-night, 28

When I should take possession of the bride,

End ere I do begin.

Laf.

A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three thirds, and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain. 35

Ber.

Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

Par.

I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure. 39

Laf.

You have made shift to run into’t, boots and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the custard; and out of it you’ll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.

Ber.

It may be you have mistaken him, my lord. 45

Laf.

And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur: I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

[Exit.

Par.

An idle lord, I swear.

Ber.

I think not so. 56

Par.

Why, do you not know him?

Ber.

Yes, I do know him well; and common speech

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena.

Hel.

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, 60

Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave

For present parting; only, he desires

Some private speech with you.

Ber.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 64

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular: prepar’d I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found 68

So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you

That presently you take your way for home;

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you;

For my respects are better than they seem, 72

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not. This to my mother.

[Giving a letter.

’Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so 76

I leave you to your wisdom.

Hel.

Sir, I can nothing say,

But that I am your most obedient servant.

Ber.

Come, come, no more of that.

Hel.

And ever shall

With true observance seek to eke out that 80

Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d

To equal my great fortune.

Ber.

Let that go:

My haste is very great. Farewell: hie home.

Hel.

Pray sir, your pardon.

Ber.

Well, what would you say?

Hel.

I am not worthy of the wealth I owe, 85

Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is;

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal

What law does vouch mine own.

Ber.

What would you have?

Hel.

Something, and scarce so much: nothing, indeed. 89

I would not tell you what I would, my lord:—

Faith, yes;

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 92

Ber.

I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

Hel.

I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.

Ber.

[To Parolles.] Where are my other men, monsieur? [To Helena.] Farewell.

[Exit Helena.

Go thou toward home; where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

Away! and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio! 98

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Florence. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the Duke, attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.

Duke.

So that from point to point now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war,

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

First Lord.

Holy seems the quarrel 4

Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

Duke.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would in so just a business shut his bosom 8

Against our borrowing prayers.

First Lord.

Good my lord,

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

But like a common and an outward man,

That the great figure of a council frames 12

By self-unable motion: therefore dare not

Say what I think of it, since I have found

Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

As often as I guess’d.

Duke.

Be it his pleasure. 16

Sec. Lord.

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

Duke.

Welcome shall they be,

And all the honours that can fly from us 20

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

When better fall, for your avails they fell.

To-morrow to the field.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess and Clown.

Count.

It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

Clo.

By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man. 4

Count.

By what observance, I pray you?

Clo.

Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

Count.

[Opening a letter.] Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come. 12

Clo.

I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old ling and our Isbels o’ the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’ the court: the brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Count.

What have we here? 19

Clo.

E’en that you have there.

[Exit.

Count.

I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the ‘not’ eternal. You shall hear I am ran away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.

Your unfortunate son, 28

Bertram.

This is not well: rash and unbridled boy,

To fly the favours of so good a king!

To pluck his indignation on thy head 32

By the misprising of a maid too virtuous

For the contempt of empire!

Re-enter Clown.

Clo.

O madam! yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady. 36

Count.

What is the matter?

Clo.

Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would. 40

Count.

Why should he be killed?

Clo.

So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does: the danger is in standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more; for my part, I only hear your son was run away.

[Exit.

Enter Helena and Gentlemen.

First Gen.

Save you, good madam.

Hel.

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

Sec. Gen.

Do not say so. 49

Count.

Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,

That the first face of neither, on the start, 52

Can woman me unto ’t: where is my son, I pray you?

Sec. Gen.

Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence:

We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

And, after some dispatch in hand at court, 56

Thither we bend again.

Hel.

Look on his letter, madam; here’s my passport.

When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a ‘then’ I write a ‘never.’

This is a dreadful sentence. 64

Count.

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

First Gen.

Ay, madam;

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains.

Count.

I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 68

Thou robb’st me of a moiety: he was my son,

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?

Sec. Gen.

Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier? 72

Sec. Gen.

Such is his noble purpose; and, believe’t,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you thither?

First Gen.

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. 76

Hel.

Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.

’Tis bitter.

Count.

Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

First Gen.

’Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to. 80

Count.

Nothing in France until he have no wife!

There’s nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, 84

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

First Gen.

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have some time known.

Count.

Parolles, was it not?

First Gen.

Ay, my good lady, he. 88

Count.

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

First Gen.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much, 92

Which holds him much to have.

Count.

Y’are welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win 96

The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you

Written to bear along.

Sec. Gen.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near? 101

[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.

Hel.

‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’

Nothing in France until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is’t I 105

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the non-sparing war? and is it I 108

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 112

Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast, 116

I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t;

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better ’twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar’d 120

With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, 124

As oft it loses all: I will be gone;

My being here it is that holds thee hence:

Shall I stay here to do’t? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house, 128

And angels offic’d all: I will be gone,

That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away. 132

[Exit.

Scene III.— Florence. Before the Duke’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter Duke, Bertram, Parolles, Soldiers. Drum and Trumpets.

Duke.

The general of our horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet 4

We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

To the extreme edge of hazard.

Duke.

Then go thou forth,

And fortune play upon thy prosp’rous helm

As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

This very day, 8

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess and Steward.

Count.

Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done,

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Stew.

I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone: 4

Ambitious love hath so in me offended

That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

Write, write, that from the bloody course of war,

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

His name with zealous fervour sanctify:

His taken labours bid him me forgive; 12

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dog the heels of worth:

He is too good and fair for Death and me; 16

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Count.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,

As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, 20

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

Pardon me, madam:

If I had given you this at over-night

She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes,

Pursuit would be but vain.

Count.

What angel shall 25

Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, 29

To this unworthy husband of his wife;

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 33

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may that she, 36

Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

Led hither by pure love. Which of them both

Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense

To make distinction. Provide this messenger. 40

My heart is heavy and mine age is weak;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Without the Walls of Florence.

A tucket afar off. Enter a Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, Mariana, and other Citizens.

Wid.

Nay, come; for if they do approach the city we shall lose all the sight.

Dia.

They say the French Count has done most honourable service. 4

Wid.

It is reported that he has taken their greatest commander, and that with his own hand he slew the duke’s brother. We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets. 9

Mar.

Come; let’s return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Wid.

I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion. 15

Mar.

I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wrack of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost. 29

Dia.

You shall not need to fear me.

Wid.

I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim:

I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another. I’ll question her. 33

Enter Helena in the dress of a Pilgrim.

God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

Hel.

To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

Wid.

At the Saint Francis, here beside the port. 37

Hel.

Is this the way?

Wid.

Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you!

[A marck afar off.

They come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by, 40

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d:

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.

Hel.

Is it yourself?

Wid.

If you shall please so, pilgrim. 44

Hel.

I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

Wid.

You came, I think, from France?

Hel.

I did so.

Wid.

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

Hel.

His name, I pray you. 48

Dia.

The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?

Hel.

But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him;

His face I know not.

Dia.

Whatsoe’er he is,

He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France,

As ’tis reported, for the king had married him 53

Against his liking. Think you it is so?

Hel.

Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady.

Dia.

There is a gentleman that serves the count 56

Reports but coarsely of her.

Hel.

What’s his name?

Dia.

Monsieur Parolles.

Hel.

O! I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean 60

To have her name repeated: all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examin’d.

Dia.

Alas, poor lady!

’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife 64

Of a detesting lord.

Wid.

Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe’er she is,

Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her

A shrewd turn if she pleas’d.

Hel.

How do you mean? 68

May be the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Wid.

He does, indeed;

And brokes with all that can in such a suit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid: 72

But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

Mar.

The gods forbid else!

Enter, with drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army, Bertram and Parolles.

Wid.

So, now they come.

That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son; 76

That, Escalus.

Hel.

Which is the Frenchman?

Dia.

He;

That with the plume: ’tis a most gallant fellow;

I would he lov’d his wife. If he were honester,

He were much goodlier; is’t not a handsome gentleman? 80

Hel.

I like him well.

Dia.

’Tis pity he is not honest. Yond’s that same knave

That leads him to these places: were I his lady

I would poison that vile rascal.

Hel.

Which is he? 84

Dia.

That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?

Hel.

Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle.

Par.

Lose our drum! well. 88

Mar.

He’s shrewdly vexed at something.

Look, he has spied us.

Wid.

Marry, hang you!

Mar.

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers, and Soldiers.

Wid.

The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you

Where you shall host: of enjoin’d penitents

There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,

Already at my house.

Hel.

I humbly thank you. 96

Please it this matron and this gentle maid

To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking

Shall be for me; and, to requite you further,

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin 100

Worthy the note.

Both.

We’ll take your offer kindly.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Camp before Florence.

Enter Bertram and the two French Lords.

First Lord.

Nay, good my lord, put him to’t: let him have his way.

Sec. Lord.

If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect. 4

First Lord.

On my life, my lord, a bubble.

Ber.

Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

First Lord.

Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship’s entertainment. 12

Sec. Lord.

It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business in a main danger fail you. 16

Ber.

I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

Sec. Lord.

None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake to do. 21

First Lord.

I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise him: such I will have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy. We will bind and hood wink him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination: if he do not, for the promise of his life and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in anything. 34

Sec. Lord.

O! for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum: he says he has a stratagem for’t. When your lordship sees the bottom of his success in’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes. 41

First Lord.

O! for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand. 44

Enter Parolles.

Ber.

How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

Sec. Lord.

A pox on’t! let it go: ’tis but a drum. 48

Par.

‘But a drum!’ Is’t ‘but a drum?’ A drum so lost! There was excellent command, to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers! 52

Sec. Lord.

That was not to be blamed in the command of the service: it was a disaster of war that Cæsar himself could not have prevented if he had been there to command. 56

Ber.

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is not to be recovered.

Par.

It might have been recovered. 60

Ber.

It might; but it is not now.

Par.

It is to be recovered. But that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hic jacet. 65

Ber.

Why, if you have a stomach to’t, monsieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into its native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

Par.

By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it. 76

Ber.

But you must not now slumber in it.

Par.

I’ll about it this evening: and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation, and by midnight look to hear further from me.

Ber.

May I be bold to acquaint his Grace you are gone about it? 84

Par.

I know not what the success will be, my lord; but the attempt I vow.

Ber.

I know thou’rt valiant; and, to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell. 89

Par.

I love not many words.

[Exit.

First Lord.

No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do, and dares better be damned than to do’t? 95

Sec. Lord.

You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it is, that he will steal himself into a man’s favour, and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out you have him ever after. 100

Ber

Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this that so seriously he does address himself unto?

First Lord.

None in the world; but return with an invention and clap upon you two or three probable lies. But we have almost embossed him, you shall see his fall to-night; for, indeed, he is not for your lordship’s respect. 108

Sec. Lord.

We’ll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first smoked by the old Lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very night. 113

First Lord.

I must go look my twigs: he shall be caught.

Ber.

Your brother he shall go along with me.

First Lord.

As’t please your lordship: I’ll leave you.

[Exit.

Ber.

Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

The lass I spoke of.

Sec. Lord.

But you say she’s honest. 120

Ber.

That’s all the fault. I spoke with her but once,

And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,

By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind,

Tokens and letters which she did re-send; 124

And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature;

Will you go see her?

Sec. Lord.

With all my heart, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena and Widow.

Hel.

If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

I know not how I shall assure you further,

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

Wid.

Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born, 4

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

Hel.

Nor would I wish you.

First, give me trust, the county is my husband,

And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken

Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,

By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

Err in bestowing it.

Wid.

I should believe you: 12

For you have show’d me that which well approves

You’re great in fortune.

Hel.

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay and pay again 16

When I have found it. The county woos your daughter,

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolv’d to carry her: let her in fine consent,

As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it. 20

Now, his important blood will nought deny

That she’ll demand: a ring the county wears,

That down ward hath succeeded in his house

From son to son, some four or five descents 24

Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds

In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,

Howe’er repented after.

Wid.

Now I see 28

The bottom of your purpose.

Hel.

You see it lawful then. It is no more,

But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,

Desires this ring, appoints him an encounter, 32

In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

Herself most chastely absent. After this,

To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns

To what is past already.

Wid.

I have yielded. 36

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,

That time and place with this deceit so lawful

May prove coherent. Every night he comes

With musics of all sorts and songs compos’d 40

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves, for he persists

As if his life lay on’t.

Hel.

Why then to-night

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, 44

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,

And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. 47

But let’s about it.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Without the Florentine Camp.

Enter First French Lord, with five or six Soldiers in ambush.

First Lord.

He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will: though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter. 7

First Sold.

Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

First Lord.

Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?

First Sold.

No, sir, I warrant you. 12

First Lord.

But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again?

First Sold.

Even such as you speak to me.

First Lord.

He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now, he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy, not to know what we speak one to another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: chough’s language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges. 26

Enter Parolles.

Par.

Ten o’clock: within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it. They begin to smoke me, and disgraces have of late knocked too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.

First Lord.

This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of. 36

Par.

What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts and say I got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it: they will say, ‘Came you off with so little?’ and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet’s mute, if you prattle me into these perils.

First Lord.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is? 49

Par.

I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn or the breaking of my Spanish sword. 52

First Lord.

We cannot afford you so.

Par.

Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem.

First Lord.

’Twould not do. 56

Par.

Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

First Lord.

Hardly serve.

Par.

Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel— 61

First Lord.

How deep?

Par.

Thirty fathom.

First Lord.

Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed. 65

Par.

I would I had any drum of the enemy’s:

I would swear I recovered it.

First Lord.

Thou shalt hear one anon. 68

Par.

A drum now of the enemy’s!

[Alarum within.

First Lord.

Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

All.

Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.

[They seize and blindfold him.

Par.

O! ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes. 72

First Sold.

Boskos thromuldo boskos.

Par.

I know you are the Muskos’ regiment;

And I shall lose my life for want of language.

If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 76

Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo

The Florentine.

First Sold.

Boskos vauvado:

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue:

Kerelybonto: Sir, 81

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards

Are at thy bosom.

Par.

O!

First Sold.

O! pray, pray, pray.

Manka revania dulche.

First Lord.

Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

First Sold.

The general is content to spare thee yet; 85

And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on

To gather from thee: haply thou may’st inform

Something to save thy life.

Par.

O! let me live, 88

And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,

Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that

Which you will wonder at.

First Sold.

But wilt thou faithfully?

Par.

If I do not, damn me.

First Sold.

Acordo linta. 92

Come on; thou art granted space.

[Exit, with Parolles guarded. A short alarum within.

First Lord.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

Sec. Sold.

Captain, I will. 96

First Lord.

A’ will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

Sec. Sold.

So I will, sir.

First Lord.

Till then, I’ll keep him dark and safely lock’d.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Bertram and Diana.

Ber.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

Dia.

No, my good lord, Diana.

Ber.

Titled goddess;

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

In your fine frame hath love no quality? 4

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,

You are no maiden, but a monument:

When you are dead, you should be such a one

As you are now, for you are cold and stern; 8

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

Dia.

She then was honest.

Ber.

So should you be.

Dia.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord, 12

As you owe to your wife.

Ber.

No more o’ that!

I prithee do not strive against my vows.

I was compell’d to her; but I love thee

By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever

Do thee all rights of service.

Dia.

Ay, so you serve us 17

Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

How have I sworn! 20

Dia.

’Tis not the many oaths that make the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me, 24

If I should swear by God’s great attributes

I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

When I did love you ill? this has no holding,

To swear by him whom I protest to love, 28

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d;

At least in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it.

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy; 32

And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts

That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

My love as it begins shall so persever. 37

Dia.

I see that men make ropes in such a scarr

That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

Ber.

I’ll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power 40

To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord?

Ber.

It is an honour ’longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 44

In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour’s such a ring:

My chastity’s the jewel of our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 48

In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion honour on my part

Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 52

And I’ll be bid by thee.

Dia.

When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window:

I’ll order take my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth, 56

When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them

When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: 60

And on your finger in the night I’ll put

Another ring, that what in time proceeds

May token to the future our past deeds.

Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won

A wife of me, though there my hope be done. 65

Ber.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

[Exit.

Dia.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end. 68

My mother told me just how he would woo

As if she sat in ’s heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me

When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, 73

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

Only in this disguise I think’t no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Florentine Camp.

Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.

First Lord.

You have not given him his mother’s letter?

Sec. Lord.

I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in’t that stings his nature, for on the reading it he changed almost into another man.

First Lord.

He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady. 9

Sec. Lord.

Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

First Lord.

When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it. 16

Sec. Lord.

He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

First Lord.

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we! 24

Sec. Lord.

Merely our own traitors: and as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself. 30

First Lord.

Is it not most damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?

Sec. Lord.

Not till after midnight, for he is dieted to his hour. 35

First Lord.

That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit. 40

Sec. Lord.

We will not meddle with him till he come, for his presence must be the whip of the other.

First Lord.

In the meantime what near you of these wars?

Sec. Lord.

I hear there is an overture of peace.

First Lord.

Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded. 48

Sec. Lord.

What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

First Lord.

I perceive by this demand, you are not altogether of his council. 53

Sec. Lord.

Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.

First Lord.

Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

Sec. Lord.

How is this justified? 64

First Lord.

The stronger part of it by her own letters, which make her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place. 69

Sec. Lord.

Hath the count all this intelligence?

First Lord.

Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity. 73

Sec. Lord.

I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

First Lord.

How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses! 77

Sec. Lord.

And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample. 82

First Lord.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.

Enter a Servant.

How now! where’s your master? 88

Serv.

He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

Sec. Lord.

They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

First Lord.

They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now. 96

Enter Bertram.

How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight?

Ber.

I have to-night dispatched sixteen businesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have conge’d with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest, buried a wife, mourned for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet. 106

Sec. Lord.

If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

Ber.

I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit model: he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier. 115

Sec. Lord.

Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.] Has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

Ber.

No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself? 121

First Lord.

I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood; he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan,—whom he supposes to be a friar,—from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?

Ber.

Nothing of me, has a’? 130

Sec. Lord.

His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face: if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.

Re-enter Soldiers with Parolles.

Ber.

A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me: hush! hush! 136

First Lord.

Hoodman comes! Porto tartarossa.

First Sold.

He calls for the tortures: what will you say without ’em? 140

Par.

I will confess what I know without constraint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.

First Sold.

Bosko chimurcho. 144

First Lord.

Boblibindo chicurmurco.

First Sold.

You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note. 148

Par.

And truly, as I hope to live.

First Sold.

First, demand of him how many horse the duke is strong. What say you to that?

Par.

Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live. 155

First Sold.

Shall I set down your answer so?

Par.

Do: I’ll take the sacrament on’t, how and which way you will.

Ber.

All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this! 160

First Lord.

You are deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,—that was his own phrase,—that had the whole theorick of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger. 165

Sec. Lord.

I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean; nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly. 169

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down.

Par.

Five or six thousand horse, I said,—I will say true,—or thereabouts, set down, for I’ll speak truth. 173

First Lord.

He’s very near the truth in this.

Ber.

But I con him no thanks for’t, in the nature he delivers it. 176

Par.

Poor rogues, I pray you, say.

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down.

Par.

I humbly thank you, sir. A truth’s a truth; the rogues are marvellous poor. 180

First Sold.

Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot. What say you to that?

Par.

By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces. 193

Ber.

What shall be done to him?

First Lord.

Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke. 197

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down. You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to a revolt. What say you to this? what do you know of it? 205

Par.

I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories: demand them singly. 208

First Sold.

Do you know this Captain Dumain?

Par.

I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child; a dumb innocent, that could not say him nay. 214

[Dumain lifts up his hand in anger.

Ber.

Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls. 217

First Sold.

Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?

Par.

Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy. 220

First Lord.

Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

First Sold.

What is his reputation with the duke? 224

Par.

The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket. 228

First Sold.

Marry, we’ll search.

Par.

In good sadness, I do not know: either it is there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other letters in my tent. 232

First Sold.

Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?

Par.

I do not know if it be it or no.

Ber.

Our interpreter does it well. 236

First Lord.

Excellently.

First Sold.

Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold—

Par.

That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up again. 244

First Sold.

Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour.

Par.

My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

Ber.

Damnable both-sides rogue! 252

First Sold.

When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;

After he scores, he never pays the score:

Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;

He ne’er pays after-debts; take it before, 256

And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;

For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it,

Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.

Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear, 261

Parolles.

Ber.

He shall be whipped through the army with this rime in’s forehead. 264

First Lord.

This is your devoted friend, sir; the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier.

Ber.

I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me. 269

First Sold.

I perceive, sir, by our general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang you.

Par.

My life, sir, in any case! not that I am afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live. 276

First Sold.

We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely: therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain. You have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty? 281

Par.

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister; for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus; he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules; he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool; drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has everything that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing. 294

First Lord.

I begin to love him for this.

Ber.

For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me! he is more and more a cat.

First Sold.

What say you to his expertness in war? 299

Par.

Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that country, he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain. 307

First Lord.

He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him.

Ber.

A pox on him! he’s a cat still.

First Sold.

His qualities being at this poor price, I need not ask you, if gold will corrupt him to revolt. 313

Par.

Sir, for a cardecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually. 317

First Sold.

What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumain?

Sec. Lord.

Why does he ask him or me?

First Sold.

What’s he? 321

Par.

E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreat he out-runs any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp. 328

First Sold.

If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

Par.

Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon. 332

First Sold.

I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

Par.

[Aside.] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken? 340

First Sold.

There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. The general says, you, that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

Par.

O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death! 349

First Sold.

That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

[Unmuffling him.

So, look about you: know you any here? 352

Ber.

Good morrow, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

God bless you, Captain Parolles.

First Lord.

God save you, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France. 357

First Lord.

Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward I’d compel it of you; but fare you well.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lords.

First Sold.

You are undone, captain; all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

Par.

Who cannot be crushed with a plot? 364

First Sold.

If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.

Par.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great

’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more;

But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 372

As captain shall: simply the thing I am

Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,

Let him fear this; for it will come to pass

That every braggart shall be found an ass. 376

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and Parolles, live

Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive!

