William Shakespeare, The Tragedies (Oxford 1916)

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Priam,	King of Troy.
Hector, }	his Sons.
Troilus, }
Paris, }
Deiphobus, }
Helenus, }
Margarelon,	a Bastard Son of Priam.
Æneas, }	Trojan Commanders.
Antenor, }	Trojan Commanders.
Calchas,	a Trojan Priest, taking part with the Greeks.
Pandarus,	Uncle to Cressida.
Agamemnon,	the Grecian General.
Menelaus,	his Brother.
Achilles, }	Grecian Commanders.
Ajax, }
Ulysses, }
Nestor, }	Grecian Commanders.
Diomedes, }
Patroclus, }
Thersites,	a deformed and scurrilous Grecian.
Alexander,	Servant to Cressida.
Servant to Troilus.
Servant to Paris.
Servant to Diomedes.
Helen,	Wife to Menelaus.
Andromache,	Wife to Hector.
Cassandra,	Daughter to Priam; a prophetess.
Cressida,	Daughter to Calchas.
Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants.

Scene.—Troy, and the Grecian Camp before it.

PROLOGUE.

In Troy there lies the scene. From isles of Greece

The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf’d,

Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,

Fraught with the ministers and instruments 4

Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore

Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay

Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made

To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures 8

The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen,

With wanton Paris sleeps; and that’s the quarrel.

To Tenedos they come,

And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge

Their war-like fraughtage: now on Dardan plains 13

The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch

Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city,

Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Trojan,

And Antenorides, with massy staples 17

And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,

Sperr up the sons of Troy.

Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, 20

On one and other side, Trojan and Greek,

Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come

A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence

Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited 24

In like conditions as our argument,

To tell you, fair beholders, that our play

Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,

Beginning in the middle; starting thence away

To what may be digested in a play. 29

Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are:

Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war.

Scene I.— Troy. Before Priam’s Palace.

Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus.

Tro.

Call here my varlet, I’ll unarm again:

Why should I war without the walls of Troy,

That find such cruel battle here within?

Each Trojan that is master of his heart, 4

Let him to field; Troilus, alas! has none.

Pan.

Will this gear ne’er be mended?

Tro.

The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength.

Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; 8

But I am weaker than a woman’s tear,

Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,

Less valiant than the virgin in the night,

And skilless as unpractis’d infancy. 12

Pan.

Well, I have told you enough of this: for my part, I’ll not meddle nor make no further. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding. 16

Tro.

Have I not tarried?

Pan.

Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.

Tro.

Have I not tarried? 20

Pan.

Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.

Tro.

Still have I tarried.

Pan.

Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ‘hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips. 28

Tro.

Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be,

Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.

At Priam’s royal table do I sit;

And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,—

So, traitor! ‘when she comes’!—When is she thence? 33

Pan.

Well, she looked yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.

Tro.

I was about to tell thee: when my heart,

As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, 37

Lest Hector or my father should perceive me,

I have—as when the sun doth light a storm—

Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile; 40

But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming gladness,

Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

Pan.

An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s,—well, go to,—there were no more comparison between the women: but, for my part, she is my kins woman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did: I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s wit, but— 49

Tro.

O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,—

When I do tell thee, there my hopes lie drown’d,

Reply not in how many fathoms deep 52

They lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad

In Cressid’s love: thou answer’st, she is fair;

Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart

Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;

Handlest in thy discourse, O! that her hand, 57

In whose comparison all whites are ink,

Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure

The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense

Hard as the palm of ploughman: this thou tell’st me, 61

As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her;

But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm,

Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me 64

The knife that made it.

Pan.

I speak no more than truth.

Tro.

Thou dost not speak so much.

Pan.

Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.

Tro.

Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus! 72

Pan.

I have had my labour for my travail; ill-thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone between, and between, but small thanks for my labour. 76

Tro.

What! art thou angry, Pandarus? what! with me?

Pan.

Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen: an she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she were a black-a-moor; ’tis all one to me.

Tro.

Say I she is not fair? 83

Pan.

I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her father: let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see her. For my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter. 88

Tro.

Pandarus,—

Pan.

Not I.

Tro.

Sweet Pandarus,—

Pan.

Pray you, speak no more to me! I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. 93

[Exit Pandarus. An alarum.

Tro.

Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds!

Fools on both sides! Helen must needs bo fair,

When with your blood you daily paint her thus.

I cannot fight upon this argument; 97

It is too starv’d a subject for my sword.

But Pandarus,—O gods! how do you plague me.

I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; 100

And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo

As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.

Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love,

What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? 104

Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl:

Between our Ilium and where she resides

Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood;

Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar

Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark. 109

Alarum. Enter Æneas.

Æne.

How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?

Tro.

Because not there: this woman’s answer sorts,

For womanish it is to be from thence. 112

What news, Æneas, from the field to-day?

Æne.

That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

Tro.

By whom, Æneas?

Æne.

Troilus, by Menelaus.

Tro.

Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn;

Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn.

[Alarum.

Æne.

Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day! 118

Tro.

Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’

But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?

Æne.

In all swift haste.

Tro.

Come, go we then together.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Cressida and Alexander.

Cres.

Who were those went by?

Alex.

Queen Hecuba and Helen.

Cres.

And whither go they?

Alex.

Up to the eastern tower,

Whose height commands as subject all the vale,

To see the battle. Hector, whose patience 4

Is as a virtue fix’d, to-day was mov’d:

He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer;

And, like as there were husbandry in war,

Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, 8

And to the field goes he; where every flower

Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw

In Hector’s wrath.

Cres.

What was his cause of anger?

Alex.

The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks 12

A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector;

They call him Ajax.

Cres.

Good; and what of him?

Alex.

They say he is a very man per se

And stands alone. 16

Cres.

So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs.

Alex.

This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant: a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced with discretion: there is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it. He is melancholy without cause, and merry against the hair; he hath the joints of every thing, but every thing so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use; or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight. 31

Cres.

But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry?

Alex.

They say he yesterday coped Hector in the battle and struck him down; the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking. 37

Cres.

Who comes here?

Enter Pandarus.

Alex.

Madam, your uncle Pandarus.

Cres.

Hector’s a gallant man. 40

Alex.

As may be in the world, lady.

Pan.

What’s that? what’s that?

Cres.

Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pan.

Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of? Good morrow, Alexander.

How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?

Cres.

This morning, uncle. 47

Pan.

What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector armed and gone ere ye came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?

Cres.

Hector was gone, but Helen was not up.

Pan.

E’en so: Hector was stirring early. 52

Cres.

That were we talking of, and of his anger.

Pan.

Was he angry?

Cres.

So he says here.

Pan.

True, he was so; I know the cause too: he’ll lay about him to-day, I can tell them that: and there’s Troilus will not come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too. 60

Cres.

What! is he angry too?

Pan.

Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.

Cres.

O Jupiter! there’s no comparison. 64

Pan.

What! not between Troilus and Hector?

Do you know a man if you see him?

Cres.

Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. 68

Pan.

Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.

Cres.

Then you say as I say; for I am sure he is not Hector.

Pan.

No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees. 73

Cres.

’Tis just to each of them; he is himself.

Pan.

Himself! Alas, poor Troilus, I would he were. 76

Cres.

So he is.

Pan.

Condition, I had gone bare-foot to India.

Cres.

He is not Hector.

Pan.

Himself! no, he’s not himself. Would a’ were himself: well, the gods are above; time must friend or end: well, Troilus, well, I would my heart were in her body. No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus. 84

Cres.

Excuse me.

Pan.

He is elder.

Cres.

Pardon me, pardon me.

Pan.

Th’ other’s not come to’t; you shall tell me another tale when the other’s come to’t. Hector shall not have his wit this year.

Cres.

He shall not need it if he have his own.

Pan.

Nor his qualities. 92

Cres.

No matter.

Pan.

Nor his beauty.

Cres.

’Twould not become him; his own’s better. 96

Pan.

You have no judgment, niece: Helen herself swore th’ other day, that Troilus, for a brown favour,—for so ’tis I must confess,—not brown neither,— 100

Cres.

No, but brown.

Pan.

Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.

Cres.

To say the truth, true and not true. 104

Pan.

She prais’d his complexion above Paris.

Cres.

Why, Paris hath colour enough.

Pan.

So he has.

Cres.

Then Troilus should have too much: if she praised him above, his complexion is higher than his: he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose. 113

Pan.

I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better than Paris.

Cres.

Then she’s a merry Greek indeed. 116

Pan.

Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th’ other day into the compassed window, and, you know, he has not past three or four hairs on his chin,— 120

Cres.

Indeed, a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total.

Pan.

Why, he is very young; and yet will he, within three pound, lift as much as his brother Hector. 125

Cres.

Is he so young a man, and so old a lifter?

Pan.

But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin,— 130

Cres.

Juno have mercy! how came it cloven?

Pan.

Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia.

Cres.

O! he smiles valiantly.

Pan.

Does he not? 136

Cres.

O! yes, an ’twere a cloud in autumn.

Pan.

Why, go to, then. But to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus,—

Cres.

Troilus will stand to the proof, if you’ll prove it so. 141

Pan.

Troilus! why he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg.

Cres.

If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ the shell. 146

Pan.

I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she tickled his chin: indeed, she has a marvell’s white hand, I must needs confess,—

Cres.

Without the rack. 150

Pan.

And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.

Cres.

Alas! poor chin! many a wart is richer.

Pan.

But there was such laughing: Queen Hecuba laughed that her eyes ran o’er.

Cres.

With millstones. 156

Pan.

And Cassandra laughed.

Cres.

But there was more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes: did her eyes run o’er too?

Pan.

And Hector laughed. 160

Cres.

At what was all this laughing?

Pan.

Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus’ chin.

Cres.

An’t had been a green hair, I should have laughed too. 165

Pan.

They laughed not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer.

Cres.

What was his answer? 168

Pan.

Quoth she, ‘Here’s but one-and-fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.’

Cres.

This is her question.

Pan.

That’s true; make no question of that. ‘One-and-fifty hairs,’ quoth he, ‘and one white: that white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.’ ‘Jupiter!’ quoth she, ‘which of these hairs is Paris, my husband?’ ‘The forked one,’ quoth he; ‘pluck’t out, and give it him.’ But there was such laughing, and Helen so blushed, and Paris so chafed, and all the rest so laughed, that it passed. 180

Cres.