There’s place and means for every man alive.

I’ll after them.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana.

Hel.

That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you,

One of the greatest in the Christian world

Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’tis needful,

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. 4

Time was I did him a desired office,

Dear almost as his life; which gratitude

Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth,

And answer, thanks. I duly am inform’d 8

His Grace is at Marseilles; to which place

We have convenient convoy. You must know,

I am supposed dead: the army breaking,

My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding, 12

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We’ll be before our welcome.

Wid.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Hel.

Nor you, mistress, 16

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven

Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower,

As it hath fated her to be my motive 20

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!

That can such sweet use make of what they hate,

When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts

Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play 24

With what it loathes for that which is away.

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

Something in my behalf.

Dia.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours 29

Upon your will to suffer.

Hel.

Yet, I pray you:

But with the word the time will bring on summer,

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; 33

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us:

All’s well that ends well: still the fine’s the crown;

Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. 36

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown.

Laf.

No, no, no; your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced by the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I speak of. 7

Count.

I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love. 13

Laf.

’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady: we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb. 16

Clo.

Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the salad, or, rather the herb of grace.

Laf.

They are not salad-herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs. 20

Clo.

I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

Laf.

Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave, or a fool? 24

Clo.

A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.

Laf.

Your distinction?

Clo.

I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service. 29

Laf.

So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

Clo.

And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service. 33

Laf.

I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave and fool.

Clo.

At your service. 36

Laf.

No, no, no.

Clo.

Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.

Laf.

Who’s that? a Frenchman? 40

Clo.

Faith, sir, a’ has an English name; but his phisnomy is more hotter in France than there.

Laf.

What prince is that? 44

Clo.

The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil.

Laf.

Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of: serve him still. 49

Clo.

I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of, ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire. 59

Laf.

Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks. 63

Clo.

If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jade’s tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.

[Exit.

Laf.

A shrewd knave and an unhappy. 67

Count.

So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him: by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will. 72

Laf.

I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death, and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did first propose. His highness hath promised me to do it; and to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it? 83

Count.

With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected.

Laf.

His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty: he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed. 89

Count.

It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together. 93

Laf.

Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

Count.

You need but plead your honourable privilege. 97

Laf.

Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but I thank my God it holds yet.

Re-enter Clown.

Clo.

O madam! yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under it or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare. 105

Laf.

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

Clo.

But it is your carbonadoed face. 108

Laf.

Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

Clo.

Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Marseilles. A Street.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants.

Hel.

But this exceeding posting, day and night,

Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it:

But since you have made the days and nights as one,

To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, 4

Be bold you do so grow in my requital

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;

Enter a gentle Astringer.

This man may help me to his majesty’s ear,

If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

Gent.

And you. 9

Hel.

Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

Gent.

I have been sometimes there.

Hel.

I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen

From the report that goes upon your goodness;

And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,

Which lay nice manners by, I put you to

The use of your own virtues, for the which 16

I shall continue thankful.

Gent.

What’s your will?

Hel.

That it will please you

To give this poor petition to the king,

And aid me with that store of power you have

To come into his presence. 21

Gent.

The king’s not here.

Hel.

Not here, sir!

Gent.

Not, indeed:

He hence remov’d last night, and with more haste

Than is his use.

Wid.

Lord, how we lose our pains! 24

Hel.

All’s well that ends well yet,

Though time seems so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Gent.

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; 28

Whither I am going.

Hel.

I do beseech you, sir,

Since you are like to see the king before me,

Commend the paper to his gracious hand;

Which I presume shall render you no blame 32

But rather make you thank your pains for it.

I will come after you with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

Gent.

This I’ll do for you.

Hel.

And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, 36

Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again:

Go, go, provide.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rousillon. The inner Court of the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Clown and Parolles.

Par.

Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter. I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure. 6

Clo.

Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Prithee, allow the wind.

Par.

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir: I spake but by a metaphor. 12

Clo.

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.

Par.

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 16

Clo.

Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter Lafeu.

Here is a purr of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat—but not a musk-cat—that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.

[Exit.

Par.

My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratched. 29

Laf.

And what would you have me to do? ’tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a cardecu for you. Let the justices make you and Fortune friends; I am for other business. 37

Par.

I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

Laf.

You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha’t; save your word. 41

Par.

My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

Laf.

You beg more than one word then. Cox my passion! give me your hand. How does your drum? 45

Par.

O, my good lord! you were the first that found me.

Laf.

Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee. 49

Par.

It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

Laf.

Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? one brings thee in grace and the other brings thee out. [Trumpets sound.] The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat: go to, follow. 59

Par.

I praise God for you.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.

King.

We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem

Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know

Her estimation home.

Count.

’Tis past, my liege; 4

And I beseech your majesty to make it

Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth;

When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force,

O’erbears it and burns on.

King.

My honour’d lady, 8

I have forgiven and forgotten all,

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch’d the time to shoot.

Laf.

This I must say,—

But first I beg my pardon,—the young lord 12

Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,

Offence of mighty note, but to himself

The greatest wrong of all: he lost a wife

Whose beauty did astonish the survey 16

Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,

Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve

Humbly call’d mistress.

King.

Praising what is lost

Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; 20

We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill

All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon:

The nature of his great offence is dead,

And deeper than oblivion we do bury 24

The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

A stranger, no offender; and inform him

So ’tis our will he should.

Gent.

I shall, my liege.

[Exit.

King.

What says he to your daughter? have you spoke? 28

Laf.

All that he is hath reference to your highness.

King.

Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me,

That set him high in fame.

Enter Bertram.

Laf.

He looks well on’t.

King.

I am not a day of season, 32

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

In me at once; but to the brightest beams

Distracted clouds give way: so stand thou forth;

The time is fair again.

Ber.

My high-repented blames, 36

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

King.

All is whole;

Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let’s take the instant by the forward top,

For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees 40

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time

Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

Ber.

Admiringly, my liege: 44

At first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart

Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue,

Where the impression of mine eye infixing,

Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,

Which warp’d the line of every other favour; 49

Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen;

Extended or contracted all proportions

To a most hideous object: thence it came 52

That she, whom all men prais’d, and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

King.

Well excus’d:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away 56

From the great compt. But love that comes too late,

Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,

To the great sender turns a sour offence,

Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone.’ Our rasher faults 60

Make trivial price of serious things we have,

Not knowing them until we know their grave:

Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,

Destroy our friends and after weep their dust: 64

Our own love waking cries to see what’s done,

While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: 68

The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay

To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

Count.

Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse! 72

Laf.

Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name

Must be digested, give a favour from you

To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

That she may quickly come.

[Bertram gives a ring. By my old beard, 76

And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead,

Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this,

The last that e’er I took her leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

Ber.

Hers it was not. 80

King.

Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,

While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t.—

This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,

I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 84

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her

Of what should stead her most?

Ber.

My gracious sovereign,

Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, 88

The ring was never hers.

Count.

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it

At her life’s rate.

Laf.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Ber.

You are deceiv’d, my lord, she never saw it: 92

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,

Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name

Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought

I stood engag’d: but when I had subscrib’d 96

To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully

I could not answer in that course of honour

As she had made the overture, she ceas’d,

In heavy satisfaction, and would never 100

Receive the ring again.

King.

Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

Hath not in nature’s mystery more science

Than I have in this ring: ’twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, 104

Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know

That you are well acquainted with yourself,

Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement

You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety, 108

That she would never put it from her finger

Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,

Where you have never come, or sent it us

Upon her great disaster.

Ber.

She never saw it. 112

King.

Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me

Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove

That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so;— 116

And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly,

And she is dead; which nothing, but to close

Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,

More than to see this ring. Take him away. 120

[Guards seize Bertram.

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall,

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him!

We’ll sift this matter further.

Ber.

If you shall prove 124

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet she never was.

[Exit guarded.

King.

I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

Enter the gentle Astringer.

Gent.

Gracious sovereign, 128

Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:

Here’s a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes come short

To tender it herself. I undertook it, 132

Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech

Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know

Is here attending: her business looks in her

With an importing visage, and she told me, 136

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

King.

Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. 147

Diana Capilet.

Laf.

I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this: I’ll none of him.

King.

The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,

To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors: 152

Go speedily and bring again the count.

[Exeunt the gentle Astringer, and some Attendants.

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch’d.

Count.

Now, justice on the doers!

Re-enter Bertram, guarded.

King.

I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you, 156

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.

Re-enter the gentle Astringer, with Widow and Diana.

What woman’s that?

Dia.

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

Derived from the ancient Capilet: 160

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

Wid.

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 164

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

King.

Come hither, county; do you know these women?

Ber.

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further? 168

Dia.

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

Ber.

She’s none of mine, my lord.

Dia.

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; 172

You give away myself, which is known mine;

For I by vow am so embodied yours

That she which marries you must marry me;

Either both or none. 176

Laf.

[To Bertram.] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter: you are no husband for her.

Ber.

My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature, 180

Whom sometime I have laugh’d with: let your highness

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour

Than for to think that I would sink it here.

King.

Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend, 184

Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,

Than in my thought it lies.

Dia.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity. 188

King.

What sayst thou to her?

Ber.

She’s impudent, my lord;

And was a common gamester to the camp.

Dia.

He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so,

He might have bought me at a common price:

Do not believe him. O! behold this ring, 193

Whose high respect and rich validity

Did lack a parallel; yet for all that

He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, 196

If I be one.

Count.

He blushes, and ’tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem

Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been ow’d and worn. This is his wife:

That ring’s a thousand proofs.

King.

Methought you said 201

You saw one here in court could witness it.

Dia.

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles. 204

Laf.

I saw the man to-day, if man he be.

King.

Find him, and bring him hither.

[Exit an Attendant.

Ber.

What of him?

He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots of the world tax’d and debosh’d, 208

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.

Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter,

That will speak anything?

King.

She hath that ring of yours.

Ber.

I think she has: certain it is I lik’d her,

And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. 213

She knew her distance and did angle for me,

Madding my eagerness with her restraint,

As all impediments in fancy’s course 216

Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine,

Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace,

Subdued me to her rate; she got the ring,

And I had that which any inferior might 220

At market-price have bought.

Dia.

I must be patient;

You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife,

May justly diet me. I pray you yet,—

Since you lack virtue I will lose a husband,— 224

Send for your ring; I will return it home,

And give me mine again.

Ber.

I have it not.

King.

What ring was yours, I pray you?

Dia.

Sir, much like

The same upon your finger. 228

King.

Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.

Dia.

And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.

King.

The story then goes false you threw it him

Out of a casement.

Dia.

I have spoke the truth. 232

Re-enter Attendant with Parolles.

Ber.

My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

King.

You boggle shrewdly, every feather starts you.

Is this the man you speak of?

Dia.

Ay, my lord.

King.

Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you, 236

Not fearing the displeasure of your master,—

Which, on your just proceeding I’ll keep off,—

By him and by this woman here what know you?

Par.

So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.

King.

Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman? 244

Par.

Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

King.

How, I pray you?

Par.

He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman. 248

King.

How is that?

Par.

He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

King.

As thou art a knave, and no knave.

What an equivocal companion is this! 252

Par.

I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.

Laf.

He is a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator. 256

Dia.

Do you know he promised me marriage?

Par.

Faith, I know more than I’ll speak.

King.

But wilt thou not speak all thou knowest? 260

Par.

Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her, for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that I knew of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak of: therefore I will not speak what I know. 270

King.

Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married: but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside. This ring, you say, was yours?

Dia.

Ay, my good lord.

King.

Where did you buy it? or who gave it you? 276

Dia.

It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

King.

Who lent it you?

Dia.

It was not lent me neither.

King.

Where did you find it, then?

Dia.

I found it not.

King.

If it were yours by none of all these ways, 280

How could you give it him?

Dia.

I never gave it him.

Laf.

This woman’s an easy glove, my lord: she goes off and on at pleasure.

King.

This ring was mine: I gave it his first wife. 284

Dia.

It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.

King.

Take her away; I do not like her now.

To prison with her; and away with him.

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring

Thou diest within this hour.

Dia.

I’ll never tell you. 289

King.

Take her away.

Dia.

I’ll put in bail, my liege.

King.

I think thee now some common customer.

Dia.

By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’twas you.

King.

Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all this while? 293

Dia.

Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty.

He knows I am no maid, and he’ll swear to’t;

I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 296

Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life;

I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

[Pointing to Lafeu.

King.

She does abuse our ears: to prison with her!

Dia.

Good mother, fetch my bail. [Exit Widow.] Stay, royal sir; 300

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord,

Who hath abus’d me, as he knows himself,

Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him:

He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d, 305

And at that time he got his wife with child:

Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick:

So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick;

And now behold the meaning.

Re-enter Widow, with Helena.

King.

Is there no exorcist 309

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is’t real that I see?

Hel.

No, my good lord;

’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see; 312

The name and not the thing.

Ber.

Both, both. O! pardon.

Hel.

O my good lord! when I was like this maid,

I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring;

And, look you, here’s your letter; this it says:

When from my finger you can get this ring, 317

And are by me with child, &c. This is done:

Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?

Ber.

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, 320

I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

Hel.

If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!

O! my dear mother; do I see you living? 324

Laf.

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [To Parolles.] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher: so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee: let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy ones. 329

King.

Let us from point to point this story know,

To make the even truth in pleasure flow.

[To Diana.] If thou be’st yet a fresh uncropped flower, 332

Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower;

For I can guess that by thy honest aid

Thou keptst a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that, and all the progress, more and less, 336

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by the King.

The king’s a beggar, now the play is done:

All is well ended if this suit be won

That you express content; which we will pay,

With strife to please you, day exceeding day: 4

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.

[Exeunt.

TWELFTH-NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Orsino,	Duke of Illyria.
Sebastian,	Brother to Viola.
Antonio,	a Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian.
A Sea Captain,	Friend to Viola.
Valentine, }	Gentlemen attending on the Duke.
Curio, }	Gentlemen attending on the Duke.
Sir Toby Belch,	Uncle to Olivia.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek.
Malvolio,	Steward to Olivia.
Fabian, }	Servants to Olivia.
Feste, a Clown, }	Servants to Olivia.
Olivia,	a rich Countess.
Viola,	in love with the Duke.
Maria,	Olivia’s Woman.
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants.

Scene.—A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Duke, Curio, Lords; Musicians attending.

Duke.

If music be the food of love, play on;

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again! it had a dying fall: 4

O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour. Enough! no more:

’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. 8

O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,

That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soe’er, 12

But falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high fantastical.

Cur.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

Duke.

What, Curio? 16

Cur.

The hart.

Duke.

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.

O! when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence. 20

That instant was I turn’d into a hart,

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E’er since pursue me.

Enter Valentine.

How now! what news from her?

Val.

So please my lord, I might not be admitted; 24

But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, till seven years’ heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, 28

And water once a day her chamber round

With eve-offending brine: all this, to season

A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance. 32

Duke.

O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love, when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else 36

That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d

Her sweet perfections with one self king.

Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; 40

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Sea-coast.

Enter Viola, Captain, and Sailors.

Vio.

What country, friends, is this?

Cap.

This is Illyria, lady.

Vio.

And what should I do in Illyria?

My brother he is in Elysium.

Perchance he is not drown’d: what think you sailors? 4

Cap.

It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d.

Vio.

O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

Cap.

True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,

Assure yourself, after our ship did split, 8

When you and those poor number sav’d with you

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

Most provident in peril, bind himself,—

Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,— 12

To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea;

Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back,

I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

So long as I could see.

Vio.

For saying so there’s gold. 16

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

The like of him. Know’st thou this country?

Cap.

Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born 20

Not three hours’ travel from this very place.

Vio.

Who governs here?

Cap.

A noble duke, in nature as in name.

Vio.

What is his name? 24

Cap.

Orsino.

Vio.

Orsino! I have heard my father name him:

He was a bachelor then.

Cap.

And so is now, or was so very late; 28

For but a month ago I went from hence,

And then ’twas fresh in murmur,—as, you know,

What great ones do the less will prattle of,—

That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 32

Vio.

What’s she?

Cap.

A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her

In the protection of his son, her brother, 36

Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,

They say she hath abjur’d the company

And sight of men.

Vio.

O! that I serv’d that lady,

And might not be deliver’d to the world, 40

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

What my estate is.

Cap.

That were hard to compass,

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the duke’s. 44

Vio.

There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;

And though that nature with a beauteous wall

Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 48

With this thy fair and outward character.

I prithee,—and I’ll pay thee bounteously,—

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid

For such disguise as haply shall become 52

The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke:

Thou shalt present me as a eunuch to him:

It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing

And speak to him in many sorts of music 56

That will allow me very worth his service.

What else may hap to time I will commit;

Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap.

Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be: 60

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

Vio.

I thank thee: lead me on.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria.

Sir To.

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life.

Mar.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. 6

Sir To.

Why, let her except before excepted.

Mar.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir To.

Confine! I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too: an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. 14

Mar.

That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

Sir To.

Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Mar.

Ay, he. 20

Sir To.

He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

Mar.

What’s that to the purpose?

Sir To.

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. 24

Mar.

Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats: he’s a very fool and a prodigal.

Sir To.

Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. 30

Mar.

He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. 36

Sir To.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they?

Mar.

They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company. 40

Sir To.

With drinking healths to my niece. I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria. He’s a coward and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Sir And.

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch! 49

Sir To.

Sweet Sir Andrew!

Sir And.

Bless you, fair shrew.

Mar.

And you too, sir. 52

Sir To.

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And.

What’s that?

Sir To.

My niece’s chambermaid.

Sir And.

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. 57

Mar.

My name is Mary, sir.

Sir And.

Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

Sir To.

You mistake, knight: ‘accost’ is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. 61

Sir And.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of ‘accost?’ 64

Mar.

Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir To.

An thou let her part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again!

Sir And.

An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? 70

Mar.

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Sir And.

Marry, but you shall have; and here’s my hand.

Mar.

Now, sir, ‘thought is free:’ I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink. 76

Sir And.

Wherefore, sweetheart? what’s your metaphor?

Mar.

It’s dry, sir.

Sir And.

Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?

Mar.

A dry jest, sir.

Sir And.

Are you full of them? 84

Mar.

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit.

Sir To.

O knight! thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down? 88

Sir And.

Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. 93

Sir To.

No question.

Sir And.

An I thought that, I’d forswear it.

I’ll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. 96

Sir To.

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

Sir And.

What is ‘pourquoi?’ do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O! had I but followed the arts! 101

Sir To.

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir And.

Why, would that have mended my hair? 105

Sir To.

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

Sir And.

But it becomes me well enough, does’t not? 109

Sir To.

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff, and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. 112

Sir And.

Faith, I’ll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me. The count himself here hard by woos her. 116

Sir To.

She’ll none o’ the count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there’s life in’t, man. 120

Sir And.

I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Sir To.

Art thou good at these kickchawses, knight? 125

Sir And.

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters: and yet I will not compare with an old man. 128

Sir To.

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Sir And.

Faith, I can cut a caper.

Sir To.

And I can cut the mutton to’t. 132

Sir And.

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To.

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig: I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. 144

Sir And.

Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

Sir To.

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus? 149

Sir And.

Taurus! that’s sides and heart.

Sir To.

No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire.

Val.

If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. 4

Vio.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

Val.

No, believe me. 8

Vio.

I thank you. Here comes the count.

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.

Duke.

Who saw Cesario? ho!

Vio.

On your attendance, my lord; here.

Duke.

Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario, 12

Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d

To thee the book even of my secret soul:

Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her,

Be not denied access, stand at her doors, 16

And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow

Till thou have audience.

Vio.

Sure, my noble lord,

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow

As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 20

Duke.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds

Rather than make unprofited return.

Vio.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

Duke.

O! then unfold the passion of my love;

Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: 25

It shall become thee well to act my woes;

She will attend it better in thy youth

Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 28

Vio.

I think not so, my lord.

Duke.

Dear lad, believe it;

For they shall yet belie thy happy years

That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip

Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe

Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound; 33

And all is semblative a woman’s part.

I know thy constellation is right apt

For this affair. Some four or five attend him;

All, if you will; for I myself am best 37

When least in company. Prosper well in this,

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,

To call his fortunes thine.

Vio.

I’ll do my best 40

To woo your lady: [Aside] yet, a barful strife!

Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown.

Mar.

Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy absence. 4

Clo.

Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.

Mar.

Make that good.

Clo.

He shall see none to fear. 8

Mar.

A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of, ‘I fear no colours.’

Clo.

Where, good Mistress Mary?

Mar.

In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery. 13

Clo.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. 16

Mar.

Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

Clo.

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. 22

Mar.

You are resolute then?

Clo.

Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points. 25

Mar.

That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.

Clo.

Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way: if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria. 30

Mar.

Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

[Exit.

Clo.

Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? ‘Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.’

Enter Olivia with Malvolio.

God bless thee, lady! 40

Oli.

Take the fool away.

Clo.

Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Oli.

Go to, you’re a dry fool; I’ll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest. 45

Clo.

Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself: if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that’s mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away. 58

Oli.

Sir, I bade them take away you.

Clo.

Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli.

Can you do it? 64

Clo.

Dexteriously, good madonna.

Oli.

Make your proof.

Clo.

I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me. 68

Oli.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide your proof.

Clo.

Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Oli.

Good fool, for my brother’s death. 72

Clo.

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Oli.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clo.

The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. 77

Oli.

What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

Mal.

Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. 82

Clo.

God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for two pence that you are no fool.

Oli.

How say you to that, Malvolio? 87

Mal.

I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies. 95

Oli.

O! you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Clo.

Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools! 105

Re-enter Maria.

Mar.

Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

Oli.

From the Count Orsino, is it? 108

Mar.

I know not, madam: ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Oli.

Who of my people hold him in delay?

Mar.

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 112

Oli.

Fetch him off, I pray you: he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! [Exit Maria.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.

Clo.

Thou hast spoken for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for here comes one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.

Enter Sir Toby Belch.

Oli.

By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? 124

Sir To.

A gentleman.

Oli.

A gentleman! what gentleman?

Sir To.