So let it now, for it has been a great while going by.

Pan.

Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on’t. 184

Cres.

So I do.

Pan.

I’ll be sworn ’tis true: he will weep you, an ’twere a man born in April.

Cres.

And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’twere a nettle against May.

[A retreat sounded.

Pan.

Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up here, and see them as they pass toward Ilium? good niece, do; sweet niece, Cressida.

Cres.

At your pleasure. 193

Pan.

Here, here; here’s an excellent place: here we may see most bravely. I’ll tell you them all by their names as they pass by, but mark Troilus above the rest. 197

Cres.

Speak not so loud.

Æneas passes over the stage.

Pan.

That’s Æneas: is not that a brave man? he’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you: but mark Troilus; you shall see anon. 201

Antenor passes over.

Cres.

Who’s that?

Pan.

That’s Antenor: he has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he’s a man good enough: he’s one o’ the soundest judgments in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I’ll show you Troilus anon: if he see me, you shall see him nod at me. 208

Cres.

Will he give you the nod?

Pan.

You shall see.

Cres.

If he do, the rich shall have more.

Hector passes over.

Pan.

That’s Hector, that, that, look you, that; there’s a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There’s a brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks! there’s a countenance! Is’t not a brave man? 216

Cres.

O! a brave man.

Pan.

Is a’ not? It does a man’s heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet! look you yonder, do you see? look you there: there’s no jesting; there’s laying on, take’t off who will, as they say: there be hacks! 222

Cres.

Be those with swords?

Pan.

Swords? any thing, he cares not; an the devil come to him, it’s all one: by God’s lid, it does one’s heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. 227

Paris crosses over.

Look ye yonder, niece: is’t not a gallant man too, is’t not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? he’s not hurt: why, this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon. 233

Cres.

Who’s that?

Helenus passes over.

Pan.

That’s Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That’s Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That’s Helenus. 237

Cres.

Can Helenus fight, uncle?

Pan.

Helenus? no, yes, he’ll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry, ‘Troilus?’ Helenus is a priest. 242

Cres.

What sneaking fellow comes yonder?

Troilus passes over.

Pan.

Where? yonder? that’s Deiphobus.

Tis Troilus! there’s a man, niece! Hem! Brave

Troilus! the prince of chivalry! 246

Cres.

Peace! for shame, peace!

Pan.

Mark him; note him: O brave Troilus! look well upon him, niece: look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helmet more hacked than Hector’s; and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth! he ne’er saw three-and-twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way! Had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot.

Cres.

Here come more. 259

Soldiers pass over.

Pan.

Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and die i’ the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look; the eagles are gone: crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece. 265

Cres.

There is among the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus.

Pan.

Achilles! a drayman, a porter, a very camel. 269

Cres.

Well, well.

Pan.

‘Well, well!’ Why, have you any discretion? have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and so forth, the spice and salt that season a man? 276

Cres.

Ay, a minced man: and then to be baked with no date in the pie, for then the man’s date’s out.

Pan.

You are such a woman! one knows not at what ward you lie. 281

Cres.

Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these: and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand watches.

Pan.

Say one of your watches. 288

Cres.

Nay, I’ll watch you for that; and that’s one of the chiefest of them too: if I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it’s past watching. 293

Pan.

You are such another!

Enter Troilus’ Boy.

Boy.

Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you. 296

Pan.

Where?

Boy.

At your own house; there he unarms him.

Pan.

Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.] I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.

Cres.

Adieu, uncle.

Pan.

I’ll be with you, niece, by and by.

Cres.

To bring, uncle?

Pan.

Ay, a token from Troilus. 304

Cres.

By the same token, you are a bawd.

[Exit Pandarus.

Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice

He offers in another’s enterprise;

But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see 308

Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be.

Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing:

Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing:

That she belov’d knows nought that knows not this: 312

Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is:

That she was never yet, that ever knew

Love got so sweet as when desire did sue.

Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: 316

Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech:

Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear,

Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Grecian Camp. Before Agamemnon’s Tent.

Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Menelaus, and Others.

Agam.

Princes,

What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks?

The ample proposition that hope makes

In all designs begun on earth below 4

Fails in the promis’d largeness: checks and disasters

Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d;

As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap,

Infect the sound pine and divert his grain 8

Tortive and errant from his course of growth.

Nor, princes, is it matter new to us

That we come short of our suppose so far

That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; 12

Sith every action that hath gone before,

Whereof we have record, trial did draw

Bias and thwart, not answering the aim,

And that unbodied figure of the thought 16

That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes,

Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works,

And call them shames? which are indeed nought else

But the protractive trials of great Jove, 20

To find persistive constancy in men:

The fineness of which metal is not found

In Fortune’s love; for then, the bold and coward,

The wise and fool, the artist and unread, 24

The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin:

But, in the wind and tempest of her frown,

Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,

Puffing at all, winnows the light away; 28

And what hath mass or matter, by itself

Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.

Nest.

With due observance of thy god-like seat,

Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply 32

Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance

Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,

How many shallow bauble boats dare sail

Upon her patient breast, making their way 36

With those of nobler bulk!

But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage

The gentle Thetis, and anon behold

The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, 40

Bounding between the two moist elements,

Like Perseus’ horse: where’s then the saucy boat

Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now

Co-rivall’d greatness? either to harbour fled, 44

Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so

Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide

In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness

The herd hath more annoyance by the breese 48

Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind

Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,

And flies fled under shade, why then the thing of courage,

As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathize,

And with an accent tun’d in self-same key, 53

Retorts to chiding fortune.

Ulyss.

Agamemnon,

Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece,

Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit, 56

In whom the tempers and the minds of all

Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks.

Besides the applause and approbation

The which, [To Agamemnon.] most mighty for thy place and sway, 60

[To Nestor.] And thou most reverend for thy stretch’d-out life,

I give to both your speeches, which were such

As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece

Should hold up high in brass; and such again 64

As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver,

Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree

On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears

To his experienc’d tongue, yet let it please hoth, 68

Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak.

Agam.

Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less expect

That matter needless, of importless burden,

Divide thy lips, than we are confident, 72

When rank Thersites opes his mastick jaws,

We shall hear music, wit, and oracle.

Ulyss.

Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down,

And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, 76

But for these instances.

The specialty of rule hath been neglected:

And look, how many Grecian tents do stand

Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. 80

When that the general is not like the hive

To whom the foragers shall all repair,

What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded,

The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. 84

The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre

Observe degree, priority, and place,

Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,

Office, and custom, in all line of order: 88

And therefore is the glorious planet Sol

In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d

Amidst the other; whose med’cinable eye

Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, 92

And posts, like the commandment of a king,

Sans check, to good and bad: but when the planets

In evil mixture to disorder wander,

What plagues, and what portents, what mutiny,

What raging of the sea, shaking of earth, 97

Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors,

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states 100

Quite from their fixure! O! when degree is shak’d,

Which is the ladder to all high designs,

The enterprise is sick. How could communities,

Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,

Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, 105

The primogenitive and due of birth,

Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,

But by degree, stand in authentic place? 108

Take but degree away, untune that string,

And, hark! what discord follows; each thing meets

In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters

Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,

And make a sop of all this solid globe: 113

Strength should be lord of imbecility,

And the rude son should strike his father dead:

Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong— 116

Between whose endless jar justice resides—

Should lose their names, and so should justice too.

Then every thing includes itself in power,

Power into will, will into appetite; 120

And appetite, a universal wolf,

So doubly seconded with will and power,

Must make perforce a universal prey,

And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,

This chaos, when degree is suffocate, 125

Follows the choking.

And this neglection of degree it is

That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose

It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d 129

By him one step below, he by the next,

That next by him beneath; so every step,

Exampled by the first pace that is sick 132

Of his superior, grows to an envious fever

Of pale and bloodless emulation:

And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,

Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length,

Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength.

Nest.

Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d

The fever whereof all our power is sick.

Agam.

The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, 140

What is the remedy?

Ulyss.

The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns

The sinew and the forehand of our host,

Having his ear full of his airy fame, 144

Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent

Lies mocking our designs. With him Patroclus

Upon a lazy bed the livelong day

Breaks scurril jests, 148

And with ridiculous and awkward action—

Which, slanderer, he imitation calls—

He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,

Thy topless deputation he puts on 152

And, like a strutting player, whose conceit

Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich

To hear the wooden dialogue and sound

’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage,— 156

Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming

He acts thy greatness in:—and when he speaks,

’Tis like a chime a mending; with terms unsquar’d,

Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, 160

Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff

The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling,

From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause;

Cries, ‘Excellent! ’tis Agamemnon just. 164

Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard,

As he being drest to some oration.’

That’s done;—as near as the extremest ends

Of parallels, like as Vulcan and his wife:— 168

Yet good Achilles still cries, ‘Excellent!

’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus,

Arming to answer in a night alarm.’

And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age 172

Must be the scene of mirth; to cough and spit,

And with a palsy-fumbling on his gorget,

Shake in and out the rivet: and at this sport

Sir Valour dies; cries, ‘O! enough, Patroclus;

Or give me ribs of steel; I shall split all 177

In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion,

All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,

Severals and generals of grace exact, 180

Achievements, plots, orders, preventions,

Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,

Success or loss, what is or is not, serves

As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. 184

Nest.

And in the imitation of these twain—

Whom, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns

With an imperial voice—many are infect.

Ajax is grown self-will’d, and bears his head 188

In such a rein, in full as proud a place

As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him;

Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war,

Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites— 192

A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint—

To match us in comparison with dirt;

To weaken and discredit our exposure,

How rank soever rounded in with danger. 196

Ulyss.

They tax our policy, and call it cowardice;

Count wisdom as no member of the war;

Forestall prescience, and esteem no act

But that of hand: the still and mental parts, 200

That do contrive how many hands shall strike,

When fitness calls them on, and know by measure

Of their observant toil the enemies’ weight,—

Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: 204

They call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war;

So that the ram that batters down the wall,

For the great swing and rudeness of his poise,

They place before his hand that made the engine,

Or those that with the fineness of their souls 209

By reason guides his execution.