’Tis a gentleman here,—a plague o’ these pickle herring! How now, sot! 128

Clo.

Good Sir Toby.

Oli.

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir To.

Lechery! I defy lechery! There’s one at the gate. 133

Clo.

Ay, marry, what is he?

Sir To.

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.

[Exit.

Oli.

What’s a drunken man like, fool? 137

Clo.

Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.

Oli.

Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, he’s drowned: go, look after him. 144

Clo.

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

[Exit.

Re-enter Malvolio.

Mal.

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick: he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep: he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he’s fortified against any denial. 154

Oli.

Tell him he shall not speak with me.

Mal.

Ha’s been told so; and he says, he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he’ll speak with you.

Oli.

What kind o’ man is he? 160

Mal.

Why, of mankind.

Oli.

What manner of man?

Mal.

Of very ill manner: he’ll speak with you, will you or no. 164

Oli.

Of what personage and years is he?

Mal.

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly: one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him. 172

Oli.

Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

Mal.

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

[Exit.

Re-enter Maria.

Oli.

Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face. 176

We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.

Enter Viola and Attendants.

Vio.

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

Oli.

Speak to me; I shall answer for her.

Your will? 181

Vio.

Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. 189

Oli.

Whence came you, sir?

Vio.

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

Oli.

Are you a comedian? 195

Vio.

No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

Oli.

If I do not usurp myself, I am. 199

Vio.

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for, what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. 204

Oli.

Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.

Vio.

Alas! I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical. 208

Oli.

It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. 215

Mar.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

Vio.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli.

Tell me your mind. 220

Vio.

I am a messenger.

Oli.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. 224

Vio.

It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as matter. 228

Oli.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

Vio.

The rudeness that hath appear’d in me have I learn’d from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden-head; to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation. 235

Oli.

Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Exit Maria and Attendants.] Now, sir; what is your text?

Vio.

Most sweet lady,—

Oli.

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? 241

Vio.

In Orsino’s bosom.

Oli.

In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? 244

Vio.

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

Oli.

O! I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say? 248

Vio.

Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. [Unveiling.] Look you, sir, such a one I was as this present: is’t not well done?

Vio.

Excellently done, if God did all. 256

Oli.

’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.

Vio.

’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

Lady, you are tho cruell’st she alive, 261

If you will lead these graces to the grave

And leave the world no copy.

Oli.

O! sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as Item, Two lips, indifferent red; Item, Two grey eyes, with lids to them; Item, One neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

Vio.

I see you what you are: you are too proud;

But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 272

My lord and master loves you: O! such love

Could be but recompens’d, though you were crown’d

The nonpareil of beauty.

Oli.

How does he love me?

Vio.

With adorations, with fertile tears, 276

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Oli.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him;

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; 280

In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant;

And, in dimension and the shape of nature

A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him:

He might have took his answer long ago. 284

Vio.

If I did love you in my master’s flame,

With such a suffering, such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense;

I would not understand it.

Oli.

Why, what would you? 288

Vio.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love,

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 293

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out, ‘Olivia!’ O! you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth, 296

But you should pity me!

Oli.

You might do much. What is your parentage?

Vio.

Above my fortune, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.

Oli.

Get you to your lord: 300

I cannot love him. Let him send no more,

Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

Vio.

I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse: 305

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,

And let your fervour, like my master’s, be 308

Plac’d in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.

Oli.

‘What is your parentage?’

‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art: 312

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft! soft!

Unless the master were the man. How now!

Even so quickly may one catch the plague? 316

Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

What, ho! Malvolio!

Re-enter Malvolio.

Mal.

Here, madam, at your service. 320

Oli.

Run after that same peevish messenger,

The county’s man: he left this ring behind him,

Would I, or not: tell him I’ll none of it.

Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 324

Nor hold him up with hopes: I’m not for him.

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.

Mal.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Oli.

I do I know not what, and fear to find 329

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

What is decreed must be, and be this so!

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The Sea-coast.

Enter Antonio and Sebastian.

Ant.

Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

Seb.

By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you. 8

Ant.

Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

Seb.

No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. 24

Ant.

Alas the day!

Seb.

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her: she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. 33

Ant.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

Seb.

O good Antonio! forgive me your trouble! 36

Ant.

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

Seb.

If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell.

[Exit.

Ant.

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, 48

Else would I very shortly see thee there;

But, come what may, I do adore thee so,

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Street.

Enter Viola; Malvolio following.

Mal.

Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

Vio.

Even now, sir: on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. 4

Mal.

She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so. 12

Vio.

She took the ring of me; I’ll none of it.

Mal.

Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.

Vio.

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much, 20

That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger. 24

None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none.

I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis,

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, 28

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we! 32

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 36

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love;

As I am woman,—now alas the day!—

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time! thou must untangle this, not I; 41

It is too hard a knot for me to untie.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Sir To.

Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou knowest,—

Sir And.

Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know, to be up late is to be up late. 5

Sir To.

A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements?

Sir And.

Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. 12

Sir To.

Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

Enter Clown.

Sir And.

Here comes the fool, i’ faith.

Clo.

How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of ‘we three?’ 17

Sir To.

Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.

Sir And.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it? 27

Clo.

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottleale houses.

Sir And.

Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. 33

Sir To.

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let’s have a song.

Sir And.

There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a— 37

Clo.

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

Sir To.

A love-song, a love-song. 40

Sir And.

Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

Clo.

O mistress mine! where are you roaming?

O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming,

That can sing both high and low. 44

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man’s son doth know.

Sir And.

Excellent good, i’ faith. 48

Sir To.

Good, good.

Clo.

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What’s to come is still unsure: 52

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

Sir And.

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. 57

Sir To.

A contagious breath.

Sir And.

Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

Sir To.

To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that? 64

Sir And.

An you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.

Clo.

By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. 68

Sir And.

Most certain. Let our catch be, ‘Thou knave.’

Clo.

Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight. 73

Sir And.

’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, ‘Hold thy peace.’ 76

Clo.

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Sir And.

Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.

[They sing a catch.

Enter Maria.

Mar.

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. 82

Sir To.

My lady’s a Cataian; we are politicians; Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ‘Three merry men be we.’ Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally, lady!

There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!

Clo.

Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling. 89

Sir And.

Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Sir To.

O! the twelfth day of December,—

Mar.

For the love o’ God, peace! 94

Enter Malvolio.

Mal.

My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? 101

Sir To.

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

Mal.

Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir To.

Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. 112

Mar.

Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo.

His eyes do show his days are almost done.

Mal.

Is’t even so?

Sir To.

But I will never die. 116

Clo.

Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal.

This is much credit to you.

Sir To.

Shall I bid him go?

Clo.

What an if you do? 120

Sir To.

Shall I bid him go, and spare not?

Clo.

O! no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To.

‘Out o’ time!’ Sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Clo.

Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too. 128

Sir To.

Thou’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

Mal.

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit.

Mar.

Go shake your ears. 135

Sir And.

’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.

Sir To.

Do’t, knight: I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. 142

Mar.

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night: since the youth of the count’s was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it.

Sir To.

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. 152

Mar.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

Sir And.

O! if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog. 156

Sir To.

What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir And.

I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough. 160

Mar.

The devil a puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. 169

Sir To.

What wilt thou do?

Mar.

I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir To.

Excellent! I smell a device.

Sir And.

I have’t in my nose too. 180

Sir To.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

Mar.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. 185

Sir And.

And your horse now would make him an ass.

Mar.

Ass, I doubt not. 188

Sir And.

O! ’twill be admirable.

Mar.

Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[Exit.

Sir To.

Good night, Penthesilea. 196

Sir And.

Before me, she’s a good wench.

Sir To.

She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o’ that?

Sir And.

I was adored once too. 200

Sir To.

Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

Sir And.

If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. 204

Sir To.

Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i’ the end, call me cut.

Sir And.

If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. 208

Sir To.

Come, come: I’ll go burn some sack; ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Others.

Duke.

Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends:

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

That old and antique song we heard last night;

Methought it did relieve my passion much, 4

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:

Come; but one verse.

Cur.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. 9

Duke.

Who was it?

Cur.

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. 13

Duke.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit Curio. Music.

Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me; 16

For such as I am all true lovers are:

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? 20

Vio.

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where love is thron’d.

Duke.

Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves; 24

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.

A little, by your favour.

Duke.

What kind of woman is’t?

Vio.

Of your complexion.

Duke.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

Vio.

About your years, my lord. 28

Duke.

Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take

An elder than herself, so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband’s heart:

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 32

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

Vio.

I think it well, my lord.

Duke.

Then, let thy love be younger than thyself, 36

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flower

Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

Vio.

And so they are: alas, that they are so; 40

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter Curio with Clown.

Duke.

O, fellow! come, the song we had last night.

Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain;

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 44

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age. 48

Clo.

Are you ready, sir?

Duke.

Ay; prithee, sing.

[Music.

Clo.

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;  52

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O! prepare it  56

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown,  60

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where  64

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

Duke.

There’s for thy pains.

Clo.

No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 69

Duke.

I’ll pay thy pleasure then.

Clo.

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. 72

Duke.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo.

Now, the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal! I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything and their intent everywhere; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

[Exit.

Duke.

Let all the rest give place.

[Exeunt Curio and Attendants.

Once more, Cesario, 81

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; 84

The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems

That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. 88

Vio.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

Duke.

I cannot be so answer’d.

Vio.

Sooth, but you must.

Say that some lady, as perhaps, there is,

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 92

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so; must she not then be answer’d?

Duke.

There is no woman’s sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 96

As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart

So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.

Alas! their love may be call’d appetite,

No motion of the liver, but the palate, 100

That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much. Make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me 104

And that I owe Olivia.

Vio.

Ay, but I know,—

Duke.

What dost thou know?

Vio.

Too well what love women to men may owe:

In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 108

My father had a daughter lov’d a man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.

Duke.

And what’s her history?

Vio.

A blank, my lord. She never told her love, 112

But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like Patience on a monument, 116

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

We men may say more, swear more; but indeed

Our shows are more than will, for still we prove

Much in our vows, but little in our love. 120

Duke.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio.

I am all the daughters of my father’s house,

And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.

Sir, shall I to this lady?

Duke.

Ay, that’s the theme. 124

To her in haste; give her this jewel; say

My love can give no place, bide no denay.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and Fabian.

Sir To.

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Fab

Nay, I’ll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. 4

Sir To.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Fab.

I would exult, man: you know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here. 10

Sir To.

To anger him we’ll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue; shall we not, Sir Andrew? 13

Sir And.

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Sir To.

Here comes the little villain. 16

Enter Maria.

How now, my metal of India!

Mar.

Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk: he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half-hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there: [Throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit.

Enter Malvolio.

Mal.

’Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t? 33

Sir To.

Here’s an over-weening rogue!

Fab.

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes! 37

Sir And.

’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

Sir To.

Peace! I say.

Mal.

To be Count Malvolio! 40

Sir To.

Ah, rogue!

Sir And.

Pistol him, pistol him.

Sir To.

Peace! peace!

Mal.

There is example for’t: the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fab.

O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him. 49

Mal.

Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—

Sir To.

O! for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! 53

Mal.

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a daybed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,— 56

Sir To.

Fire and brimstone!

Fab.

O, peace! peace!

Mal.

And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place, as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,—

Sir To.

Bolts and shackles!

Fab.

O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. 64

Mal.

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while; and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my—some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me,— 69

Sir To.

Shall this fellow live?

Fab.

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace! 72

Mal.

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,—

Sir To.

And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then? 76

Mal.

Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of speech,’—

Sir To.

What, what? 80

Mal.

‘You must amend your drunkenness.’

Sir To.

Out, scab!

Fab.

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. 84

Mal.

‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,’—

Sir And.

That’s me, I warrant you.

Mal.

‘One Sir Andrew,’— 88

Sir And.

I knew ’twas I; for many do call me fool.

Mal.

[Seeing the letter.] What employment have we here? 92

Fab.

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

Sir To.

O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

Mal.

[Taking up the letter.] By my life, this is my lady’s hand! these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; and thus makes she her great P’s. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

Sir And.

Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s: why that— 101

Mal.

[Reads.] To the unknown beloved, this and my good wishes: her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?

Fab.

This wins him, liver and all.

Mal.

Jove knows I love; 108

But who?

Lips, do not move

No man must know.

‘No man must know.’ What follows? the numbers altered! ‘No man must know:’ if this should be thee, Malvolio!

Sir To.

Marry, hang thee, brock!

Mal.

I may command where I adore; 116

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:

M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

Fab.

A fustian riddle! 120

Sir To.

Excellent wench, say I.

Mal.

‘M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.’ Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see.

Fab.

What dish o’ poison has she dressed him! 125

Sir To.

And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

Mal.

‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity; there is no obstruction in this. And the end, what should that alphabetical position portend? if I could make that resemble something in me,—Softly!—M, O, A, I,—

Sir To.

O! ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent. 136

Fab.

Sowter will cry upon ’t, for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

Mal.

M, Malvolio; M, why, that begins my name. 140

Fab.

Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.

Mal.

M,—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does. 145

Fab.

And O shall end, I hope.

Sir To.

Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry, O! 148

Mal.

And then I comes behind.

Fab.

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. 152

Mal.

M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former; and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose. 156

If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee. 173

24433.
The Fortunate-Unhappy.

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me, for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and, with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript. 190

Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.

Jove, I thank thee. I will smile: I will do everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.

Fab.

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

Sir To.

I could marry this wench for this device. 201

Sir And.

So could I too.

Sir To.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. 204

Sir And.

Nor I neither.

Fab.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Re-enter Maria.

Sir To.

Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?

Sir And.

Or o’ mine either? 208

Sir To.

Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

Sir And.

I’ faith, or I either?

Sir To.

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Mar.

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him? 216

Sir To.

Like aqua-vitæ with a midwife.

Mar.

If you will, then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady; he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.

Sir To.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit! 228

Sir And.

I’ll make one too.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor.

Vio.

Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

Clo.

No, sir, I live by the church.

Vio.

Art thou a churchman? 4

Clo.

No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

Vio.

So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church. 11

Clo.

You have said, sir. To see this age!

A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward! 15

Vio.

Nay, that’s certain: they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

Clo.

I would therefore my sister had had no name, sir. 20

Vio.

Why, man?

Clo.

Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals since bonds disgraced them. 25

Vio.

Thy reason, man?

Clo.

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them. 29

Vio.

I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.

Clo.

Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

Vio.

Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool? 36

Clo.

No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings—the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

Vio.

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. 43

Clo.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. 48

Vio.

Nay, an thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s sixpence for thee.

[Gives a piece of money.

Clo.

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! 52

Vio.

By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

Clo.

[Pointing to the coin.] Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? 57

Vio.

Yes, being kept together and put to use.

Clo.

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. 60

Vio.

I understand you, sir; ’tis well begg’d.

Clo.

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin; I might say ‘element,’ but the word is overworn.

[Exit.

Vio.

This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool, 68

And to do that well craves a kind of wit:

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time,

And, like the haggard, check at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practice

As full of labour as a wise man’s art; 74

For folly that he wisely shows is fit;

But wise men folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Sir To.

Save you, gentleman.

Vio.

And you, sir.

Sir And.

Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

Vio.

Et vous aussi; votre serviteur. 80

Sir And.

I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

Sir To.

Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. 85

Vio.

I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

Sir To.

Taste your legs, sir: put them to motion. 89

Vio.

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. 92

Sir To.

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

Vio.

I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are prevented.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! 97

Sir And.

That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours!’ well.

Vio.

My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 101

Sir And.

‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’ I’ll get ’em all three all ready.

Oli.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. 105

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria.

Give me your hand, sir.

Vio.

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

Oli.

What is your name? 108

Vio.

Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

Oli.

My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world

Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment.

You’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth. 112

Vio.

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:

Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.

Oli.

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,

Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me! 116

Vio.

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

On his behalf.

Oli.

O! by your leave, I pray you,

I bade you never speak again of him:

But, would you undertake another suit, 120

I had rather hear you to solicit that

Than music from the spheres.

Vio.

Dear lady,—

Oli

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,

After the last enchantment you did here, 125

A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:

Under your hard construction must I sit, 128

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,

Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving 133

Enough is shown; a cypress, not a bosom,

Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

Vio.

I pity you. 136

Oli.

That’s a degree to love.

Vio.

No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof

That very oft we pity enemies.

Oli.

Why, then methinks ’tis time to smile again. 140

O world! how apt the poor are to be proud.

If one should be a prey, how much the better

To fall before the lion than the wolf!

[Clock strikes.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,

Your wife is like to reap a proper man:

There lies your way, due west.

Vio.

Then westward-ho! 148

Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!

You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Oli.

Stay:

I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me. 152

Vio.

That you do think you are not what you are.

Oli.

If I think so, I think the same of you.

Vio.

Then think you right: I am not what I am.

Oli.

I would you were as I would have you be! 156

Vio.

Would it be better, madam, than I am?

I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

Oli.

O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip. 160

A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon

Than love that would seem hid; love’s night is noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 165

Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;

But rather reason thus with reason fetter, 169

Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better.

Vio.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth,

I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, 172

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam: never more

Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. 176

Oli.

Yet come again, for thou perhaps mayst move

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and Fabian.

Sir And.

No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.

Sir To.

Thy reason, dear venom; give thy reason.

Fab.

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew. 5

Sir And.

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count’s serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ the orchard. 8

Sir To.

Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

Sir And.

As plain as I see you now.

Fab.

This was a great argument of love in her toward you. 13

Sir And.

’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me?

Fab.

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. 17

Sir To.

And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

Fab.

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her, and with some excellent jests, firenew from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. 33

Sir And.

An’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. 36

Sir To.

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour: challenge me the count’s youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour.

Fab.

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. 44

Sir And.

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

Sir To.

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou’st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it. 56

Sir And.

Where shall I find you?

Sir To.

We’ll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

[Exit Sir Andrew.

Fab.

This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby. 60

Sir To.

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

Fab.

We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it. 64

Sir To.

Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the anatomy.

Fab.

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. 72

Sir To.

Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

Enter Maria.

Mar.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. 81

Sir To.

And cross-gartered?

Mar.

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i’ the church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his face into more lines than are in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as ’tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do, he’ll smile and take’t for a great favour. 92

Sir To.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Street.

Enter Sebastian and Antonio.

Seb.

I would not by my will have troubled you;

But since you make your pleasure of your pains,

I will no further chide you.

Ant.

I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; 5

And not all love to see you,—though so much

As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,—

But jealousy what might befall your travel, 8

Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,

Unguided and unfriended, often prove

Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,

The rather by these arguments of fear, 12

Set forth in your pursuit.

Seb.

My kind Antonio,

I can no other answer make but thanks,

And thanks, and ever thanks; for oft good turns

Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay: 16

But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,

You should find better dealing. What’s to do?

Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

Ant.

To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging. 20

Seb.

I am not weary, and ’tis long to night:

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes

With the memorials and the things of fame

That do renown this city.

Ant.

Would you’d pardon me;

I do not without danger walk these streets: 25

Once, in a sea-fight ’gainst the Count his galleys,

I did some service; of such note indeed,

That were I ta’en here it would scarce be answer’d. 28

Seb.

Belike you slew great number of his people?

Ant.

The offence is not of such a bloody nature,

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel

Might well have given us bloody argument. 32

It might have since been answer’d in repaying

What we took from them; which, for traffic’s sake,

Most of our city did: only myself stood out;

For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 36

I shall pay dear.

Seb.

Do not then walk too open.

Ant.

It doth not fit me. Hold, sir; here’s my purse.

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,

Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, 40

Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge

With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.

Seb.

Why I your purse?

Ant.

Haply your eye shall light upon some toy 44

You have desire to purchase; and your store,

I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

Seb.

I’ll be your purse-bearer and leave you for an hour. 48

Ant.

To the Elephant.

Seb.

I do remember.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

Oli.

I have sent after him: he says he’ll come;

How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?

For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d.

I speak too loud. 4

Where is Malvolio? he is sad, and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:

Where is Malvolio?

Mar.

He’s coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He is sure possess’d, madam. 9

Oli.

Why, what’s the matter? does he rave?

Mar.

No, madam; he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man is tainted in’s wits.

Oli.

Go call him hither.

[Exit Maria.

I am as mad as he, 16

If sad and merry madness equal be.

Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio.

How now, Malvolio!

Mal.

Sweet lady, ho, ho.

Oli.

Smil’st thou? 20

I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

Mal.

Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this crossgartering; but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is, ‘Please one and please all.’

Oli.

Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee? 28

Mal.

Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand. 32

Oli.

Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

Mal.

To bed! ay, sweetheart; and I’ll come to thee.

Oli.

God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so oft? 37

Mar.

How do you, Malvolio?

Mal.

At your request! Yes; nightingales answer daws. 40

Mar.

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

Mal.

‘Be not afraid of greatness:’ ’Twas well writ.

Oli.

What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

Mal.

‘Some are born great,’—

Oli.

Ha!

Mal.

‘Some achieve greatness,’— 48

Oli.

What sayst thou?

Mal.

‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’

Oli.

Heaven restore thee! 52

Mal.

‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings,’—

Oli.

Thy yellow stockings!

Mal.

‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’

Oli.

Cross-gartered! 57

Mal.

‘Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so,’—

Oli.

Am I made? 60

Mal.

‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’

Oli.

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Enter Servant.

Ser.

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned. I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship’s pleasure. 66

Oli.

I’ll come to him. [Exit Servant.] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 71

[Exeunt Olivia and Maria.

Mal.

Oh, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity;’ and consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to;’ fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance—What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. 94

Re-enter Maria, with Sir Toby Belch and Fabian.

Sir To.

Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possess’d him, yet I’ll speak to him.

Fab.

Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? how is’t with you, man? 100

Mal.

Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private; go off.

Mar.

Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. 105

Mal.

Ah, ha! does she so?

Sir To.

Go to, go to: peace! peace! we must deal gently with him; let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he’s an enemy to mankind.

Mal.

Do you know what you say? 112

Mar.

La you! an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart. Pray God, he be not bewitched!

Fab.

Carry his water to the wise-woman. 116

Mar.

Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say.

Mal.

How now, mistress! 120

Mar.

O Lord!

Sir To.

Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do you not see you move him? let me alone with him. 124

Fab.

No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.

Sir To.

Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck? 128

Mal.

Sir!

Sir To.

Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang him, foul collier! 132

Mar.

Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

Mal.

My prayers, minx!

Mar.

No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. 137

Mal.

Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter.

[Exit.

Sir To.

Is’t possible? 141

Fab.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

Sir To.

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. 145

Mar.

Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air, and taint.

Fab.

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

Mar.

The house will be the quieter. 149

Sir To.

Come, we’ll have him in a dark room, and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him; at which time we will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see. 157

Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Fab.

More matter for a May morning.

Sir And.

Here’s the challenge; read it: I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t. 160

Fab.

Is’t so saucy?

Sir And.

Ay, is’t, I warrant him: do but read.

Sir To.

Give me. Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow. 165

Fab.

Good, and valiant.

Sir To.

Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for’t, 169

Fab.

A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law.

Sir To.

Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.

Fab.

Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less. 177

Sir To.

I will waylay thee going home; where, if it be thy chance to kill me,—

Fab.

Good. 180

Sir To.

Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.

Fab.

Still you keep o’ the windy side of the law: good. 184

Sir To.

Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better; and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,

Andrew Aguecheek.

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot.

I’ll give’t him. 192

Mar.

You may have very fit occasion for for’t: he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. 195

Sir To.

Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the orchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away!

Sir And.

Nay, let me alone for swearing. 204

[Exit.

Sir To.

Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman,—as I know his youth will aptly receive it,—into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. 219

Fab.

Here he comes with your niece: give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.

Sir To.

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria.

Re-enter Olivia, with Viola.

Oli.

I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 224

And laid mine honour too unchary out:

There’s something in me that reproves my fault,

But such a headstrong potent fault it is

That it but mocks reproof. 228

Vio.

With the same haviour that your passion bears

Goes on my master’s griefs.

Oli.

Here; wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture;

Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; 232

And I beseech you come again to-morrow.

What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny,

That honour sav’d may upon asking give?

Vio.

Nothing but this; your true love for my master. 236

Oli.

How with mine honour may I give him that

Which I have given to you?

Vio.

I will acquit you.

Oli.

Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well:

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 240

[Exit.

Re-enter Sir Toby Belch and Fabian.

Sir To.

Gentleman, God save thee.

Vio.

And you, sir.

Sir To.

That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. 249

Vio.

You mistake, sir: I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. 253

Sir To.

You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal.

Vio.

I pray you, sir, what is he? 259

Sir To.

He is knight dubbed with unhatched rapier, and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word: give’t or take’t. 266

Vio.

I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady: I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour; belike this is a man of that quirk.

Sir To.

Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury: therefore get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on, or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you. 279

Vio.

This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is: it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

Sir To.

I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.

[Exit.

Vio.

Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? 287

Fab.

I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the circumstance more.

Vio.

I beseech you, what manner of man is he? 292

Fab.

Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can. 299

Vio.

I shall be much bound to you for’t: I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight; I care not who knows so much of my mettle.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew.

Sir To.

Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. 310

Sir And.

Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.

Sir To.

Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. 313

Sir And.

Plague on’t; an I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence I’d have seen him damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet. 318

Sir To.

I’ll make the motion. Stand here; make a good show on’t: this shall end without the perdition of souls.—[Aside.] Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

Re-enter Fabian and Viola.

[To Fabian.] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil. 325

Fab.

He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. 328

Sir To.

There’s no remedy, sir: he will fight with you for his oath’s sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw for the supportance of his vow: he protests he will not hurt you.

Vio.

[Aside.] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. 337

Fab.

Give ground, if you see him furious.

Sir To.

Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy: the gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one bout with you; he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to’t. 344

Sir And.

Pray God, he keep his oath!

[Draws.

Vio.

I do assure you, ’tis against my will.

[Draws.

Enter Antonio.

Ant.

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman

Have done offence, I take the fault on me: 348

If you offend him, I for him defy you.

[Drawing.

Sir To.

You, sir! why, what are you?

Ant.

One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more

Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 352

Sir To.

Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

[Draws.

Fab.

O, good sir Toby, hold! here come the officers. 356

Sir To.

I’ll be with you anon.

Vio.

[To Sir Andrew.] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

Sir And.

Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.

Enter two Officers.

First Off.

This is the man; do thy office.

Sec. Off.

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 364

Of Count Orsino.

Ant.

You do mistake me, sir.

First Off.

No, sir, no jot: I know your favour well,

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.

Take him away: he knows I know him well. 368

Ant.

I must obey.—[To Viola.] This comes with seeking you:

But there’s no remedy: I shall answer it.

What will you do, now my necessity

Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me

Much more for what I cannot do for you 373

Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d:

But be of comfort.

Sec. Off.

Come, sir, away.

Ant.

I must entreat of you some of that money.

Vio.

What money, sir?

For the fair kindness you have show’d me here,

And part, being prompted by your present trouble,

Out of my lean and low ability 380

I’ll lend you something: my having is not much:

I’ll make division of my present with you.

Hold, there is half my coffer.

Ant.

Will you deny me now?

Is’t possible that my deserts to you 384

Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,

Lest that it make me so unsound a man

As to upbraid you with those kindnesses

That I have done for you.

Vio.

I know of none; 388

Nor know I you by voice or any feature.

I hate ingratitude more in a man

Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,

Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption 392

Inhabits our frail blood.

Ant.

O heavens themselves!

Sec. Off.

Come, sir: I pray you, go.

Ant.

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

I snatch’d one-half out of the jaws of death, 396

Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love,

And to his image, which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

First Off.

What’s that to us? The time goes by: away! 400

Ant.

But O! how vile an idol proves this god.

Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.

In nature there’s no blemish but the mind;

None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind: 404

Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil

Are empty trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil.

First Off.

The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.

Ant.

Lead me on. 408

[Exeunt Officers with Antonio.

Vio.

Methinks his words do from such passion fly,

That he believes himself; so do not I.

Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,

That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! 412

Sir To.

Come hither, knight; come hither,

Fabian: we’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

Vio.

He nam’d Sebastian: I my brother know

Yet living in my glass; even such and so 417

In favour was my brother; and he went

Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

For him I imitate. O! if it prove, 420

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

[Exit.

Sir To.

A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. 425

Fab.

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

Sir And.

’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him. 429

Sir To.

Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

Sir And.

An I do not,—

[Exit.

Fab.

Come, let’s see the event. 433

Sir To.

I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Street adjoining Olivia’s House.

Enter Sebastian and Clown.

Clo.

Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

Seb.

Go to, go to; thou art a foolish fellow:

Let me be clear of thee. 4

Clo.

Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so. 9

Seb.

I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else:

Thou know’st not me.

Clo.

Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

Seb.

I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me:

There’s money for thee: if you tarry longer 20

I shall give worse payment.

Clo.

By my troth, thou hast an open hand.

These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen years’ purchase. 25

Enter Sir Andrew.

Sir And.

Now, sir, have I met you again? there’s for you.

[Striking Sebastian.

Seb.

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there, and there!

[Beating Sir Andrew.

Are all the people mad? 29

Enter Sir Toby and Fabian.

Sir To.

Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.

Clo.

This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence.

[Exit.

Sir To.

[Holding Sebastian.] Come on, sir: hold. 35

Sir And.

Nay, let him alone; I’ll go another way to work with him: I’ll have an action of battery against him if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that. 40

Seb.

Let go thy hand.

Sir To.

Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on. 44

Seb.

I will be free from thee. [Disengaging himself.] What wouldst thou now?

If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

Sir To.

What, what! Nay then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

[Draws.

Enter Olivia.

Oli.

Hold, Toby! on thy life I charge thee, hold! 49

Sir To.

Madam!

Oli.

Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch!

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,

Where manners ne’er were preach’d. Out of my sight! 53

Be not offended, dear Cesario.

Rudesby, be gone!

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

I prithee, gentle friend,

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 56

In this uncivil and unjust extent

Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,

And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks

This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby

Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go: 61

Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,

He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

Seb.

What relish is in this? how runs the stream? 64

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

Oli.

Nay; come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be rul’d by me! 68

Seb.

Madam, I will.

Oli.

O! say so, and so be!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown; Malvolio in a dark chamber adjoining.

Mar.

Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do it quickly; I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst.

[Exit.

Clo.

Well, I’ll put it on and I will dissemble myself in’t: and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student; but to be said an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter. 12

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria.

Sir To.

God bless thee, Master parson.

Clo.

Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That, that is, is;’ so I, being Master parson, am Master parson; for, what is ‘that,’ but ‘that,’ and ‘is,’ but ‘is?’

Sir To.

To him, Sir Topas. 20

Clo.

What ho! I say. Peace in this prison!

Sir To.

The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

Mal.

[Within]. Who calls there? 24

Clo.

Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.

Mal.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. 28

Clo.

Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man! Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

Sir To.

Well said, Master Parson.

Mal.

[Within.] Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me here in hideous darkness. 35

Clo.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Sayst thou that house is dark?

Mal.

As hell, Sir Topas. 40

Clo.

Why, it hath bay-windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction? 44

Mal.

I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you, this house is dark.

Clo.

Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. 49

Mal.

I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are: make the trial of it in any constant question.

Clo.

What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl? 56

Mal.

That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

Clo.

What thinkest thou of his opinion?

Mal.

I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. 61

Clo.

Fare thee well: remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

Mal.

Sir Topas! Sir Topas!

Sir To.

My most exquisite Sir Topas! 68

Clo.

Nay, I am for all waters.

Mar.

Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he sees thee not.

Sir To.

To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou findest him: I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

[Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria.

Clo.

Hey Robin, jolly Robin,

Tell me how thy lady does. 80

Mal.

Fool!

Clo.

My lady is unkind, perdy!

Mal.

Fool!

Clo.

Alas, why is she so? 84

Mal.

Fool, I say!

Clo.

She loves another.

Who calls, ha?

Mal.

Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t.

Clo.

Master Malvoliol 92

Mal.

Ay, good fool.

Clo.

Alas, sir, how fell you beside your five wits?

Mal.

Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.

Clo.

But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. 100

Mal.

They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses! and do all they can to face me out of my wits.

Clo.

Advise you what you say: the minister is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.

Mal.

Sir Topas! 108

Clo.

Maintain no words with him, good fellow.—Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God be wi’ you, good Sir Topas. Marry, amen. I will, sir, I will. 112

Mal.

Fool, fool, fool, I say!

Clo.

Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you.

Mal.

Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

Clo.

Well-a-day, that you were, sir! 119

Mal.

By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light; and convey what I will set down to my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. 123

Clo.

I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

Mal.

Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true. 128

Clo.

Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink.

Mal.

Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee, be gone. 133

Clo.

I am gone, sir,

And anon, sir,

I’ll be with you again  136

In a trice,

Like to the old Vice,

Your need to sustain;

Who with dagger of lath,  140

In his rage and his wrath,

Cries, Ah, ah! to the devil:

Like a mad lad,

Pare thy nails, dad;  144

Adieu, goodman drivel.

[Exit.

Scene III.— Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Sebastian.

Seb.

This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t;

And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus,

Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio then?

I could not find him at the Elephant; 5

Yet there he was, and there I found this credit,

That he did range the town to seek me out.

His counsel now might do me golden service; 8

For though my soul disputes well with my sense

That this may be some error, but no madness,

Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune

So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 12

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,

And wrangle with my reason that persuades me

To any other trust but that I am mad

Or else the lady’s mad: yet, if ’twere so, 16

She could not sway her house, command her followers,

Take and give back affairs and their dispatch

With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing

As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t

That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 21

Enter Olivia and a Priest.

Oli.

Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,

Now go with me and with this holy man

Into the chantry by; there, before him, 24

And underneath that consecrated roof,

Plight me the full assurance of your faith;

That my most jealous and too doubtful soul

May live at peace. He shall conceal it 28

Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,

What time we will our celebration keep

According to my birth. What do you say?

Seb.

I’ll follow this good man, and go with you; 32

And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Oli.

Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine

That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Clown and Fabian.

Fab.

Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

Clo.

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. 4

Fab.

Anything.

Clo.

Do not desire to see this letter.

Fab.

This is, to give a dog, and, in recompense desire my dog again. 8

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Attendants.

Duke.

Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

Clo.

Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

Duke.

I know thee well: how dost thou, my good fellow? 12

Clo.

Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.

Duke.

Just the contrary; the better for thy friends. 16

Clo.

No, sir, the worse.

Duke.

How can that be?

Clo.

Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes. 26

Duke.

Why, this is excellent.

Clo.

By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

Duke.

Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there’s gold.

Clo.

But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another. 33

Duke.

O, you give me ill counsel.

Clo.

Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 36

Duke.

Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another.

Clo.

Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, ‘the third pays for all:’ the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three. 43

Duke.

You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. 47

Clo.

Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness; but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.

[Exit.

Vio.

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

Enter Antonio and Officers.

Duke.

That face of his I do remember well;

Yet when I saw it last, it was besmear’d 56

As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,

For shallow draught and hulk unprizable;

With which such scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 61

That very envy and the tongue of loss

Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

First Off.

Orsino, this is that Antonio 64

That took the Phœnix and her fraught from Candy;

And this is he that did the Tiger board,

When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.

Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, 68

In private brabble did we apprehend him.

Vio.

He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;

But in conclusion put strange speech upon me:

I know not what ’twas but distraction. 72

Duke.

Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!

What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

Hast made thine enemies?

Ant.

Orsino, noble sir, 76

Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you give me:

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,

Though I confess, on base and ground enough,

Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:

That most ingrateful boy there by your side, 81

From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wrack past hope he was:

His life I gave him, and did thereto add 84

My love, without retention or restraint,

All his in dedication; for his sake

Did I expose myself, pure for his love,

Into the danger of this adverse town; 88

Drew to defend him when he was beset:

Where being apprehended, his false cunning,

Not meaning to partake with me in danger,

Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 92

And grew a twenty years removed thing

While one would wink, denied me mine own purse,

Which I had recommended to his use

Not half an hour before.

Vio.

How can this be? 96

Duke.

When came he to this town?

Ant.

To-day, my lord; and for three months before,—

No interim, not a minute’s vacancy,—

Both day and night did we keep company. 100

Enter Olivia and Attendants.

Duke.

Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth!

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

But more of that anon. Take him aside. 104

Oli.

What would my lord, but that he may not have,

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

Vio.

Madam! 108

Duke.

Gracious Olivia.—

Oli.

What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—

Vio.

My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

Oli.

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 113

As howling after music.

Duke.

Still so cruel?

Oli.

Still so constant, lord.

Duke.

What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady, 116

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breath’d out

That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

Oli.

Even what it please my lord, that shall become him. 120

Duke.

Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,

Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,

Kill what I love? a savage jealousy

That sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this: 124

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

And that I partly know the instrument

That screws me from my true place in your favour,

Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant still; 128

But this your minion, whom I know you love,

And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,

Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,

Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite. 132

Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief;

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,

To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.

[Going.

Vio.

And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,

To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 137

[Following.

Oli.

Where goes Cesario?

Vio.

After him I love

More than I love these eyes, more than my life,

More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. 140

If I do feign, you witnesses above

Punish my life for tainting of my love!

Oli.

Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d!

Vio.

Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong? 144

Oli.

Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?

Call forth the holy father.

[Exit an Attendant.

Duke.

[To Viola.] Come away.

Oli.

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Duke.

Husband?

Oli.

Ay, husband: can he that deny? 148

Duke.

Her husband, sirrah?

Vio.

No, my lord, not I.

Oli.

Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear

That makes thee strangle thy propriety.

Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up; 152

Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art

As great as that thou fear’st.

Enter Priest.

O, welcome, father!

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,

Here to unfold,—though lately we intended 156

To keep in darkness what occasion now

Reveals before ’tis ripe,—what thou dost know

Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me.

Priest.

A contract of eternal bond of love, 160

Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands,

Attested by the holy close of lips,

Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings;

And all the ceremony of this compact 164

Seal’d in my function, by my testimony:

Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave

I have travell’d but two hours.

Duke.

O, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be 168

When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case?

Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow

That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?

Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet 172

Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

Vio.

My lord, I do protest,—

Oli.

O! do not swear:

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.

Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek, with his head broken.

Sir And.

For the love of God, a surgeon! send one presently to Sir Toby. 177

Oli.

What’s the matter?

Sir And.

He has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home. 182

Oli.

Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

Sir And.

The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate. 186

Duke.

My gentleman, Cesario?

Sir And.

Od’s lifelings! here he is. You broke my head for nothing! and that that I did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby.

Vio.

Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:

You drew your sword upon me without cause;

But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 193

Sir And.

If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting; 197

Enter Sir Toby Belch, drunk, led by the Clown.

you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink he would have tickled you othergates than he did. 200

Duke.

How now, gentleman! how is’t with you?

Sir To.

That’s all one: he has hurt me, and there’s the end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot? 205

Clo.

O! he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone: his eyes were set at eight i’ the morning.

Sir To.

Then he’s a rogue, and a passy-measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue. 209

Oli.

Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?

Sir And.

I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together. 213

Sir To.

Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull! 216

Oli.

Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d to.

[Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.

Enter Sebastian.

Seb.

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;

But, had it been the brother of my blood, 220

I must have done no less with wit and safety.

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that

I do perceive it hath offended you:

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 224

We made each other but so late ago.

Duke.

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;

A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

Seb.

Antonio! O my dear Antonio! 228

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me

Since I have lost thee!

Ant.

Sebastian are you?

Seb.

Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

Ant.

How have you made division of yourself? 232

An apple cleft in two is not more twin

Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Oli.

Most wonderful!

Seb.

Do I stand there? I never had a brother; 236

Nor can there be that deity in my nature,

Of here and every where. I had a sister,

Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d.

Of charity, what kin are you to me? 240

What countryman? what name? what parentage?

Vio.

Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;

Such a Sebastian was my brother too,

So went he suited to his watery tomb. 244

If spirits can assume both form and suit

You come to fright us.

Seb.

A spirit I am indeed;

But am in that dimension grossly clad

Which from the womb I did participate. 248

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!’

Vio.

My father had a mole upon his brow.

Seb.

And so had mine. 253

Vio.

And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had number’d thirteen years.

Seb.

O! that record is lively in my soul. 256

He finished indeed his mortal act

That day that made my sister thirteen years.

Vio.

If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp’d attire, 260

Do not embrace me till each circumstance

Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump

That I am Viola: which to confirm,

I’ll bring you to a captain in this town, 264

Where lie my maiden weeds: by whose gentle help

I was preserv’d to serve this noble count.

All the occurrence of my fortune since

Hath been between this lady and this lord. 268

Seb.

[To Olivia.] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:

But nature to her bias drew in that.

You would have been contracted to a maid;

Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv’d, 272

You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.

Duke.

Be not amaz’d; right noble is his blood.

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,

I shall have share in this most happy wrack.

[To Viola.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times 277

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Vio.

And all those sayings will I over-swear,

And all those swearings keep as true in soul 280

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

Duke.

Give me thy hand;

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

Vio.

The captain that did bring me first on shore 284

Hath my maid’s garments: he upon some action

Is now in durance at Malvolio’s suit,

A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.

Oli.

He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. 288

And yet, alas, now I remember me,

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.

A most extracting frenzy of mine own

From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. 292

Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian.

How does he, sirrah?

Clo.

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. He has here writ a letter to you: I should have given it to you to-day morning; but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

Oli.

Open it, and read it. 300

Clo.

Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman.

By the Lord, madam,—

Oli.

How now! art thou mad? 304

Clo.

No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow vox.

Oli.

Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. 308

Clo.

So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

Oli.

[To Fabian.] Read it you, sirrah. 312

Fab.

By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury.

The madly-used Malvolio.

Oli.

Did he write this? 324

Clo.

Ay, madam.

Duke.

This savours not much of distraction.

Oli.

See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither.

[Exit Fabian.

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, 328

To think me as well a sister as a wife,

One day shall crown the alliance on’t, so please you,

Here at my house and at my proper cost.

Duke.

Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer. 332

[To Viola.] Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,

So much against the mettle of your sex,

So far beneath your soft and tender breeding;

And since you call’d me master for so long, 336

Here is my hand: you shall from this time be

Your master’s mistress.

Oli.

A sister! you are she.

Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio.

Duke.

Is this the madman?

Oli.

Ay, my lord, this same.

How now, Malvolio!

Mal.

Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

Oli.

Have I, Malvolio? no. 341

Mal.

Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.

You must not now deny it is your hand:

Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase,

Or say ’tis not your seal nor your invention: 345

You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,

And tell me, in the modesty of honour,

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, 348

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you,

To put on yellow stockings, and to frown

Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;

And, acting this in an obedient hope, 352

Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,

Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,

And made the most notorious geck and gull

That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why. 356

Oli.

Alas! Malvolio, this is not my writing,

Though, I confess, much like the character;

But, out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand:

And now I do bethink me, it was she 360

First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling,

And in such forms which here were presuppos’d

Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:

This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee; 364

But when we know the grounds and authors of it,

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

Fab.

Good madam, hear me speak,

And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come 368

Taint the condition of this present hour,

Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not,

Most freely I confess, myself and Toby

Set this device against Malvolio here, 372

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts

We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ

The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance;

In recompense whereof he hath married her.

How with a sportful malice it was follow’d, 377

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d

That have on both sides past. 380

Oli.

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Clo.

Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad:’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he’s gagged:’ and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 389

Mal.

I’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of you.

[Exit.

Oli.

He hath been most notoriously abus’d.

Duke.

Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace;— 392

He hath not told us of the captain yet:

When that is known and golden time convents,

A solemn combination shall be made

Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, 396

We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;

For so you shall be, while you are a man;

But when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. 400

[Exeunt all except Clown.

SONG.

Clo.

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.  404

But when I came to man’s estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gates,

For the rain it raineth every day.  408

But when I came, alas! to wive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.  412

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

With toss-pots still had drunken heads,

For the rain it raineth every day.  416

A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

[Exit.