Nest.

Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse

Makes many Thetis’ sons.

[A tucket.

Agam.

What trumpet? look, Menelaus. 213

Men.

From Troy.

Enter Æneas.

Agam.

What would you ’fore our tent?

Æne.

Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you? 216

Agam.

Even this.

Æne.

May one, that is a herald and a prince,

Do a fair message to his kingly ears?

Agam.

With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm 220

’Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice

Call Agamemnon head and general.

Æne.

Fair leave and large security. How may

A stranger to those most imperial looks 224

Know them from eyes of other mortals?

Agam.

How!

Æne.

Ay;

I ask, that I might waken reverence,

And bid the cheek be ready with a blush 228

Modest as morning when she coldly eyes

The youthful Phœbus:

Which is that god in office, guiding men?

Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon? 232

Agam.

This Trojan scorns us; or the men of Troy

Are ceremonious courtiers.

Æne.

Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d,

As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace:

But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, 237

Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord,

Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Æneas!

Peace, Trojan! lay thy finger on thy lips! 240

The worthiness of praise distains his worth,

If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth;

But what the repining enemy commends,

That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends. 244

Agam.

Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Æneas?

Æne.

Ay, Greek, that is my name.

Agam.

What’s your affair, I pray you?

Æne.

Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears.

Agam.

He hears nought privately that comes from Troy. 249

Æne.

Nor I from Troy come not to whisper him:

I bring a trumpet to awake his ear,

To set his sense on the attentive bent, 252

And then to speak.

Agam.

Speak frankly as the wind:

It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour;

That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake,

He tells thee so himself.

Æne.

Trumpet, blow aloud, 256

Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents;

And every Greek of mettle, let him know,

What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud.

[Trumpet sounds.

We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy. 260

A prince called Hector,—Priam is his father,—

Who in this dull and long-continu’d truce

Is rusty grown: he bade me take a trumpet,

And to this purpose speak: kings, princes, lords!

If there be one among the fair’st of Greece 265

That holds his honour higher than his ease,

That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril,

That knows his valour, and knows not his fear,

That loves his mistress more than in confession, 269

With truant vows to her own lips he loves,

And dare avow her beauty and her worth

In other arms than hers,—to him this challenge.

Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, 273

Shall make it good, or do his best to do it,

He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer,

Than ever Greek did compass in his arms; 276

And will to-morrow with his trumpet call,

Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy,

To rouse a Grecian that is true in love:

If any come, Hector shall honour him; 280

If none, he’ll say in Troy when he retires,

The Grecian dames are sunburnt, and not worth

The splinter of a lance. Even so much.

Agam.

This shall be told our lovers, Lord Æneas; 284

If none of them have soul in such a kind,

We left them all at home: but we are soldiers;

And may that soldier a mere recreant prove,

That means not, hath not, or is not in love! 288

If then one is, or hath, or means to be,

That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.

Nest.

Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man

When Hector’s grandsire suck’d: he is old now;

But if there be not in our Grecian host 293

One noble man that hath one spark of fire

To answer for his love, tell him from me,

I’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver, 296

And in my vantbrace put this wither’d brawn;

And, meeting him, will tell him that my lady

Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste

As may be in the world: his youth in flood, 300

I’ll prove this truth with my three drops of blood.

Æne.

Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth!

Ulyss.

Amen.

Agam.

Fair Lord Æneas, let me touch your hand; 304

To our pavilion shall I lead you first.

Achilles shall have word of this intent;

So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent:

Yourself shall feast with us before you go, 308

And find the welcome of a noble foe.

[Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor.

Ulyss.

Nestor!

Nest.

What says Ulysses?

Ulyss.

I have a young conception in my brain; 312

Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

Nest.

What is’t?

Ulyss.

This ’tis:

Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride

That hath to this maturity blown up 317

In rank Achilles, must or now be cropp’d,

Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil,

To overbulk us all.

Nest.

Well, and how? 320

Ulyss.

This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,

However it is spread in general name,

Relates in purpose only to Achilles.

Nest.

The purpose is perspicuous even as substance 324

Whose grossness little characters sum up:

And, in the publication, make no strain,

But that Achilles, were his brain as barren

As banks of Libya,—though, Apollo knows, 328

’Tis dry enough,—will with great speed of judgment,

Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose

Pointing on him.

Ulyss.

And wake him to the answer, think you? 332

Nest.

Yes, ’tis most meet: whom may you else oppose,

That can from Hector bring those honours off,

If not Achilles? Though’t be a sportful combat,

Yet in the trial much opinion dwells; 336

For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute

With their fin’st palate: and trust to me, Ulysses,

Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d

In this wild action; for the success, 340

Although particular, shall give a scantling

Of good or bad unto the general;

And in such indexes, although small pricks

To their subsequent volumes, there is seen 344

The baby figure of the giant mass

Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d

He that meets Hector issues from our choice;

And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, 348

Makes merit her election, and doth boil,

As ’twere from forth us all, a man distill’d

Out of our virtues; who miscarrying,

What heart receives from bence the conquering part, 352

To steel a strong opinion to themselves?

Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments,

In no less working than are swords and bows

Directive by the limbs. 356

Ulyss.

Give pardon to my speech:

Therefore ’tis meet Achilles meet not Hector.

Let us like merchants show our foulest wares,

And think perchance they’ll sell; if not, 360

The lustre of the better yet to show

Shall show the better. Do not consent

That ever Hector and Achilles meet;

For both our honour and our shame in this 364

Are dogg’d with two strange followers.

Nest.

I see them not with my old eyes: what are they?

Ulyss.

What glory our Achilles shares from Hector,

Were he not proud, we all should share with him: 368

But he already is too insolent;

And we were better parch in Afric sun

Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes,

Should he ’scape Hector fair: if he were foil’d, 372

Why then we did our main opinion crush

In taint of our best man. No; make a lottery;

And by device let blockish Ajax draw

The sort to fight with Hector: among ourselves

Give him allowance as the worthier man, 377

For that will physic the great Myrmidon

Who broils in loud applause; and make him fall

His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends. 380

If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off,

We’ll dress him up in voices: if he fail,

Yet go we under our opinion still

That we have better men. But, hit or miss, 384

Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes:

Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes.

Nest.

Ulysses,

Now I begin to relish thy advice; 388

And I will give a taste of it forthwith

To Agamemnon: go we to him straight.

Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone

Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’twere their bone.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Part of the Grecian Camp.

Enter Ajax and Thersites.

Ajax.

Thersites!

Ther.

Agamemnon, how if he had boils? full, all over, generally?

Ajax.

Thersites! 4

Ther.

And those boils did run? Say so, did not the general run then? were not that a botchy core?

Ajax.

Dog! 8

Ther.

Then would come some matter from him: I see none now.

Ajax.

Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear?

Feel, then.

[Strikes him.

Ther.

The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!

Ajax.

Speak then, thou vinewedst leaven, speak: I will beat thee into handsomeness. 16

Ther.

I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness: but I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? a red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks! 21

Ajax.

Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.

Ther.

Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus? 24

Ajax.

The proclamation!

Ther.

Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.

Ajax.

Do not, porpentine, do not: my fingers itch. 28

Ther.

I would thou didst itch from head to foot, and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab of Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. 33

Ajax.

I say, the proclamation!

Ther.

Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles, and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty, ay that thou barkest at him.

Ajax.

Mistress Thersites!

Ther.

Thou shouldst strike him. 40

Ajax.

Cobloaf!

Ther.

He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit.

Ajax.

You whoreson cur.

[Beating him.

Ther.

Do, do. 45

Ajax.

Thou stool for a witch!

Ther.

Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an assinego may tutor thee: thou scurvy-valiant ass! thou art here but to thrash Trojans; and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit, like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!

Ajax.

You dog!

Ther.

You scurvy lord! 56

Ajax.

You cur!

[Beating him.

Ther.

Mars his idiot! do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

Achil.

Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you this? 60

How now, Thersites! what’s the matter, man?

Ther.

You see him there, do you?

Achil.

Ay; what’s the matter?

Ther.

Nay, look upon him. 64

Achil.

So I do: what’s the matter?

Ther.

Nay, but regard him well.

Achil.

‘Well!’ why, so I do.

Ther.

But yet you look not well upon him; for, whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax. 69

Achil.

I know that, fool.

Ther.

Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

Ajax.

Therefore I beat thee. 72

Ther.

Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! his evasions have ears thus long. I have bobbed his brain more than he has beat my bones: I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles, Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly, and his guts in his head, I’ll tell you what I say of him. 80

Achil.

What?

Ther.

I say, this Ajax,—

[Ajax offers to strike him.

Achil.

Nay, good Ajax.

Ther.

Has not so much wit— 84

Achil.

Nay, I must hold you.

Ther.

As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight.

Achil.

Peace, fool! 88

Ther.

I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not: he there; that he; look you there.

Ajax.

O thou damned cur! I shall— 92

Achil.

Will you set your wit to a fool’s?

Ther.

No, I warrant you; for a fool’s will shame it.

Patr.

Good words, Thersites. 96

Achil.

What’s the quarrel?

Ajax.

I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. 100

Ther.

I serve thee not.

Ajax.

Well, go to, go to.

Ther.

I serve here voluntary.

Achil.

Your last service was sufferance, ’twas not voluntary; no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. 107

Ther.

Even so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch if he knock out either of your brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel. 112

Achil.

What, with me too, Thersites?

Ther.

There’s Ulysses and old Nestor, whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes, yoke you like draught-oxen, and make you plough up the wars. 117

Achil.

What, what?

Ther.

Yes, good sooth: to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to! 120

Ajax.

I shall cut out your tongue.

Ther.

’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

Patr.

No more words, Thersites; peace! 124

Ther.

I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I?

Achil.

There’s for you, Patroclus.

Ther.

I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I come any more to your tents: I will keep where there is wit stirring and leave the faction of fools.

[Exit.

Patr.

A good riddance. 132

Achil.

Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host:

That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,

Will, with a trumpet, ’twixt our tents and Troy

To morrow morning call some knight to arms

That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare 137

Maintain—I know not what: ’tis trash. Farewell.

Ajax.

Farewell. Who shall answer him?