THE WINTER’S TALE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Leontes,	King of Sicilia.
Mamillius,	young Prince of Sicilia.
Camillo, }	Lords of Sicilia.
Antigonus, }
Cleomenes, }
Dion, }
Polixenes,	King of Bohemia.
Florizel,	his Son.
Archidamus,	a Lord of Bohemia.
A Mariner.
A Gaoler.
An old Shepherd, reputed Father of Perdita.
Clown, his Son.
Servant to the old Shepherd.
Autolycus,	a Rogue.
Hermione,	Queen to Leontes.
Perdita,	Daughter to Leontes and Hermione.
Paulina,	Wife to Antigonus.
Emilia, a Lady, }	attending the Queen.
Other Ladies, }	attending the Queen.
Mopsa, }	Shepherdesses.
Dorcas, }	Shepherdesses.
Sicilian Lords and Ladies, Attendants, Guards, Satyrs, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, &c.
Time, as Chorus.

Scene.—Sometimes in Sicilia, sometimes in Bohemia.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Sicilia. An Antechamber in Leontes’ Palace.

Enter Camillo and Archidamus.

Arch.

If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. 5

Cam.

I think, this coming summer, the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him. 8

Arch.

Wherein our entertainment shall shame us we will be justified in our loves: for, indeed,—

Cam.

Beseech you,—

Arch.

Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge: we cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us. 17

Cam.

You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.

Arch.

Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance. 22

Cam.

Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies; that they have seemed to be together, though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves! 35

Arch.

I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young Prince Mamilhus: it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note. 40

Cam.

I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh; they that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man. 45

Arch.

Would they else be content to die?

Cam.

Yes; if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live. 48

Arch.

If the king had no son, they would desire to live on crutches till he had one.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, Camillo, and Attendants.

Pol.

Nine changes of the watery star have been

The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne

Without a burden: time as long again

Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks;

And yet we should for perpetuity 5

Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,

Yet standing in rich place, I multiply

With one ‘We thank you’ many thousands moe

That go before it.

Leon.

Stay your thanks awhile, 9

And pay them when you part.

Pol.

Sir, that’s to-morrow.

I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance

Or breed upon our absence; that may blow 12

No sneaping winds at home, to make us say,

‘This is put forth too truly!’ Besides, I have stay’d

To tire your royalty.

Leon.

We are tougher, brother,

Than you can put us to’t.

Pol.

No longer stay. 16

Leon.

One seven-night longer.

Pol.

Very sooth, to-morrow.

Leon.

We’ll part the time between’s then; and in that

I’ll no gainsaying.

Pol.

Press me not, beseech you, so.

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ the world, 20

So soon as yours could win me: so it should now,

Were there necessity in your request, although

’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs

Do even drag me homeward; which to hinder 24

Were in your love a whip to me; my stay

To you a charge and trouble: to save both,

Farewell, our brother.

Leon.

Tongue-tied, our queen? speak you.

Her.

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until 28

You had drawn oaths from him not to stay.

You, sir,

Charge him too coldly: tell him, you are sure

All in Bohemia’s well: this satisfaction

The by-gone day proclaim’d: say this to him, 32

He’s beat from his best ward.

Leon.

Well said, Hermione.

Her.

To tell he longs to see his son were strong:

But let him say so then, and let him go;

But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 36

We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs.

[To Polixenes.] Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure

The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia

You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission

To let him there a month behind the gest 41

Prefix’d for’s parting: yet, good deed, Leontes,

I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind

What lady she her lord. You’ll stay?

Pol.

No, madam. 44

Her.

Nay, but you will?

Pol.

I may not, verily.

Her.

Verily!

You put me off with limber vows; but I,

Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths, 48

Should yet say, ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily,

You shall not go: a lady’s ‘verily’ ’s

As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet?

Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 52

Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees

When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?

My prisoner, or my guest? by your dread ‘verily,’

One of them you shall be.

Pol.

Your guest, then, madam: 56

To be your prisoner should import offending;

Which is for me less easy to commit

Than you to punish.

Her.

Not your gaoler then,

But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you

Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys: 61

You were pretty lordings then.

Pol.

We were, fair queen,

Two lads that thought there was no more behind

But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 64

And to be boy eternal.

Her.

Was not my lord the verier wag o’ the two?

Pol.

We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ the sun,

And bleat the one at the other: what we chang’d 68

Was innocence for innocence; we knew not

The doctrine of ill-doing, no nor dream’d

That any did. Had we pursu’d that life,

And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d 72

With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven

Boldly, ‘not guilty;’ the imposition clear’d

Hereditary ours.

Her.

By this we gather

You have tripp’d since.

Pol.

O! my most sacred lady, 76

Temptations have since then been born to’s; for

In those unfledg’d days was my wife a girl;

Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes

Of my young playfellow.

Her.

Grace to boot! 80

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say

Your queen and I are devils; yet, go on:

The offences we have made you do we’ll answer;

If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us 84

You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d not

With any but with us.

Leon.

Is he won yet?

Her.

He’ll stay, my lord.

Leon.

At my request he would not.

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st 88

To better purpose.

Her.

Never?

Leon.

Never, but once.

Her.

What! have I twice said well? when was’t before?

I prithee tell me; cram’s with praise, and make’s

As fat as tame things: one good deed, dying tongueless, 92

Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.

Our praises are our wages: you may ride’s

With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere

With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal: 96

My last good deed was to entreat his stay:

What was my first? it has an elder sister,

Or I mistake you: O! would her name were Grace.

But once before I spoke to the purpose: when?

Nay, let me have’t; I long.

Leon.

Why, that was when

Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death,

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand

And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter, 104

‘I am yours for ever.’

Her.

’Tis grace indeed.

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice:

The one for ever earn’d a royal husband,

The other for some while a friend. 108

[Giving her hand to Polixenes.

Leon.

[Aside.] Too hot, too hot!

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;

But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment 112

May a free face put on, derive a liberty

From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,

And well become the agent:’t may I grant:

But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,

As now they are, and making practis’d smiles, 117

As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ’twere

The mort o’ the deer; O! that is entertainment

My bosom likes not, nor my brows. Mamillius,

Art thou my boy?

Mam.

Ay, my good lord.

Leon.

I’ fecks? 121

Why, that’s my bawcock. What! hast smutch’d thy nose?

They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,

We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain:

And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf, 125

Are all call’d neat. Still virginalling

Upon his palm! How now, you wanton calf!

Art thou my calf?

Mam.

Yes, if you will, my lord. 128

Leon.

Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots that I have,

To be full like me: yet they say we are

Almost as like as eggs; women say so,

That will say anything: but were they false 132

As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters, false

As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes

No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true

To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page,

Look on me with your wolkin eye: sweet villain!

Most dear’st! my collop! Can thy dam?—may’t be?—

Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:

Thou dost make possible things not so held, 140

Communicat’st with dreams;—how can this be?—

With what’s unreal thou co-active art,

And fellow’st nothing: then, ’tis very credent

Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost, 144

And that beyond commission, and I find it,

And that to the infection of my brains

And hardening of my brows.

Pol.

What means Sicilia?

Her.

He something seems unsettled.

Pol.

How, my lord! 148

What cheer? how is’t with you, best brother?

Her.

You look

As if you held a brow of much distraction:

Are you mov’d, my lord?

Leon.

No, in good earnest.

How sometimes nature will betray its folly, 152

Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime

To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines

Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil

Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d,

In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled,

Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,

As ornaments oft do, too dangerous:

How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,

This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, 161

Will you take eggs for money?

Mam.

No, my lord, I’ll fight.

Leon.

You will? why, happy man be his dole! My brother,

Are you so fond of your young prince as we 164

Do seem to be of ours?

Pol.

If at home, sir,

He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,

Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy;

My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: 168

He makes a July’s day short as December,

And with his varying childness cures in me

Thoughts that would thick my blood.

Leon.

So stands this squire

Offic’d with me. We two will walk, my lord, 172

And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,

How thou lov’st us, show in our brother’s welcome:

Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap:

Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s 176

Apparent to my heart.

Her.

If you would seek us,

We are yours i’ the garden: shall’s attend you there?

Leon.

To your own bents dispose you: you’ll be found,

Be you beneath the sky.—[Aside.] I am angling now, 180

Though you perceive me not how I give line.

Go to, go to!

How she holds up the neb, the bill to him!

And arms her with the boldness of a wife 184

To her allowing husband!

[Exeunt Polixenes, Hermione, and Attendants.

Gone already!

Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d one!

Go play, boy, play; thy mother plays, and I

Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue 188

Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour

Will be my knell. Go play, boy, play. There have been,

Or I am much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now;

And many a man there is even at this present,

Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,

That little thinks she has been sluic’d in’s absence,

And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by

Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there’s comfort in’t, 196

Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d,

As mine, against their will. Should all despair

That have revolted wives the tenth of mankind

Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there is none; 200

It is a bawdy planet, that will strike

Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it,

From east, west, north, and south: be it concluded,

No barricado for a belly: know’t; 204

It will let in and out the enemy

With bag and baggage. Many a thousand on’s

Have the disease, and feel’t not. How now, boy!

Mam.

I am like you, they say.

Leon.

Why, that’s some comfort. 208

What! Camillo there?

Cam.

Ay, my good lord.

Leon.

Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest man.

[Exit Mamillius.

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 212

Cam.

You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.

Leon.

Didst note it?

Cam.

He would not stay at your petitions; made

His business more material.

Leon.

Didst perceive it? 216

[Aside.] They’re here with me already, whispering, rounding

‘Sicilia is a so-forth.’ ’Tis far gone,

When I shall gust it last. How came’t, Camillo,

That he did stay?

Cam.

At the good queen’s entreaty. 220

Leon.

At the queen’s, be’t: ‘good’ should be pertinent;

But so it is, it is not. Was this taken

By any understanding pate but thine?

For thy conceit is soaking; will draw in 224

More than the common blocks: not noted, is’t,

But of the finer natures? by some severals

Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes

Perchance are to this business purblind? say.

Cam.

Business, my lord! I think most understand

Bohemia stays here longer.

Leon.

Ha!

Cam.

Stays here longer.

Leon.

Ay, but why?

Cam.

To satisfy your highness and the entreaties 232

Of our most gracious mistress.

Leon.

Satisfy!

The entreaties of your mistress! satisfy!

Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,

With all the nearest things to my heart, as well

My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou

Hast cleans’d my bosom: I from thee departed

Thy penitent reform’d; but we have been

Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d 240

In that which seems so.

Cam.

Be it forbid, my lord!

Leon.

To bide upon ’t, thou art not honest; or,

If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward,

Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining 244

From course requir’d; or else thou must be counted

A servant grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool

That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn, 248

And tak’st it all for jest.

Cam.

My gracious lord,

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;

In every one of these no man is free,

But that his negligence, his folly, fear, 252

Among the infinite doings of the world,

Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,

If ever I were wilful-negligent,

It was my folly; if industriously 256

I play’d the fool, it was my negligence,

Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful

To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,

Whereof the execution did cry out 260

Against the non-performance, ’twas a fear

Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,

Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty

Is never free of: but, beseech your Grace, 264

Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass

By its own visage; if I then deny it,

’Tis none of mine.

Leon.

Ha’ not you seen, Camillo,—

But that’s past doubt; you have, or your eyeglass 268

Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn,—or heard,—

For to a vision so apparent rumour

Cannot be mute,—or thought,—for cogitation

Resides not in that man that does not think,—

My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,— 273

Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,—then say

My wife’s a hobby-horse; deserves a name 276

As rank as any flax-wench that puts to

Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t.

Cam.

I would not be a stander-by, to hear

My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 280

My present vengeance taken: ’shrew my heart,

You never spoke what did become you less

Than this; which to reiterate were sin

As deep as that, though true.

Leon.

Is whispering nothing? 284

Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?

Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career

Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible

Of breaking honesty,—horsing foot on foot? 288

Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?

Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes

Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,

That would unseen be wicked? is this nothing?

Why, then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing; 293

The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;

My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,

If this be nothing.

Cam.

Good my lord, be cur’d 296

Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes;

For ’tis most dangerous.

Leon.

Say it be, ’tis true.

Cam.

No, no, my lord.

Leon.

It is; you lie, you lie:

I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee; 300

Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,

Or else a hovering temporizer, that

Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,

Inclining to them both: were my wife’s liver 304

Infected as her life, she would not live

The running of one glass.

Cam.

Who does infect her?

Leon.

Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging

About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I 308

Had servants true about me, that bare eyes

To see alike mine honour as their profits,

Their own particular thrifts, they would do that

Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou,

His cup-bearer,—whom I from meaner form 313

Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see

Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven,

How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup, 316

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial.

Cam.

Sir, my lord,

I could do this, and that with no rash potion,

But with a lingering dram that should not work

Maliciously like poison: but I cannot 321

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,

So sovereingly being honourable:

I have lov’d thee,—

Leon.

Make that thy question, and go rot!

Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 325

To appoint myself in this vexation; sully

The purity and whiteness of my sheets,

Which to preserve is sleep; which being spotted

Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps? 329

Give scandal to the blood o’ the prince my son,

Who I do think is mine, and love as mine,

Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this?

Could man so blench?

Cam.

I must believe you, sir: 333

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t;

Provided that when he’s remov’d, your highness

Will take again your queen as yours at first, 336

Even for your son’s sake; and thereby for sealing

The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms

Known and allied to yours.

Leon.

Thou dost advise me

Even so as I mine own course have set down:

I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none. 341

Cam.

My lord,

Go then; and with a countenance as clear

As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia,

And with your queen. I am his cupbearer; 345

If from me he have wholesome beverage,

Account me not your servant.

Leon.

This is all:

Do’t, and thou hast the one half of my heart;

Do’t not, thou split’st thine own.

Cam.

I’ll do’t, my lord. 349

Leon.

I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis’d me.

[Exit.

Cam.

O miserable lady! But, for me,

What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner

Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do’t 353

Is the obedience to a master; one

Who, in rebellion with himself will have

All that are his so too. To do this deed 356

Promotion follows. If I could find example

Of thousands that had struck anointed kings,

And flourish’d after, I’d not do’t; but since

Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one, 360

Let villany itself forswear’t. I must

Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain

To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now!

Here comes Bohemia.

Re-enter Polixenes.

Pol.

This is strange: methinks 364

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?—

Good day, Camillo.

Cam.

Hail, most royal sir!

Pol.

What is the news i’ the court?

Cam.

None rare, my lord.

Pol.

The king hath on him such a countenance 368

As he had lost some province and a region

Lov’d as he loves himself: even now I met him

With customary compliment, when he,

Wafting his eyes, to the contrary, and falling 372

A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and

So leaves me to consider what is breeding

That changes thus his manners.

Cam.

I dare not know, my lord. 376

Pol.

How! dare not! do not! Do you know, and dare not

Be intelligent to me? ’Tis thereabouts:

For, to yourself, what you do know, you must,

And cannot say you dare not. Good Camillo,

Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter’d with’t.

Cam.

There is a sickness 384

Which puts some of us in distemper; but

I cannot name the disease, and it is caught

Of you that yet are well.

Pol.

How! caught of me?

Make me not sighted like the basilisk: 388

I have look’d on thousands, who have sped the better

By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo,—

As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto

Clerk-like experienc’d, which no less adorns 392

Our gentry than our parents’ noble names,

In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you,

If you know aught which does behove my knowledge

Thereof to be inform’d, imprison it not 396

In ignorant concealment.

Cam.

I may not answer.

Pol.

A sickness caught of me, and yet I well!

I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo;

I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 400

Which honour does acknowledge,—whereof the least

Is not this suit of mine,—that thou declare

What incidency thou dost guess of harm

Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near;

Which way to be prevented if to be; 405

If not, how best to bear it.

Cam.

Sir, I will tell you;

Since I am charg’d in honour and by him

That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, 408

Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as

I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

Cry ‘lost,’ and so good night!

Pol.

On, good Camillo.

Cam.

I am appointed him to murder you. 412

Pol.

By whom, Camillo?

Cam.

By the king.

Pol.

For what?

Cam.

He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,

As he had seen’t or been an instrument

To vice you to’t, that you have touch’d his queen

Forbiddenly.

Pol.

O, then my best blood turn 417

To an infected jelly, and my name

Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best!

Turn then my freshest reputation to 420

A savour, that may strike the dullest nostril

Where I arrive; and my approach be shunn’d,

Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection

That e’er was heard or read!

Cam.

Swear his thought over

By each particular star in heaven and 425

By all their influences, you may as well

Forbid the sea for to obey the moon

As or by oath remove or counsel shake 428

The fabric of his folly, whose foundation

Is pil’d upon his faith, and will continue

The standing of his body.

Pol.

How should this grow?

Cam.

I know not: but I am sure ’tis safer to

Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born.

If therefore you dare trust my honesty,

That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you

Shall bear along impawn’d, away to-night! 436

Your followers I will whisper to the business,

And will by twos and threes at several posterns

Clear them o’the city. For myself, I’ll put

My fortunes to your service, which are here 440

By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain;

For, by the honour of my parents, I

Have utter’d truth, which, if you seek to prove,

I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer 444

Than one condemn’d by the king’s own mouth, thereon

His execution sworn.

Pol.

I do believe thee:

I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand:

Be pilot to me and thy places shall 448

Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready and

My people did expect my hence departure

Two days ago. This jealousy

Is for a precious creature: as she’s rare 452

Must it be great, and, as his person’s mighty

Must it be violent, and, as he does conceive

He is dishonour’d by a man which ever

Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must 456

In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades me:

Good expedition be my friend, and comfort

The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing

Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come. Camillo; 460

I will respect thee as a father if

Thou bear’st my life off hence: let us avoid.

Cam.

It is in mine authority to command

The keys of all the posterns: please your highness 464

To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away!

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Sicilia. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies.

Her.

Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, ’Tis past enduring.

First Lady.

Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow?

Mam.

No, I’ll none of you.

First Lady.

Why, my sweet lord? 4

Mam.

You’ll kiss me hard and speak to me as if

I were a baby still. I love you better.

Sec. Lady.

And why so, my lord?

Mam.

Not for because

Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say, 8

Become some women best, so that there be not

Too much hair there, but in a semicircle,

Or a half-moon made with a pen.

Sec. Lady.

Who taught you this?

Mam.

I learn’d it out of women’s faces. Pray now, 12

What colour are your eyebrows?

First Lady.

Blue, my lord.

Mam.

Nay, that’s a mock: I have seen a lady’s nose

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

Sec. Lady.

Hark ye;

The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall

Present our services to a fine new prince 17

One of these days; and then you’d wanton with us,

If we would have you.

First Lady.

She is spread of late

Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her! 20

Her.

What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come sir, now

I am for you again: pray you, sit by us,

And tell’s a tale.

Mam.

Merry or sad shall’t be?

Her.

As merry as you will.

Mam.

A sad tale’s best for winter. 24

I have one of sprites and goblins.

Her.

Let’s have that, good sir.

Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best

To fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful at it.

Mam.

There was a man,—

Her.

Nay, come, sit down; then on. 28

Mam

Dwelt by a churchyard. I will tell it softly;

Yond crickets shall not hear it.

Her.

Come on then,

And give’t me in mine ear.

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and Others.

Leon.

Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him? 32

First Lord.

Behind the tuft of pines I met them: never

Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey’d them

Even to their ships

Leon.

How blest am I

In my just censure, in my true opinion! 36

Alack, for lesser knowledge! How accurs’d

In being so blest! There may be in the cup

A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart,

And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge 40

Is not infected; but if one present

The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known

How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,

With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. 44

Camillo was his help in this, his pandar:

There is a plot against my life, my crown;

All’s true that is mistrusted: that false villain

Whom I employ’d was pre-employ’d by him: 48

He has discover’d my design, and I

Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick

For them to play at will. How came the posterns

So easily open?

First Lord.

By his great authority; 52

Which often hath no less prevail’d than so

On your command.

Leon.

I know’t too well.

[To Hermione.] Give me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him:

Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you

Have too much blood in him.

Her.

What is this? sport?

Leon.

Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;

Away with him!—[Exit Mamillius, attended.] and let her sport herself

With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes 60

Has made thee swell thus.

Her.

But I’d say he had not,

And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying,

Howe’er you lean to the nayward.

Leon.

You, my lords,

Look on her, mark her well; be but about 64

To say, ‘she is a goodly lady,’ and

The justice of your hearts will thereto add

‘’Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable:’

Praise her but for this her without-door form,—

Which, on my faith deserves high speech,—and straight 69

The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands

That calumny doth use,—O, I am out!—

That mercy does, for calumny will sear 72

Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha’s,

When you have said ‘she’s goodly,’ come between,

Ere you can say ‘she’s honest.’ But be’t known,

From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, 76

She’s an adulteress.

Her.

Should a villain say so,

The most replenish’d villain in the world,

He were as much more villain: you, my lord,

Do but mistake.

Leon.

You have mistook, my lady, 80

Polixenes for Leontes. O thou thing!

Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place,

Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,

Should a like language use to all degrees, 84

And mannerly distinguishment leave out

Betwixt the prince and beggar: I have said

She’s an adulteress; I have said with whom:

More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is 88

A federary with her, and one that knows

What she should shame to know herself

But with her most vile principal, that she’s

A bed-swerver, even as bad as those 92

That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy

To this their late escape.

Her.

No, by my life,

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you

When you shall come to clearer knowledge that

You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, 97

You scarce can right me throughly then to say

You did mistake.

Leon.

No; if I mistake

In those foundations which I build upon, 100

The centre is not big enough to bear

A schoolboy’s top. Away with her to prison!

He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty

But that he speaks.

Her.

There’s some ill planet reigns: 104

I must be patient till the heavens look

With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,

I am not prone to weeping, as our sex

Commonly are; the want of which vain dew 108

Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have

That honourable grief lodg’d here which burns

Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords,

With thoughts so qualified as your charities 112

Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so

The king’s will be perform’d!

Leon.

[To the Guards.] Shall I be heard?

Her.

Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness,

My women may be with me; for you see 116

My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;

There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress

Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears

As I come out: this action I now go on 120

Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord:

I never wish’d to see you sorry; now

I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.

Leon.

Go, do our bidding: hence! 124

[Exeunt Queen guarded, and Ladies.

First Lord.

Beseech your highness call the queen again.

Ant.

Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice

Prove violence: in the which three great ones suffer,

Yourself, your queen, your son.

First Lord.

For her, my lord, 128

I dare my life lay down, and will do’t, sir,

Please you to accept it,—that the queen is spotless

I’ the eyes of heaven and to you: I mean,

In this which you accuse her.

Ant.

If it prove 132

She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where

I lodge my wife; I’ll go in couples with her;

Than when I feel and see her no further trust her;

For every inch of woman in the world, 136

Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false,

If she be.

Leon.

Hold your peaces!

First Lord.

Good my lord,—

Ant.

It is for you we speak, not for ourselves.

You are abus’d, and by some putter-on 140

That will be damn’d for’t; would I knew the villain,

I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d,—

I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven,

The second and the third, nine and some five; 144

If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t: by mine honour,

I’ll geld them all; fourteen they shall not see,

To bring false generations: they are co-heirs;

And I had rather glib myself than they 148

Should not produce fair issue.

Leon.

Cease! no more.

You smell this business with a sense as cold

As is a dead man’s nose; but I do see’t and feel’t,

As you feel doing thus, and see withal 152

The instruments that feel.

Ant.

If it be so,

We need no grave to bury honesty:

There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten

Of the whole dungy earth.

Leon.

What! lack I credit? 156

First Lord.

I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,

Upon this ground; and more it would content me

To have her honour true than your suspicion,

Be blam’d for’t how you might.

Leon.

Why, what need we 160

Commune with you of this, but rather follow

Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative

Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness

Imparts this; which if you,—or stupified 164

Or seeming so in skill,—cannot or will not

Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves

We need no more of your advice: the matter,

The loss, the gain, the ordering on’t, is all 168

Properly ours.

Ant.

And I wish, my liege,

You had only in your silent judgment tried it,

Without more overture.

Leon.

How could that be?

Either thou art most ignorant by age, 172

Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight,

Added to their familiarity,

Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture,

That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation

But only seeing, all other circumstances 177

Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding:

Yet, for a greater confirmation,—

For in an act of this importance ’twere 180

Most piteous to be wild,—I have dispatch’d in post

To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple,

Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know

Of stuff’d sufficiency. Now, from the oracle 184

They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,

Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?

First Lord.

Well done, my lord.

Leon.

Though I am satisfied and need no more 188

Than what I know, yet shall the oracle

Give rest to the minds of others, such as he

Whose ignorant credulity will not

Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good 192

From our free person she should be confin’d,

Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence

Be left her to perform. Come, follow us:

We are to speak in public; for this business 196

Will raise us all.

Ant.

[Aside.] To laughter, as I take it,

If the good truth were known.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The outer Room of a Prison.

Enter Paulina and Attendants.

Paul.

The keeper of the prison, call to him;

Let him have knowledge who I am.—[Exit an Attendant.] Good lady,

No court in Europe is too good for thee;

What dost thou then in prison?

Re-enter Attendant with the Gaoler.

Now, good sir, 4

You know me, do you not?

Gaol.

For a worthy lady

And one whom much I honour.

Paul.

Pray you then,

Conduct me to the queen.

Gaol.

I may not, madam: to the contrary 8

I have express commandment.

Paul.

Here’s ado,

To lock up honesty and honour from

The access of gentle visitors! Is’t lawful, pray you,

To see her women? any of them? Emilia? 12

Gaol.

So please you, madam,

To put apart these your attendants, I

Shall bring Emilia forth.

Paul.

I pray now, call her.

Withdraw yourselves.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Gaol.

And, madam, 16

I must be present at your conference.

Paul.

Well, be’t so, prithee.

[Exit Gaoler.

Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain,

As passes colouring.

Re-enter Gaoler, with Emilia.

Dear gentlewoman, 20

How fares our gracious lady?

Emil.

As well as one so great and so forlorn

May hold together. On her frights and griefs,—

Which never tender lady hath borne greater,—

She is something before her time deliver’d. 25

Paul.

A boy?

Emil.

A daughter; and a goodly babe,

Lusty and like to live: the queen receives

Much comfort in’t; says, ‘My poor prisoner, 28

I am innocent as you.’

Paul.

I dare be sworn:

These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ the king, beshrew them!

He must be told on’t, and he shall: the office

Becomes a woman best; I’ll take’t upon me. 32

If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister,

And never to my red-look’d anger be

The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia,

Commend my best obedience to the queen: 36

If she dares trust me with her little babe,

I’ll show it to the king and undertake to be

Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know

How he may soften at the sight of the child: 40

The silence often of pure innocence

Persuades when speaking fails.

Emil.

Most worthy madam,

Your honour and your goodness is so evident

That your free undertaking cannot miss 44

A thriving issue: there is no lady living

So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship

To visit the next room, I’ll presently

Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer, 48

Who but to-day hammer’d of this design,

But durst not tempt a minister of honour,

Lest she should be denied.

Paul.

Tell her, Emilia,

I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from’t 52

As boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted

I shall do good.

Emil.

Now be you blest for it!

I’ll to the queen. Please you, come something nearer.

Gaol.

Madam, if’t please the queen to send the babe, 56

I know not what I shall incur to pass it,

Having no warrant.

Paul.

You need not fear it, sir:

The child was prisoner to the womb, and is

By law and process of great nature thence 60

Freed and enfranchis’d; not a party to

The anger of the king, nor guilty of,

If any be, the trespass of the queen.

Gaol.

I do believe it. 64

Paul.

Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I

Will stand betwixt you and danger.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and other Attendants.

Leon.

Nor night, nor day, no rest; it is but weakness

To bear the matter thus; mere weakness. If

The cause were not in being,—part o’ the cause,

She the adultress; for the harlot king 4

Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank

And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she

I can hook to me: say, that she were gone,

Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 8

Might come to me again. Who’s there?

First Atten.

[Advancing.] My lord?

Leon.

How does the boy?

First Atten.

He took good rest to-night;

’Tis hop’d his sickness is discharg’d.

Leon.

To see his nobleness! 12

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,

He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply,

Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself,

Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 16

And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go,

See how he fares. [Exit Attendant.]—Fie, fie! no thought of him;

The very thought of my revenges that way

Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, 20

And in his parties, his alliance; let him be

Until a time may serve: for present vengeance,

Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes

Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow: 24

They should not laugh, if I could reach them, nor

Shall she within my power.

Enter Paulina, with a Child.

First Lord.

You must not enter.

Paul.

Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:

Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, 28

Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul,

More free than he is jealous.

Ant.

That’s enough.

Sec. Atten.

Madam, he hath not slept to-night; commanded

None should come at him.

Paul.

Not so hot, good sir; 32

I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you,

That creep like shadows by him and do sigh

At each his needless heavings, such as you

Nourish the cause of his awaking: I 36

Do come with words as med’cinal as true,

Honest as either, to purge him of that humour

That presses him from sleep.

Leon

What noise there, ho?

Paul.

No noise, my lord; but needful conference 40

About some gossips for your highness.

Leon.

How!

Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus,

I charg’d thee that she should not come about me:

I knew she would.

Ant.

I told her so, my lord, 44

On your displeasure’s peril, and on mine,

She should not visit you.

Leon.

What! canst not rule her?

Paul.

From all dishonesty he can: in this,

Unless he take the course that you have done,

Commit me for committing honour, trust it, 49

He shall not rule me.

Ant.

La you now! you hear;

When she will take the rein I let her run;

But she’ll not stumble.

Paul.

Good my liege, I come, 52

And I beseech you, hear me, who professes

Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares

Less appear so in comforting your evils 56

Than such as most seem yours: I say, I come

From your good queen.

Leon.

Good queen!

Paul.

Good queen, my lord, good queen; I say, good queen;

And would by combat make her good, so were I

A man, the worst about you.

Leon.

Force her hence. 61

Paul.

Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes

First hand me: on mine own accord I’ll off;

But first I’ll do my errand. The good queen, 64

For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter:

Here ’tis; commends it to your blessing.

[Laying down the Child.

Leon.

Out!

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door:

A most intelligencing bawd!

Paul.

Not so; 68

I am as ignorant in that as you

In so entitling me, and no less honest

Than you are mad; which is enough, I’ll warrant,

As this world goes, to pass for honest.

Leon.

Traitors! 72

Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.

[To Antigonus.] Thou dotard! thou art woman-tir’d, unroosted

By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;

Take’t up, I say; give’t to thy crone.

Paul.

For ever 76

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou

Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness

Which he has put upon’t!

Leon.

He dreads his wife.

Paul.

So I would you did; then, ’twere past all doubt, 80

You’d call your children yours.

Leon.

A nest of traitors!

Ant.

I am none, by this good light.

Paul.

Nor I; nor any

But one that’s here, and that’s himself; for he

The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, 84

His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander,

Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not,—

For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

He cannot be compell’d to’t,—once remove 88

The root of his opinion, which is rotten

As ever oak or stone was sound.

Leon.

A callat

Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband

And now baits me! This brat is none of mine;

It is the issue of Polixenes: 93

Hence with it; and, together with the dam

Commit them to the fire!

Paul.

It is yours;

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, 96

‘So like you, ’tis the worse.’ Behold, my lords,

Although the print be little, the whole matter

And copy of the father; eye, nose, lip,

The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, 100

The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles,

The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:

And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it

So like to him that got it, if thou hast 104

The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours

No yellow in’t; lest she suspect, as he does,

Her children not her husband’s.

Leon.

A gross hag!

And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d, 108

That wilt not stay her tongue.

Ant.

Hang all the husbands

That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself

Hardly one subject.

Leon.

Once more, take her hence.

Paul.

A most unworthy and unnatural lord

Can do no more.

Leon.

I’ll ha’ thee burn’d.

Paul.

I care not:

It is a heretic that makes the fire,

Not she which burns in’t. I’ll not call you tyrant;

But this most cruel usage of your queen,— 116

Not able to produce more accusation

Than your own weak-hing’d fancy,—something savours

Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,

Yea, scandalous to the world.

Leon.

On your allegiance, 120

Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,

Where were her life? she durst not call me so

If she did know me one. Away with her!

Paul.

I pray you do not push me; I’ll be gone. 124

Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send her

A better guiding spirit! What need these hands?

You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies,

Will never do him good, not one of you. 128

So, so: farewell; we are gone.

[Exit.

Leon.

Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.

My child! away with’t!—even thou, that hast

A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence 132

And see it instantly consum’d with fire:

Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight:

Within this hour bring me word ’tis done,—

And by good testimony,—or I’ll seize thy life,

With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse

And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;

The bastard brains with these my proper hands

Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; 140

For thou sett’st on thy wife.

Ant.

I did not, sir:

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

Can clear me in’t.

First Lord.

We can, my royal liege,

He is not guilty of her coming hither. 144

Leon.

You are liars all.

First Lord.

Beseech your highness, give us better credit:

We have always truly serv’d you, and beseech you

So to esteem of us; and on our knees we beg, 148

As recompense of our dear services

Past and to come, that you do change this purpose,

Which being so horrible, so bloody, must

Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel. 152

Leon.

I am a feather for each wind that blows.

Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel

And call me father? Better burn it now

Than curse it then. But, be it; let it live: 156

It shall not neither.—[To Antigonus.] You, sir, come you hither;

You that have been so tenderly officious

With Lady Margery, your midwife there,

To save this bastard’s life,—for ’tis a bastard, 160

So sure as thy beard’s grey,—what will you adventure

To save this brat’s life?

Ant.

Any thing, my lord,

That my ability may undergo,

And nobleness impose: at least, thus much: 164

I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left,

To save the innocent: any thing possible.

Leon.

It shall be possible. Swear by this sword

Thou wilt perform my bidding.

Ant.

I will, my lord. 168

Leon.

Mark and perform it,—seest thou!—for the fail

Of any point in’t shall not only be

Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu’d wife,

Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,

As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry 173

This female bastard hence; and that thou bear it

To some remote and desart place quite out

Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,

Without more mercy, to its own protection, 177

And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune

It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,

On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, 180

That thou commend it strangely to some place,

Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.

Ant.

I swear to do this, though a present death

Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe:

Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 185

To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say,

Casting their savageness aside have done

Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous 188

In more than this deed doth require! And blessing

Against this cruelty fight on thy side,

Poor thing, condemn’d to loss!

[Exit with the Child.

Leon.

No; I’ll not rear

Another’s issue.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Please your highness, posts 192

From those you sent to the oracle are come

An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,

Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both landed,

Hasting to the court.

First Lord.

So please you, sir, their speed

Hath been beyond account.

Leon.

Twenty-three days

They have been absent: ’tis good speed; foretells

The great Apollo suddenly will have

The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;

Summon a session, that we may arraign 201

Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath

Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have

A just and open trial. While she lives 204

My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me,

And think upon my bidding.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Sea-port in Sicilia.

Enter Cleomenes and Dion.

Cleo.

The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet,

Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing

The common praise it bears.

Dion.

I shall report,

For most it caught me, the celestial habits,— 4

Methinks I so should term them,—and the reverence

Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!

How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly

It was i’ the offering!

Cleo.

But of all, the burst 8

And the ear-deafening voice o’ the oracle,

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surpris’d my sense,

That I was nothing.

Dion.

If the event o’ the journey

Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be’t so! —

As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 13

The time is worth the use on’t.

Cleo.

Great Apollo

Turn all to the best! These proclamations,

So forcing faults upon Hermione, 16

I little like.

Dion.

The violent carriage of it

Will clear or end the business: when the oracle,

Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up,

Shall the contents discover, something rare 20

Even then will rush to knowledge.—Go:—fresh horses!

And gracious be the issue!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Sicilia. A Court of Justice.

Leontes, Lords, and Officers.

Leon.

This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,

Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried

The daughter of a king, our wife, and one

Of us too much belov’d. Let us be clear’d 4

Of being tyrannous, since we so openly

Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,

Even to the guilt or the purgation.

Produce the prisoner. 8

Offi.

It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen

Appear in person here in court. Silence!

Enter Hermione guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending.

Leon.

Read the indictment. 11

Offi.

Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, King of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.

Her.

Since what I am to say must be but that

Which contradicts my accusation, and 24

The testimony on my part no other

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me

To say ‘Not guilty:’ mine integrity

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,

Be so receiv’d. But thus: if powers divine 29

Behold our human actions, as they do,

I doubt not then but innocence shall make

False accusation blush, and tyranny 32

Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,—

Who least will seem to do so,—my past life

Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,

As I am now unhappy; which is more 36

Than history can pattern, though devis’d

And play’d to take spectators. For behold me,

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter,

The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing

To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore

Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it.

As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour, 44

’Tis a derivative from me to mine,

And only that I stand for. I appeal

To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes

Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 48

How merited to be so; since he came,

With what encounter so uncurrent I

Have strain’d, to appear thus: if one jot beyond

The bound of honour, or in act or will 52

That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts

Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin

Cry fie upon my grave!

Leon.

I ne’er heard yet

That any of these bolder vices wanted 56

Less impudence to gainsay what they did

Than to perform it first.

Her.

That’s true enough;

Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

Leon.

You will not own it.

Her.

More than mistress of 60

Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not

At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,—

With whom I am accus’d,—I do confess

I lov’d him as in honour he requir’d, 64

With such a kind of love as might become

A lady like me; with a love even such,

So and no other, as yourself commanded:

Which not to have done I think had been in me

Both disobedience and ingratitude 69

To you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke,

Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely

That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 72

I know not how it tastes, though it be dish’d

For me to try how: all I know of it

Is that Camillo was an honest man;

And why he left your court, the gods themselves,

Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 77

Leon.

You knew of his departure, as you know

What you have underta’en to do in’s absence.

Her.

Sir, 80

You speak a language that I understand not:

My life stands in the level of your dreams,

Which I’ll lay down.

Leon.

Your actions are my dreams:

You had a bastard by Polixenes, 84

And I but dream’d it. As you were past all shame,—

Those of your fact are so,—so past all truth:

Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as

Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, 88

No father owning it,—which is, indeed,

More criminal in thee than it,—so thou

Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage

Look for no less than death.

Her.

Sir, spare your threats: 92

The bug which you would fright me with I seek.

To me can life be no commodity:

The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,

I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, 96

But know not how it went. My second joy,

And first-fruits of my body, from his presence

I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort,

Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, 100

The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,

Hal’d out to murder: myself on every post

Proclaim’d a strumpet: with immodest hatred

The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs 104

To women of all fashion: lastly, hurried

Here to this place, i’the open air, before

I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,

Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 108

That I should fear to die? Therefore proceed.

But yet hear this; mistake me not; no life,

I prize it not a straw:—but for mine honour,

Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d 112

Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else

But what your jealousies awake, I tell you

’Tis rigour and not law. Your honours all,

I do refer me to the oracle: 116

Apollo be my judge!

First Lord.

This your request

Is altogether just: therefore, bring forth,

And in Apollo’s name, his oracle.

[Exeunt certain Officers.

Her.

The Emperor of Russia was my father:

O! that he were alive, and here beholding 121

His daughter’s trial; that he did but see

The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes

Of pity, not revenge! 124

Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion.

Offi.

You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,

That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have

Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought

This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d 128

Of great Apollo’s priest, and that since then

You have not dar’d to break the holy seal,

Nor read the secrets in’t.

Cleo.

All this we swear.

Dion.

All this we swear.

Leon.

Break up the seals, and read. 132

Offi.

Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found! 137

Lords.

Now blessed be the great Apollo!

Her.

Praised!

Leon.

Hast thou read truth?

Offi.

Ay, my lord; even so

As it is here set down. 140

Leon.

There is no truth at all i’ the oracle:

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

My lord the king, the king!

Leon.

What is the business?

Ser.

O sir! I shall be hated to report it: 144

The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear

Of the queen’s speed, is gone.

Leon.

How! gone!

Ser.

Is dead.

Leon.

Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves

Do strike at my injustice.

[Hermione swoons.

How now, there! 148

Paul.

This news is mortal to the queen:— look down,

And see what death is doing.

Leon.

Take her hence:

Her heart is but o’ercharg’d; she will recover:

I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion:

Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 153

Some remedies for life.—

[Exeunt Paulina, and Ladies, with Hermione.

Apollo, pardon

My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle!

I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, 156

New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo,

Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;

For, being transported by my jealousies

To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose 160

Camillo for the minister to poison

My friend Polixenes: which had been done,

But that the good mind of Camillo tardied

My swift command; though I with death and with 164

Reward did threaten and encourage him,

Not doing it, and being done: he, most humane

And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest

Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, 168

Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard

Of all incertainties himself commended,

No richer than his honour: how he glisters

Thorough my rust! and how his piety 172

Does my deeds make the blacker!

Re-enter Paulina.

Paul.

Woe the while!

O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,

Break too!

First Lord.

What fit is this, good lady?

Paul.

What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? 176

What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? or what boiling

In leads, or oils? what old or newer torture

Must I receive, whose every word deserves

To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny, 180

Together working with thy jealousies,

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle

For girls of nine, O! think what they have done,

And then run mad indeed, stark mad; for all 184

Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.

That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing;

That did but show thee of a fool, inconstant

And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much 188

Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour

To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,

More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon

The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter 192

To be or none or little; though a devil

Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t:

Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death

Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,—

Thoughts high for one so tender,—cleft the heart

That could conceive a gross and foolish sire

Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no,

Laid to thy answer: but the last,—O lords! 200

When I have said, cry, ‘woe!’—the queen, the queen,

The sweetest, dearest creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t

Not dropp’d down yet.

First Lord.

The higher powers forbid!

Paul.

I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t: if word nor oath 204

Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring

Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,

Heat outwardly, or breath within, I’ll serve you

As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! 208

Do not repent these things, for they are heavier

Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee

To nothing but despair. A thousand knees

Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 212

Upon a barren mountain, and still winter

In storm perpetual, could not move the gods

To look that way thou wert.

Leon.

Go on, go on;

Thou canst not speak too much: I have deserv’d

All tongues to talk their bitterest.

First Lord.

Say no more: 217

Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault

I’ the boldness of your speech.

Paul.

I am sorry for’t:

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, 220

I do repent. Alas! I have show’d too much

The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d

To the noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help

Should be past grief: do not receive affliction 224

At my petition; I beseech you, rather

Let me be punish’d, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,

Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: 228

The love I bore your queen,—lo, fool again!—

I’ll speak of her no more, nor of your children;

I’ll not remember you of my own lord,

Who is lost too: take your patience to you, 232

And I’ll say nothing.

Leon.

Thou didst speak but well,

When most the truth, which I receive much better

Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me

To the dead bodies of my queen and son: 236

One grave shall be for both: upon them shall

The causes of their death appear, unto

Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ll visit

The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there

Shall be my recreation: so long as nature 241

Will bear up with this exercise, so long

I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me

Unto these sorrows.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea.

Enter Antigonus, with the Child; and a Mariner.

Ant.

Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch’d upon

The desarts of Bohemia?

Mar.

Ay, my lord; and fear

We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly

And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, 4

The heavens with that we have in hand are angry,

And frown upon’s.

Ant.

Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;

Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before 8

I call upon thee.

Mar.

Make your best haste, and go not

Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather;

Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

Of prey that keep upon’t.

Ant.

Go thou away: 12

I’ll follow instantly.

Mar.

I am glad at heart

To be so rid of the business.

[Exit.

Ant.

Come, poor babe:

I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits o’ the dead

May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother 16

Appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream

So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

Sometimes her head on one side, some another;

I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, 20

So fill’d, and so becoming: in pure white robes,

Like very sanctity, she did approach

My cabin where I lay; thrice bow’d before me,

And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 24

Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon

Did this break from her: ‘Good Antigonus,

Since fate, against thy better disposition,

Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 28

Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,

Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

There weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 32

I prithee, call’t: for this ungentle business,

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see

Thy wife Paulina more:’ and so, with shrieks,

She melted into air. Affrighted much, 36

I did in time collect myself, and thought

This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys;

Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,

I will be squar’d by this. I do believe 40

Hermione hath suffer’d death; and that

Apollo would, this being indeed the issue

Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,

Either for life or death, upon the earth 44

Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!