Achil.

I know not: it is put to lottery; otherwise, 140

He knew his man.

Ajax.

O, meaning you. I will go learn more of it.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Troy. A Room in Priam’s Palace.

Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris, and Helenus.

Pri.

After so many hours, lives, speeches spent,

Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks:

‘Deliver Helen, and all damage else,

As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, 4

Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum’d

In hot digestion of this cormorant war,

Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t?

Hect.

Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, 8

As far as toucheth my particular,

Yet, dread Priam,

There is no lady of more softer bowels,

More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, 12

More ready to cry out ‘Who knows what follows?’

Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety,

Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d

The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches 16

To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go:

Since the first sword was drawn about this question,

Every tithe soul, ’mongst many thousand dismes,

Hath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours:

If we have lost so many tenths of ours, 21

To guard a thing not ours nor worth to us,

Had it our name, the value of one ten,

What merit’s in that reason which denies 24

The yielding of her up?

Tro.

Fie, fie! my brother,

Weigh you the worth and honour of a king

So great as our dread father in a scale

Of common ounces? will you with counters sum

The past proportion of his infinite? 29

And buckle in a waist most fathomless

With spans and inches so diminutive

As fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame! 32

Hel.

No marvel, though you bite so sharp at reasons,

You are so empty of them. Should not our father

Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons,

Because your speech hath none that tells him so? 36

Tro.

You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest;

You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons:

You know an enemy intends you harm;

You know a sword employ’d is perilous, 40

And reason flies the object of all harm:

Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds

A Grecian and his sword, if he do set

The very wings of reason to his heels, 44

And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,

Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason,

Let’s shut our gates and sleep: manhood and honour

Should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their thoughts 48

With this cramm’d reason: reason and respect

Make livers pale, and lustihood deject.

Hect.

Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost

The holding.

Tro.

What is aught but as ’tis valu’d?

Hect.

But value dwells not in particular will;

It holds his estimate and dignity

As well wherein ’tis precious of itself

As in the prizer. ’Tis mad idolatry 56

To make the service greater than the god;

And the will dotes that is inclinable

To what infectiously itself affects,

Without some image of the affected merit. 60

Tro.

I take to-day a wife, and my election

Is led on in the conduct of my will;

My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,

Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores 64

Of will and judgment. How may I avoid,

Although my will distaste what it elected,

The wife I chose? there can be no evasion

To blench from this and to stand firm by honour. 68

We turn not back the silks upon the merchant

When we have soil’d them, nor the remainder viands

We do not throw in unrespective sink

Because we now are full. It was thought meet

Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks:

Your breath of full consent bellied his sails;

The seas and winds—old wranglers—took a truce

And did him service: he touch’d the ports desir’d, 76

And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive

He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness

Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning.

Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt:

Is she worth keeping? why, she is a pearl, 81

Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships,

And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants.

If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went,— 84

As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go,’—

If you’ll confess he brought home noble prize,—

As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands,

And cry’d ‘Inestimable!’—why do you now 88

The issue of your proper wisdoms rate,

And do a deed that Fortune never did,

Beggar the estimation which you priz’d

Richer than sea and land? O! theft most base,

That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! 93

But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n,

That in their country did them that disgrace

We fear to warrant in our native place. 96

Cas.

[Within.] Cry, Trojans, cry!

Pri.

What noise? what shriek?

Tro.

’Tis our mad sister, I do know her voice

Cas.

[Within.] Cry, Trojans!

Hect.

It is Cassandra. 100

Enter Cassandra, raving.

Cas.

Cry, Trojans, cry! lend me ten thousand eyes,

And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

Hect.

Peace, sister, peace!

Cas.

Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, 104

Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry,

Add to my clamours! let us pay betimes

A moiety of that mass of moan to come.

Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears!

Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; 109

Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.

Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen and a woe!

Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go.

[Exit.

Hect.

Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains 113

Of divination in our sister work

Some touches of remorse? or is your blood

So madly hot that no discourse of reason, 116

Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,

Can qualify the same?

Tro.

Why, brother Hector,

We may not think the justness of each act

Such and no other than event doth form it, 120

Nor once deject the courage of our minds,

Because Cassandra’s mad: her brain-sick raptures

Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel

Which hath our several honours all engag’d 124

To make it gracious. For my private part,

I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons;

And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us

Such things as might offend the weakest spleen

To fight for and maintain. 129

Par.

Else might the world convince of levity

As well my undertakings as your counsels;

But I attest the gods, your full consent 132

Gave wings to my propension and cut off

All fears attending on so dire a project:

For what, alas! can these my single arms?

What propugnation is in one man’s valour, 136

To stand the push and enmity of those

This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,

Were I alone to pass the difficulties,

And had as ample power as I have will, 140

Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done,

Nor faint in the pursuit.

Prt.

Paris, you speak

Like one besotted on your sweet delights:

You have the honey still, but these the gall; 144

So to be valiant is no praise at all.

Par.

Sir, I propose not merely to myself

The pleasure such a beauty brings with it;

But I would have the soil of her fair rape 148

Wip’d off, in honourable keeping her.