[Laying down Child.

There lie; and there thy character: there these;

[Laying down a bundle.

Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,

And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch! 48

That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d

To loss and what may follow. Weep I cannot,

But my heart bleeds, and most accurs’d am I

To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! 52

The day frowns more and more: thou art like to have

A lullaby too rough. I never saw

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!

Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: 56

I am gone for ever.

[Exit, pursued by a bear.

Enter a Shepherd.

Shep.

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting. Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep; which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if anywhere I have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the Child.] Mercy on’s, a barne; a very pretty barne! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one; sure some scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work; they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity; yet I’ll tarry till my son come; he hollaed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa! 79

Enter Clown.

Clo.

Hilloa, loa!

Shep.

What! art so near? If thou’lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ailest thou, man? 83

Clo.

I have seen two such sights by sea and by land! but I am not to say it is a see, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point.

Shep.

Why, boy, how is it? 88

Clo.

I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! but that’s not to the point. O! the most piteous cry of the poor souls; sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em; now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land-service: to see how the bear tore out his shoulderbone; how he cried to me for help and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship: to see how the sea flap-dragoned it: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them; and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather. 104

Shep.

Name of mercy! when was this, boy?

Clo.

Now, now; I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman: he’s at it now. 109

Shep.

Would I had been by, to have helped the old man!

Clo.

I would you had been by the ship’s side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing. 114

Shep.

Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I with things new born. Here’s a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! Look thee here: take up, take up, boy; open’t. So, let’s see: it was told me, I should be rich by the fairies: this is some changeling.—Open’t. What’s within, boy? 123

Clo.

You’re a made old man: if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold! all gold!

Shep.

This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so: up with’t, keep it close: home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy; and to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go. Come, good boy, the next way home.

Clo.

Go you the next way with your findings. I’ll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry. If there be any of him left, I’ll bury it. 136

Shep.

That’s a good deed. If thou mayst discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the sight of him.

Clo.

Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i’ the ground. 141

Shep.

’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter Time, the Chorus.

Time.

I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror

Of good and bad, that make and unfold error,

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 4

To me or my swift passage, that I slide

O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried

Of that wide gap; since it is in my power

To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour 8

To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass

The same I am, ere ancient’st order was

Or what is now receiv’d: I witness to

The times that brought them in; so shall I do

To the freshest things now reigning, and make stale 13

The glistering of this present, as my tale

Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,

I turn my glass and give my scene such growing 16

As you had slept between. Leontes leaving,—

The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving,

That he shuts up himself,—imagine me,

Gentle spectators, that I now may be 20

In fair Bohemia; and remember well,

I mention’d a son o’ the king’s, which Florizel

I now name to you; and with speed so pace

To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace 24

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues

I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news

Be known when ’tis brought forth. A shepherd’s daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is th’ argument of Time. Of this allow, 29

If ever you have spent time worse ere now:

If never, yet that Time himself doth say

He wishes earnestly you never may.

[Exit.

Scene I.— Bohemia. A Room in the Palace of Polixenes.

Enter Polixenes and Camillo.

Pol.

I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: ’tis a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this. 3

Cam.

It is fifteen years since I saw my country: though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween to think so, which is another spur to my departure. 10

Pol.

As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made: better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered,—as too much I cannot,—to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein, the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country, Sicilia, prithee speak no more, whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.

Cam.

Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared. 37

Pol.

I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care; so far, that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd; a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate. 45

Cam.

I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage. 49

Pol.

That’s likewise part of my intelligence; but I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. 58

Cam.

I willingly obey your command.

Pol.

My best Camillo!—We must disguise ourselves.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Road near the Shepherd’s Cottage.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy, over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.  4

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king  8

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,

With, heigh! with, heigh! the thrush and the jay,

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.  12

I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night; 16

And when I wander here and there,

I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin bowget, 20

Then my account I well may give,

And in the stocks avouch it

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize! 32

Enter Clown.

Clo.

Let me see: Every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling: fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?

Aut.

[Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine. 37

Clo.

I cannot do’t without compters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? ‘Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants; rice,’ what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases: but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron, to colour the warden pies; mace, dates,—none; that’s out of my note:—nutmegs seven; a race or two of ginger,—but that I may beg;—four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ the sun. 53

Aut.

O! that ever I was born!

[Grovelling on the ground.

Clo.

I’ the name of me!—

Aut.

O! help me, help me! pluck but off these rags, and then death, death! 57

Clo.

Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off. 60

Aut.

O, sir! the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.

Clo.

Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter. 65

Aut.

I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me. 68

Clo.

What, by a horseman or a footman?

Aut.

A footman, sweet sir, a footman.

Clo.

Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he hath left with thee: if this be a horseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.

[Helping him up.

Aut.

O! good sir, tenderly, O! 76

Clo.

Alas, poor soul!

Aut.

O! good sir; softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.

Clo.

How now! canst stand? 80

Aut.

Softly, dear sir; [Picks his pocket.] good sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office.

Clo.

Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee. 84

Aut.

No, good sweet sir: no, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going: I shall there have money, or anything I want: offer me no money, I pray you! that kills my heart. 89

Clo.

What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?

Aut.

A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with trol-my-dames: I knew him once a servant of the prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court. 96

Clo.

His vices, you would say: there’s no virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish it, to make it stay there, and yet it will no more but abide. 100

Aut.

Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus. 108

Clo.

Out upon him! Prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

Aut.

Very true, sir; he, sir, he: that’s the rogue that put me into this apparel. 112

Clo.

Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.

Aut.

I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him. 118

Clo.

How do you now?

Aut.

Sweet sir, much better than I was: I can stand and walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.

Clo.

Shall I bring thee on the way?

Aut.

No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. 124

Clo.

Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

Aut.

Prosper you, sweet sir!—[Exit Clown.] Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in the book of virtue. 132

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tares in a mile-a.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. A Lawn before the Shepherd’s Cottage.

Enter Florizel and Perdita.

Flo.

These your unusual weeds to each part of you

Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora

Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing

Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 4

And you the queen on’t.

Per.

Sir, my gracious lord,

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me:

O! pardon, that I name them. Your high self,

The gracious mark o’ the land, you have obscur’d

With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,

Most goddess-like prank’d up. But that our feasts

In every mess have folly, and the feeders

Digest it with a custom, I should blush 12

To see you so attired,—swoon, I think,

To show myself a glass.

Flo.

I bless the time

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father’s ground.

Per.

Now, Jove afford you cause! 16

To me the difference forges dread; your greatness

Hath not been us’d to fear. Even now I tremble

To think, your father, by some accident,

Should pass this way as you did. O, the Fates!

How would he look, to see his work, so noble, 21

Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how

Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold

The sternness of his presence?

Flo.

Apprehend 24

Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,

Humbling their deities to love, have taken

The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter

Became a bull, and bellow’d; the green Neptune

A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob’d god, 29

Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,

As I seem now. Their transformations

Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, 32

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires

Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts

Burn hotter than my faith.

Per.

O! but, sir,

Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis 36

Oppos’d, as it must be, by the power of the king.

One of these two must be necessities,

Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.

Flo.

Thou dearest Perdita, 40

With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken not

The mirth o’ the feast: or I’ll be thine, my fair,

Or not my father’s; for I cannot be

Mine own, nor anything to any, if 44

I be not thine: to this I am most constant,

Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle;

Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing

That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: 48

Lift up your countenance, as it were the day

Of celebration of that nuptial which

We two have sworn shall come.

Per.

O lady Fortune,

Stand you auspicious!

Flo.

See, your guests approach: 52

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let’s be red with mirth.

Enter Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo disguised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and Others.

Shep.

Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv’d, upon

This day she was both pantler, butler, cook; 56

Both dame and servant; welcom’d all, serv’d all,

Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,

At upper end o’ the table, now i’ the middle;

On his shoulder, and his; her face o’ fire 60

With labour and the thing she took to quench it,

She would to each one sip. You are retir’d,

As if you were a feasted one and not

The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid 64

These unknown friends to’s welcome; for it is

A way to make us better friends, more known.

Come, quench your blushes and present yourself

That which you are, mistress o’ the feast: come on, 68

And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Per.

[To Polixenes.] Sir, welcome:

It is my father’s will I should take on me

The hostess-ship o’ the day:—[To Camillo.] You’re welcome, sir. 72

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,

For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep

Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be to you both, 76

And welcome to our shearing!

Pol.

Shepherdess,—

A fair one are you,—well you fit our ages

With flowers of winter.

Per.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth 80

Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ the season

Are our carnations, and streak’d gillyvors,

Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not 84

To get slips of them.

Pol.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per.

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

Pol.

Say there be; 88

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean: so, over that art,

Which you say adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 92

A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race: this is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather, but

The art itself is nature.

Per.

So it is. 97

Pol.

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

Per.

I’ll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; 100

No more than, were I painted, I would wish

This youth should say, ’twere well, and only therefore

Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you;

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 104

The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun,

And with him rises weeping: these are flowers

Of middle summer, and I think they are given

To men of middle age. You’re very welcome. 108

Cam.

I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

Per.

Out, alas!

You’d be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair’st friend, 112

I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might

Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,

That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina! 116

For the flowers now that frighted thou let’st fall

From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 121

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale prime-roses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady 124

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one. O! these I lack

To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,

To strew him o’er and o’er!

Flo

What! like a corse? 129

Per.

No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;

Not like a corse; or if,—not to be buried,

But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers: 132

Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine

Does change my disposition.

Flo.

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 136

I’d have you do it ever: when you sing,

I’d have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you 140

A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular, 144

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

That all your acts are queens.

Per.

O Doricles!

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

And the true blood which fairly peeps through it,

Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd,

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo’d me the false way.

Flo.

I think you have

As little skill to fear as I have purpose 152

To put you to’t. But, come; our dance, I pray.

Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair

That never mean to part.

Per.

I’ll swear for ’em.

Pol.

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 156

Ran on the green-sord: nothing she does or seems

But smacks of something greater than herself;

Too noble for this place.

Cam.

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is 160

The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

Come on, strike up.

Dor.

Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic,

To mend her kissing with.

Mop.

Now, in good time!

Clo.

Not a word, a word: we stand upon our manners. 164

Come, strike up.

[Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.

Pol.

Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this

Which dances with your daughter?

Shep.

They call him Doricles, and boasts himself 168

To have a worthy feeding; but I have it

Upon his own report and I believe it:

He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:

I think so too; for never gaz’d the moon 172

Upon the water as he’ll stand and read

As ’twere my daughter’s eyes; and, to be plain,

I think there is not half a kiss to choose

Who loves another best.

Pol.

She dances featly. 176

Shep.

So she does any thing, though I report it

That should be silent. If young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

Which he not dreams of. 180

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

O master! if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men’s ears grew to his tunes. 186

Clo.

He could never come better: he shall come in: I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. 190

Serv.

He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burthens of dildos and fadings, ‘jump her and thump her;’ and where some stretchmouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man;’ puts him off, slights him with ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man.’ 201

Pol.

This is a brave fellow.

Clo.

Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

Serv.

He hath ribands of all the colours i’ the rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he sings ’em over, as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on’t.

Clo

Prithee, bring him in, and let him approach singing. 214

Per.

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in’s tunes.

[Exit Servant.

Clo.

You have of these pedlars, that have more in them than you’d think, sister.

Per.

Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

Lawn as white as driven snow;  220

Cyprus black as e’er was crow;

Gloves as sweet as damask roses;

Masks for faces and for noses;

Bugle-bracelet, necklace-amber,  224

Perfume for a lady’s chamber;

Golden quoifs and stomachers,

For my lads to give their dears;

Pins and poking-sticks of steel;  228

What maids lack from head to heel:

Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:

Come buy.  232

Clo.

If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribands and gloves. 236

Mop.

I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now.

Dor.

He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars. 240

Mop.

He hath paid you all he promised you: may be he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.

Clo.

Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering: clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

Mop.

I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace and a pair of sweet gloves. 252

Clo.

Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?

Aut.

And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary. 256

Clo.

Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.

Aut.

I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge. 260

Clo.

What hast here? ballads?

Mop.

Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print, a-life, for then we are sure they are true.

Aut.

Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden; and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.

Mop.

Is it true, think you? 268

Aut.

Very true, and but a month old.

Dor.

Bless me from marrying a usurer!

Aut.

Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Taleporter, and five or six honest wives’ that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?

Mop.

Pray you now, buy it. 274

Clo.

Come on, lay it by: and let’s first see moe ballads; we’ll buy the other things anon.

Aut.

Here’s another ballad of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful and as true. 284

Dor.

Is it true too, think you?

Aut.

Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold.

Clo.

Lay it by too: another. 288

Aut.

This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.

Mop.

Let’s have some merry ones.

Aut.

Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of ‘Two maids wooing a man:’ there’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it: ’tis in request, I can tell you. 295

Mop.

We can both sing it: if thou’lt bear a part thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts.

Dor.

We had the tune on’t a month ago.

Aut.

I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation: have at it with you. 300

Aut.

Get you hence, for I must go,

Where it fits not you to know.

Dor.

Whither?

Mop.

O! whither? 304

Dor.

Whither?

Mop.

It becomes thy oath full woll,

Thou to me thy secrets tell.

Dor.

Me too: let me go thither. 308

Mop.

Or thou go’st to the grange or mill.

Dor.

If to either, thou dost ill.

Aut.

Neither.

Dor.

What, neither? 312

Aut.

Neither.

Dor.

Thou hast sworn my love to be

Mop.

Thou hast sworn it more to me:

Then whither go’st? say whither? 316

Clo.

We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves: my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them: come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.

[Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa.

Aut.

And you shall pay well for ’em.

Will you buy any tape,  324

Or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?

Any silk, any thread,

Any toys for your head,  328

Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a?

Come to the pedlar;

Money’s a meddler,

That doth utter all men’s ware-a.  332

[Exit.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair; they call themselves Saltiers; and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind,—if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling,—it will please plentifully. 341

Shep.

Away! we’ll none on’t: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. 344

Pol.

You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.

Serv.

One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier. 350

Shep.

Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased let them come in: but quickly now.

Serv.

Why, they stay at door, sir.

[Exit.

Re-enter Servant, with Twelve Rustics habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

Pol.

[To Shep.] O, father! you’ll know more of that hereafter.

[To Camillo.] Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. 356

He’s simple and tells much. [To Florizel.] How now, fair shepherd!

Your heart is full of something that does take

Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,

And handed love as you do, I was wont 360

To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack’d

The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d it

To her acceptance; you have let him go

And nothing marted with him. If your lass 364

Interpretation should abuse and call this

Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited

For a reply, at least if you make a care

Of happy holding her.

Flo.

Old sir, I know 368

She prizes not such trifles as these are.

The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d

Up in my heart, which I have given already,

But not deliver’d. O! hear me breathe my life

Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, 373

Hath sometime lov’d: I take thy hand; this hand,

As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it,

Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow 376

That’s bolted by the northern blasts twice o’er.

Pol.

What follows this?

How prettily the young swain seems to wash

The hand was fair before! I have put you out:

But to your protestation: let me hear 381

What you profess.

Flo.

Do, and be witness to’t.

Pol.

And this my neighbour too?

Flo.

And he, and more

Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all; 384

That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch,

Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth

That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge

More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them 388

Without her love: for her employ them all;

Commend them and condemn them to her service

Or to their own perdition.

Pol.

Fairly offer’d.

Cam.

This shows a sound affection.

Shep.

But, my daughter, 392

Say you the like to him?

Per.

I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:

By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out

The purity of his.

Shep.

Take hands; a bargain; 396

And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t:

I give my daughter to him, and will make

Her portion equal his.

Flo.

O! that must be 399

I’ the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,

I shall have more than you can dream of yet;

Enough then for your wonder. But, come on;

Contract us ’fore these witnesses.

Shep.

Come, your hand;

And, daughter, yours.

Pol.

Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you.

Have you a father?

Flo.

I have; but what of him?

Pol.

Knows he of this?

Flo.

He neither does nor shall.

Pol.

Methinks a father

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest 408

That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more,

Is not your father grown incapable

Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid

With age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear? 412

Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing

But what he did being childish?

Flo.

No, good sir:

He has his health and ampler strength indeed

Than most have of his age.

Pol.

By my white beard, 417

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial. Reason my son

Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason 420

The father,—all whose joy is nothing else

But fair posterity,—should hold some counsel

In such a business.

Flo.

I yield all this;

But for some other reasons, my grave sir, 424

Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

My father of this business.

Pol.

Let him know’t.

Flo.

He shall not.

Pol.

Prithee, let him.

Flo.

No, he must not.

Shep.

Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve 428

At knowing of thy choice.

Flo.

Come, come, he must not.

Mark our contract.

Pol.

Mark your divorce, young sir,

[Discovering himself.

Whom son I dare not call: thou art too base

To be acknowledg’d: thou a sceptre’s heir, 432

That thus affect’st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor,

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can

But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know

The royal fool thou cop’st with,—

Shep.

O, my heart! 437

Pol.

I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, and made

More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,

If I may ever know thou dost but sigh 440

That thou no more shalt see this knack,—as never

I mean thou shalt,—we’ll bar thee from succession;

Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,

Far than Deucalion off: mark thou my words:

Follow us to the court. Thou, churl, for this time, 445

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee

From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,—

Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too, 448

That makes himself, but for our honour therein,

Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou

These rural latches to his entrance open,

Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, 452

I will devise a death as cruel for thee

As thou art tender to’t.

[Exit.

Per.

Even here undone!

I was not much afeard; for once or twice

I was about to speak and tell him plainly, 456

The self-same sun that shines upon his court

Hides not his visage from our cottage, but

Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone?

I told you what would come of this: beseech you, 460

Of your own state take care: this dream of mine—

Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch further,

But milk my ewes and weep.

Cam.

Why, how now, father!

Speak, ere thou diest.

Shep.

I cannot speak, nor think, 464

Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir!

You have undone a man of fourscore three,

That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,

To die upon the bed my father died, 468

To lie close by his honest bones: but now

Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me

Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch!

That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure 472

To mingle faith with him. Undone! undone!

If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d

To die when I desire.

[Exit.

Flo.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, 476

But nothing alter’d. What I was, I am:

More straining on for plucking back; not following

My leash unwillingly.

Cam.

Gracious my lord,

You know your father’s temper: at this time 480

He will allow no speech, which I do guess

You do not purpose to him; and as hardly

Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear:

Then, till the fury of his highness settle, 484

Come not before him.

Flo.

I not purpose it.

I think, Camillo?

Cam.

Even he, my lord.

Per.

How often have I told you ’twould be thus!

How often said my dignity would last 488

But till ’twere known!

Flo.

It cannot fail but by

The violation of my faith; and then

Let nature crush the sides o’ the earth together

And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks:

From my succession wipe me, father; I 493

Am heir to my affection.

Cam.

Be advis’d.

Flo.

I am; and by my fancy: if my reason

Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; 496

If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness,

Do bid it welcome.

Cam.

This is desperate, sir.

Flo.

So call it; but it does fulfil my vow,

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 500

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may

Be thereat glean’d, for all the sun sees or

The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides

In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 504

To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you,

As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend,

When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not

To see him any more,—cast your good counsels

Upon his passion: let myself and fortune 509

Tug for the time to come. This you may know

And so deliver, I am put to sea

With her whom here I cannot hold on shore;

And most opportune to our need, I have 513

A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d

For this design. What course I mean to hold

Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 516

Concern me the reporting.

Cam.

O my lord!

I would your spirit were easier for advice,

Or stronger for your need.

Flo.

Hark, Perdita. [Takes her aside.

[To Camillo.] I’ll hear you by and by.

Cam.

He’s irremovable, 520

Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy if

His going I could frame to serve my turn,

Save him from danger, do him love and honour,

Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia 524

And that unhappy king, my master, whom

I so much thirst to see.

Flo.

Now, good Camillo,

I am so fraught with curious business that

I leave out ceremony.

Cam.

Sir, I think 528

You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love

That I have borne your father?

Flo.

Very nobly

Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music

To speak your deeds, not little of his care 532

To have them recompens’d as thought on.

Cam.

Well, my lord,

If you may please to think I love the king

And through him what’s nearest to him, which is

Your gracious self, embrace but my direction,

If your more ponderous and settled project 537

May suffer alteration, on mine honour

I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving

As shall become your highness; where you may

Enjoy your mistress,—from the whom, I see, 541

There’s no disjunction to be made, but by,

As, heavens forfend! your ruin,—marry her;

And with my best endeavours in your absence

Your discontenting father strive to qualify, 545

And bring him up to liking.

Flo.

How, Camillo,

May this, almost a miracle, be done?

That I may call thee something more than man,

And, after that trust to thee.

Cam.

Have you thought on 549

A place whereto you’ll go?

Flo.

Not any yet;

But as the unthought-on accident is guilty

To what we wildly do, so we profess 552

Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies

Of every wind that blows.

Cam.

Then list to me:

This follows; if you will not change your purpose

But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, 556

And there present yourself and your fair princess,—

For so, I see, she must be,—’fore Leontes;

She shall be habited as it becomes

The partner of your bed. Methinks I see 560

Leontes opening his free arms and weeping

His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness

As ’twere i’ the father’s person; kisses the hands

Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him 564

’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness: the one

He chides to hell, and bids the other grow

Faster than thought or time.

Flo.

Worthy Camillo,

What colour for my visitation shall I 568

Hold up before him?

Cam.

Sent by the king your father

To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,

The manner of your bearing towards him, with

What you as from your father shall deliver, 572

Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down:

The which shall point you forth at every sitting

What you must say; that he shall not perceive

But that you have your father’s bosom there 576

And speak his very heart.

Flo.

I am bound to you.

There is some sap in this.

Cam.

A course more promising

Than a wild dedication of yourselves

To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain 580

To miseries enough: no hope to help you,

But as you shake off one to take another;

Nothing so certain as your anchors, who

Do their best office, if they can but stay you 584

Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know

Prosperity’s the very bond of love,

Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together

Affliction alters.

Per.

One of these is true: 588

I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind.

Cam.

Yea, say you so?

There shall not at your father’s house these seven years

Be born another such.

Flo.

My good Camillo, 592

She is as forward of her breeding as

She is i’ the rear o’ her birth.

Cam.

I cannot say ’tis pity

She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress

To most that teach.

Per.

Your pardon, sir; for this 596

I’ll blush you thanks.

Flo.

My prettiest Perdita!

But O! the thorns we stand upon. Camillo,

Preserver of my father, now of me,

The med’cine of our house, how shall we do? 600

We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son,

Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

Cam.

My lord,

Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes

Do all lie there: it shall be so my care 604

To have you royally appointed as if

The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,

That you may know you shall not want, one word.

[They talk aside.

Enter Autolycus.

Aut.

Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery: not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting: they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown,—who wants but something to be a reasonable man,—grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it; so that, in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. 634

[Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward.

Cam.

Nay, but my letters, by this means being there

So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. 636

Flo.

And those that you’ll procure from King Leontes—

Cam.

Shall satisfy your father.

Per.

Happy be you!

All that you speak shows fair.

Cam.

[Seeing Autolycus.] Whom have we here?

We’ll make an instrument of this: omit 640

Nothing may give us aid.

Aut.

[Aside.] If they have overheard me now, why, hanging.

Cam.

How now, good fellow! Why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee.

Aut.

I am a poor fellow, sir. 647

Cam.

Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee; yet, for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore, discase thee instantly,—thou must think, there’s a necessity in’t,—and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there’s some boot.

Aut.

I am a poor fellow, sir.—[Aside.] I know ye well enough. 656

Cam.

Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already.

Aut.

Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside.] I smell the trick on’t. 660

Flo.

Dispatch, I prithee.

Aut.

Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it.

Cam.

Unbuckle, unbuckle.— 664

[Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments.

Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy

Come home to ye!—you must retire yourself

Into some covert: take your sweetheart’s hat

And pluck it o’er your brows; muffle your face;

Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken 669

The truth of your own seeming; that you may,—

For I do fear eyes over you,—to shipboard

Get undescried.

Per.

I see the play so lies 672

That I must bear a part.

Cam.

No remedy.

Have you done there?

Flo.

Should I now meet my father

He would not call me son.

Cam.

Nay, you shall have no hat.

[Giving it to Perdita.

Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.

Aut.

Adieu, sir. 676

Flo.

O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

Pray you, a word.

[They converse apart.

Cam.

[Aside.] What I do next shall be to tell the king

Of this escape, and whither they are bound; 680

Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail

To force him after: in whose company

I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight

I have a woman’s longing.

Flo.

Fortune speed us! 684

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.

Cam.

The swifter speed the better.

[Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo.

Aut.

I understand the business; I hear it. To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse: a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! what a boot is here with this exchange! Sure, the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity; stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels. If I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein am I constant to my profession. Aside, aside: here is more matter for a hot brain. Every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work. 704

Re-enter Clown and Shepherd.

Clo.

See, see, what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a changeling and none of your flesh and blood.

Shep.

Nay, but hear me. 708

Clo.

Nay, but hear me.

Shep.

Go to, then.

Clo.

She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her; those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you. 717

Shep.

I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law. 722

Clo.

Indeed, brother-in-law was the furthest off you could have been to him, and then your blood had been the dearer by I know not how much an ounce.

Aut.

[Aside] Very wisely, puppies! 727

Shep.

Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard.

Aut.

[Aside.] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master. 732

Clo.

Pray heartily he be at palace.

Aut.

[Aside.] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [Takes off his false beard.] How now, rustics! whither are you bound? 738

Shep.

To the palace, an it like your worship. 740

Aut.

Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known, discover. 745

Clo.

We are but plain fellows, sir.

Aut.

A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie. 752

Clo.

Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner. 755

Shep.

Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?

Aut.

Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think’st thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier, cap-a-pe, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.

Shep.

My business, sir, is to the king. 768

Aut.

What advocate hast thou to him?

Shep.

I know not, an’t like you.

Clo.

Advocate’s the court-word for a pheasant: say you have none. 772

Shep.

None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.

Aut.

How bless’d are we that are not simple men!

Yet nature might have made me as these are,

Therefore I’ll not disdain. 776

Clo.

This cannot be but a great courtier.

Shep.

His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.

Clo.

He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I’ll warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth.

Aut.

The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel?

Wherefore that box? 784

Shep.

Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour if I may come to the speech of him. 788

Aut.

Age, thou hast lost thy labour.

Shep.

Why, sir?

Aut.

The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou be’st capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.

Shep.

So ’tis said, sir, about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter. 797

Aut.

If that shepherd be not now in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he shall have, the torture he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster. 801

Clo.

Think you so, sir?

Aut.

Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I: draw our throne into a sheep cote! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy. 813

Clo.

Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an’t like you, sir?

Aut.

He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitæ or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me,—for you seem to be honest plain men,—what you have to the king: being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is a man shall do it. 833

Clo.

He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold. Show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember, ‘stoned,’ and ‘flayed alive!’ 839

Shep.

An’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have: I’ll make it as much more and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.

Aut.

After I have done what I promised? 845

Shep.

Ay, sir.

Aut.

Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business? 848

Clo.

In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.

Aut.

O! that’s the case of the shepherd’s son: hang him, he’ll be made an example. 853

Clo.

Comfort, good comfort! we must to the king and show our strange sights: he must know ’tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed; and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you. 860

Aut.

I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right hand, I will but look upon the hedge and follow you.

Clo.

We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed. 865

Shep.

Let’s before as he bids us. He was provided to do us good.

[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.

Aut.

If I had a mind to be honest I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion, gold, and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will I present them: there may be matter in it.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Sicilia. A Room in the Palace of Leontes.

Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and others.

Cleo.

Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d

A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make

Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down

More penitence than done trespass. At the last, 4

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil;

With them forgive yourself.

Leon.

Whilst I remember

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget

My blemishes in them, and so still think of 8

The wrong I did myself; which was so much,

That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and

Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man

Bred his hopes out of.

Paul.

True, too true, my lord; 12

If one by one you wedded all the world,

Or from the all that are took something good,

To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d

Would be unparallel’d.

Leon.

I think so. Kill’d! 16

She I kill’d! I did so; but thou strik’st me

Sorely to say I did: it is as bitter

Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now

Say so but seldom.

Cleo.

Not at all, good lady: 20

You might have spoken a thousand things that would

Have done the time more benefit, and grac’d

Your kindness better.

Paul.

You are one of those

Would have him wed again.

Dion.

If you would not so, 24

You pity not the state, nor the remembrance

Of his most sovereign name; consider little

What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue,

May drop upon his kingdom and devour 28

Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy

Than to rejoice the former queen is well?

What holier than for royalty’s repair,

For present comfort, and for future good, 32

To bless the bed of majesty again

With a sweet fellow to’t?

Paul.

There is none worthy,

Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods

Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; 36

For has not the divine Apollo said,

Is’t not the tenour of his oracle,

That King Leontes shall not have an heir

Till his lost child be found? which that it shall,

Is all as monstrous to our human reason 41

As my Antigonus to break his grave

And come again to me; who, on my life,

Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel 44

My lord should to the heavens be contrary,

Oppose against their wills.—[To Leontes.] Care not for issue;

The crown will find an heir: great Alexander

Left his to the worthiest, so his successor 48

Was like to be the best.

Leon.

Good Paulina,

Who hast the memory of Hermione,

I know, in honour; O! that ever I

Had squar’d me to thy counsel! then, even now,

I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes,

Have taken treasure from her lips,—

Paul.

And left them

More rich, for what they yielded.

Leon.

Thou speak’st truth.

No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, 56

And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit

Again possess her corpse and on this stage,—

Where we’re offenders now,—appear soul-vex’d,

And begin, ‘Why to me?’

Paul.

Had she such power, 60

She had just cause.

Leon.

She had; and would incense me

To murder her I married.

Paul.

I should so:

Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’d bid you mark

Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t 64

You chose her; then I’d shriek, that even your ears

Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d

Should be ‘Remember mine.’

Leon.

Stars, stars!

And all eyes else dead coals. Fear thou no wife;

I’ll have no wife, Paulina.

Paul.

Will you swear 69

Never to marry but by my free leave?

Leon.

Never, Paulina: so be bless’d my spirit!

Paul.

Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath. 72

Cleo.

You tempt him over much.

Paul.

Unless another,

As like Hermione as is her picture,

Affront his eye.

Cleo.

Good madam,—

Paul.

I have done.

Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, 76

No remedy, but you will,—give me the office

To choose you a queen, she shall not be so young

As was your former; but she shall be such

As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy 80

To see her in your arms.

Leon.

My true Paulina,

We shall not marry till thou bidd’st us.

Paul.

That

Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath;

Never till then. 84

Enter a Gentleman.

Gent.

One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,

Son of Polixenes, with his princess,—she

The fairest I have yet beheld,—desires access

To your high presence.

Leon.

What with him? he comes not 88

Like to his father’s greatness; his approach,

So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us

’Tis not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d

By need and accident. What train?

Gent.

But few, 92

And those but mean.

Leon.

His princess, say you, with him?

Gent.

Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think,

That e’er the sun shone bright on.

Paul.

O Hermione!

As every present time doth boast itself 96

Above a better gone, so must thy grave

Give way to what’s seen now. Sir, you yourself

Have said and writ so,—but your writing now

Is colder than that theme,—‘She had not been,

Nor was not to be equall’d;’ thus your verse 101

Flow’d with her beauty once: ’tis shrewdly ebb’d

To say you have seen a better.

Gent.

Pardon, madam:

The one I have almost forgot—your pardon—

The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, 105

Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,

Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal

Of all professors else, make proselytes 108

Of who she but bid follow.

Paul.

How! not women?

Gent.

Women will love her, that she is a woman

More worth than any man; men, that she is

The rarest of all women.

Leon.

Go, Cleomenes; 112

Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends,

Bring them to our embracement. Still ’tis strange,

[Exeunt Cleomenes, Lords, and Gentleman.

He thus should steal upon us.

Paul.

Had our prince—

Jewel of children—seen this hour, he had pair’d

Well with this lord: there was not full a month

Between their births.

Leon.

Prithee, no more: cease! thou know’st

He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, 120

When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches

Will bring me to consider that which may

Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.

Re-enter Cleomenes, with Florizel, Perdita, and Others.

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off, 125

Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one,

Your father’s image is so hit in you,

His very air, that I should call you brother, 128

As I did him; and speak of something wildly

By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome!

And you, fair princess,—goddess! O, alas!

I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth 132

Might thus have stood begetting wonder as

You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost—

All mine own folly—the society,

Amity too, of your brave father, whom, 136

Though bearing misery, I desire my life

Once more to look on him.

Flo.

By his command

Have I here touch’d Sicilia; and from him

Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, 140

Can send his brother: and, but infirmity,—

Which waits upon worn times,—hath something seiz’d

His wish’d ability, he had himself

The land and waters ’twixt your throne and his

Measur’d to look upon you, whom he loves— 145

He bade me say so—more than all the sceptres

And those that bear them living.

Leon.

O, my brother!—

Good gentleman,—the wrongs I have done thee stir 148

Afresh within me, and these thy offices

So rarely kind, are as interpreters

Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither,

As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too

Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage— 153

At least ungentle—of the dreadful Neptune,

To greet a man not worth her pains, much less

The adventure of her person?

Flo.

Good my lord, 156

She came from Libya.

Leon.

Where the war-like Smalus,

That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d?

Flo.

Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter

His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence— 160

A prosperous south-wind friendly—we have cross’d,

To execute the charge my father gave me

For visiting your highness: my best train

I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d; 164

Who for Bohemia bend, to signify

Not only my success in Libya, sir,

But my arrival and my wife’s, in safety

Here where we are.

Leon.

The blessed gods 168

Purge all infection from our air whilst you

Do climate here! You have a holy father,

A graceful gentleman; against whose person,

So sacred as it is, I have done sin: 172

For which the heavens, taking angry note,

Have left me issueless; and your father’s bless’d—

As he from heaven merits it—with you,

Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,

Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on,

Such goodly things as you!

Enter a Lord.

Lord.

Most noble sir,

That which I shall report will bear no credit,

Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, 180

Bohemia greets you from himself by me;

Desires you to attach his son, who has—

His dignity and duty both cast off—

Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with

A shepherd’s daughter.

Leon.

Where’s Bohemia? speak. 185

Lord.

Here in your city; I now came from him:

I speak amazedly, and it becomes

My marvel and my message. To your court 188

Whiles he was hastening,—in the chase it seems

Of this fair couple,—meets he on the way

The father of this seeming lady and

Her brother, having both their country quitted

With this young prince.

Flo.

Camillo has betray’d me; 193

Whose honour and whose honesty till now

Endur’d all weathers.

Lord.

Lay’t so to his charge:

He’s with the king your father.

Leon.

Who? Camillo? 196

Lord.

Camillo, sir: I spake with him, who now

Has these poor men in question. Never saw I

Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth,

Forswear themselves as often as they speak: 200

Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them

With divers deaths in death.

Per.

O my poor father!

The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have

Our contract celebrated.

Leon.

You are married? 204

Flo.

We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;

The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:

The odds for high and low’s alike.

Leon.

My lord,

Is this the daughter of a king?

Flo.

She is, 208

When once she is my wife.

Leon.

That ‘once,’ I see, by your good father’s speed,

Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,

Most sorry, you have broken from his liking 212

Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry

Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,

That you might well enjoy her.

Flo.

Dear, look up:

Though Fortune, visible an enemy, 216

Should chase us with my father, power no jot

Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir,

Remember since you ow’d no more to time

Than I do now; with thought of such affections,

Step forth mine advocate; at your request 221

My father will grant precious things as trifles

Leon.

Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress,

Which he counts but a trifle.

Paul.

Sir, my liege, 224

Your eye hath too much youth in’t: not a month

’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes

Than what you look on now.

Leon.

I thought of her,

Even in these looks I made. [To Florizel.] But your petition 228

Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father:

Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires,

I am friend to them and you; upon which errand

I now go toward him. Therefore follow me, 232

And mark what way I make: come, good my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman.

Aut.

Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

Gent.

I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this methought I heard the shepherd say, he found the child. 8

Aut.

I would most gladly know the issue of it.

Gent.

I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration: they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one it must needs be. 21

Enter another Gentleman.

Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more. The news, Rogero?

Sec. Gent.

Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled; the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.

Enter a third Gentleman.

Here comes the lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more. How goes it now, sir? this news which is called true is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion: has the king found his heir? 32

Third Gent.

Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance: that which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings? 44

Sec. Gent.

No.

Third Gent.

Then have you lost a sight, which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so, and in such manner that, it seemed, sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenances of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries, ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’ then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it and undoes description to do it. 64

Sec. Gent.

What, pray you, became of Antigonus that carried hence the child?

Third Gent.

Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence—which seems much—to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. 73

First Gent.

What became of his bark and his followers?

Third Gent.

Wracked, the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But, O! the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina. She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no more be in danger of losing. 87

First Gent.

The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes, for by such was it acted.

Third Gent.

One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes,—caught the water though not the fish,—was when at the relation of the queen’s death, with the manner how she came to it,—bravely confessed and lamented by the king,—how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an ‘alas!’ I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swounded, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen’t, the woe had been universal. 103

First Gent.

Are they returned to the court?

Third Gent.

No; the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina—a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano; who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer: thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. 116

Sec. Gent.

I thought she had some great matter there in hand, for she hath privately, twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither and with our company piece the rejoicing? 122

First Gent.

Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wink of an eye some new grace will be born: our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. 126

[Exeunt Gentlemen.

Aut.

Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what; but he at that time, overfond of the shepherd’s daughter,—so he then took her to be,—who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder out of this secret, it would not have relished among my other discredits. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune. 141

Enter Shepherd and Clown.

Shep.

Come, boy; I am past moe children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. 144

Clo.

You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born: see you these clothes? say, you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentleman born. Give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now gentleman born.

Aut.

I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born. 153

Clo.

Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

Shep.

And so have I, boy. 156

Clo.

So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince my brother and the princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept: and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. 164

Shep.

We may live, son, to shed many more.

Clo.

Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.

Aut.

I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master.

Shep.

Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen. 173

Clo.

Thou wilt amend thy life?

Aut.

Ay, an it like your good worship.

Clo.

Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia. 178

Shep.

You may say it, but not swear it.

Clo.

Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it.

Shep.

How if it be false, son? 182

Clo.

If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend: and I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.

Aut.

I will prove so, sir, to my power. 191

Clo.

Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters. 197

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Chapel in Paulina’s House.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants.

Leon.

O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort

That I have had of thee!

Paul.

What, sovereign sir,

I did not well, I meant well. All my services

You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf’d, 4

With your crown’d brother and these your contracted

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,

It is a surplus of your grace, which never

My life may last to answer.

Leon.

O Paulina! 8

We honour you with trouble: but we came

To see the statue of our queen: your gallery

Have we pass’d through, not without much content

In many singularities, but we saw not 12

That which my daughter came to look upon,

The statue of her mother.

Paul.

As she liv’d peerless,

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon 16

Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it

Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare

To see the life as lively mock’d as ever

Still sleep mock’d death: behold! and say ’tis well. 20

[Paulina draws back a curtain, and discovers Hermione as a statue.

I like your silence: it the more shows off

Your wonder; but yet speak: first you, my liege.

Comes it not something near?

Leon.

Her natural posture!

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say, indeed 24

Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she

In thy not chiding, for she was as tender

As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina,

Hermione was not so much wrinkled; nothing

So aged as this seems.

Pol.

O! not by much. 29

Paul.

So much the more our carver’s excellence;

Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her

As she liv’d now.

Leon.

As now she might have done, 32

So much to my good comfort, as it is

Now piercing to my soul. O! thus she stood,

Even with such life of majesty,—warm life,

As now it coldly stands,—when first I woo’d her.

I am asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me 37

For being more stone than it? O, royal piece!

There’s magic in thy majesty, which has

My evils conjur’d to remembrance, and 40

From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,

Standing like stone with thee.

Per.

And give me leave,

And do not say ’tis superstition, that

I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, 44

Dear queen, that ended when I but began,

Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

Paul.

O, patience!

The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s

Not dry. 48

Cam.

My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,

Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,

So many summers dry: scarce any joy

Did ever so long live; no sorrow 52

But kill’d itself much sooner.

Pol.

Dear my brother,

Let him that was the cause of this have power

To take off so much grief from you as he

Will piece up in himself.

Paul.

Indeed, my lord, 56

If I had thought the sight of my poor image

Would thus have wrought you,—for the stone is mine,—

I’d not have show’d it.

Leon.

Do not draw the curtain.

Paul.

No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy 60

May think anon it moves.

Leon.

Let be, let be!

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already—

What was he that did make it? See, my lord,

Would you not deem it breath’d, and that those veins 64

Did verily bear blood?

Pol.

Masterly done:

The very life seems warm upon her lip.

Leon.

The fixure of her eye has motion in’t,

As we are mock’d with art.

Paul.

I’ll draw the curtain; 68

My lord’s almost so far transported that

He’ll think anon it lives.

Leon.

O sweet Paulina!

Make me to think so twenty years together:

No settled senses of the world can match 72

The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone.

Paul.

I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but

I could afflict you further.

Leon.

Do, Paulina;

For this affliction has a taste as sweet 76

As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks,

There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel

Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,

For I will kiss her.

Paul.

Good my lord, forbear. 80

The ruddiness upon her lip is wet:

You’ll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own

With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

Leon.

No, not these twenty years.

Per.

So long could I 84

Stand by, a looker-on.

Paul.

Either forbear,

Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you

For more amazement. If you can behold it,

I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, 88

And take you by the hand; but then you’ll think,—

Which I protest against,—I am assisted

By wicked powers.

Leon.

What you can make her do,

I am content to look on: what to speak, 92

I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy

To make her speak as move.

Paul.

It is requir’d

You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still;

Or those that think it is unlawful business 96

I am about, let them depart.

Leon.

Proceed:

No foot shall stir.

Paul.

Music, awake her: strike!

[Music.

’Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach;

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;

I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away; 101

Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs:

[Hermione comes down.

Start not; her actions shall be holy as 104

You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her

Until you see her die again, for then

You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:

When she was young you woo’d her; now in age 108

Is she become the suitor!

Leon.

[Embracing her.] O! she’s warm.

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

Pol.

She embraces him.

Cam.

She hangs about his neck: 112

If she pertain to life let her speak too.

Pol.

Ay; and make’t manifest where she has liv’d,

Or how stol’n from the dead.

Paul.

That she is living,

Were it but told you, should be hooted at 116

Like an old tale; but it appears she lives,

Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.

Please you to interpose, fair madam. kneel

And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady; 120

Our Perdita is found.

[Presenting Perdita, who kneels to Hermione.

Her.

You gods, look down,

And from your sacred vials pour your graces

Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own,

Where hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how found 124

Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I,

Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d

Myself to see the issue.

Paul.

There’s time enough for that; 128

Lest they desire upon this push to trouble

Your joys with like relation. Go together,

You precious winners all: your exultation

Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, 132

Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there

My mate, that’s never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

Leon.

O! peace, Paulina.

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, 136

As I by thine a wife: this is a match,

And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine;

But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her,

As I thought dead, and have in vain said many 140

A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far,—

For him, I partly know his mind,—to find thee

An honourable husband. Come, Camillo,

And take her by the hand; whose worth and honesty 144

Is richly noted, and here justified

By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place.

What! look upon my brother: both your pardons,

That e’er I put between your holy looks 148

My ill suspicion. This’ your son-in-law,

And son unto the king,—whom heavens directing,

Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,

Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely 152

Each one demand and answer to his part

Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first

We were dissever’d: hastily lead away.

[Exeunt.