What treason were it to the ransack’d queen,

Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me,

Now to deliver her possession up, 152

On terms of base compulsion! Can it be

That so degenerate a strain as this

Should once set footing in your generous bosoms?

There’s not the meanest spirit on our party 156

Without a heart to dare or sword to draw

When Helen is defended, nor none so noble

Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d

Where Helen is the subject: then, I say, 160

Well may we fight for her, whom, we know well,

The world’s large spaces cannot parallel.

Hect.

Paris and Troilus, you have both said well;

And on the cause and question now in hand 164

Have gloz’d, but superficially; not much

Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought

Unfit to hear moral philosophy.

The reasons you allege do more conduce 168

To the hot passion of distemper’d blood

Than to make up a free determination

’Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge

Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice

Of any true decision. Nature craves 173

All dues be render’d to their owners: now,

What nearer debt in all humanity

Than wife is to the husband? if this law 176

Of nature be corrupted through affection,

And that great minds, of partial indulgence

To their benumbed wills, resist the saine;

There is a law in each well-order’d nation 180

To curb those raging appetites that are

Most disobedient and refractory.

If Helen then be wife to Sparta’s king,

As it is known she is, these moral laws 184

Of nature, and of nations, speak aloud

To have her back return’d: thus to persist

In doing wrong extenuates not wrong,

But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion 188

Is this, in way of truth; yet, ne’ertheless,

My spritely brethren, I propend to you

In resolution to keep Helen still;

For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependance

Upon our joint and several dignities. 193

Tro.

Why, there you touch’d the life of our design:

Were it not glory that we more affected

Than the performance of our heaving spleens,

I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood 197

Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,

She is a theme of honour and renown,

A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, 200

Whose present courage may beat down our foes,

And fame in time to come canonize us;

For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose

So rich advantage of a promis’d glory 204

As smiles upon the forehead of this action

For the wide world’s revenue.

Hect.

I am yours,

You valiant offspring of great Priamus.

I have a roisting challenge sent amongst 208

The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks

Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits.

I was advertis’d their great general slept

Whilst emulation in the army crept: 212

This, I presume, will wake him.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Grecian Camp. Before Achilles’ Tent.

Enter Thersites.

Ther.

How now, Thersites! what, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury! Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? he beats me, and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise; that I could beat him, whilst he railed at me. ’Sfoot, I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there’s Achilles, a rare enginer. If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O! thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little less than little wit from them that they have; which short-armed ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider, without drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse dependant on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers, and devil Envy say Amen. What, ho! my Lord Achilles! 24

Enter Patroclus.

Patr.

Who’s there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail.

Ther.

If I could have remembered a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipped out of my contemplation: but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death! then, if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corpse, I’ll be sworn and sworn upon’t she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where’s Achilles? 37

Patr.

What! art thou devout? wast thou in prayer?

Ther.

Ay; the heavens hear me! 40

Enter Achilles.

Achil.

Who’s there?

Patr.

Thersites, my lord.

Achil.

Where, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what’s Agamemnon?

Ther.

Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles? 48

Patr.

Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what’s thyself?

Ther.

Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou? 52

Patr.

Thou mayst tell that knowest.

Achil.

O! tell, tell.

Ther.

I’ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus’ knower; and Patroclus is a fool.

Patr.

You rascal!

Ther.

Peace, fool! I have not done. 60

Achil.

He is a privileged man. Proceed, Thersites.

Ther.

Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool. 65

Achil.

Derive this; come.

Ther.

Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool; and Patroclus is a fool positive.

Patr.

Why am I a fool? 72

Ther.

Make that demand to the Creator. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here?

Achil.

Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites.

[Exit.

Ther.

Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery! all the argument is a cuckold and a whore; a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on the subject! and war and lechery confound all!

[Exit.

Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Diomedes, and Ajax.

Agam.

Where is Achilles? 84

Patr.

Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord.

Agam.

Let it be known to him that we are here.

He shent our messengers; and we lay by

Our appertainments, visiting of him: 88

Let him be told so; lest perchance he think

We dare not move the question of our place,

Or know not what we are.

Patr.

I shall say so to him.

[Exit.

Ulyss.

We saw him at the opening of his tent: 92

He is not sick.

Ajax.

Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart: you may call it melancholy if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis pride: but why, why? let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.

[Takes Agamemnon aside.

Nest.

What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?

Ulyss.

Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him. 101

Nest.

Who, Thersites?

Ulyss.

He.

Nest.

Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument. 105

Ulyss.

No; you see, he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles.

Nest.

All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction: but it was a strong composure a fool could disunite.

Ulyss.

The amity that wisdom knits not folly may easily untie. Here comes Patroclus. 112

Re-enter Patroclus.

Nest.

No Achilles with him.

Ulyss.

The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy: his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. 116

Patr.

Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry

If any thing more than your sport and pleasure

Did move your greatness and this noble state

To call upon him; he hopes it is no other 120

But, for your health and your digestion sake,

An after-dinner’s breath.

Agam.

Hear you, Patroclus:

We are too well acquainted with these answers:

But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn,

Cannot outfly our apprehensions. 125

Much attribute he hath, and much the reason

Why we ascribe it to him; yet all his virtues,

Not virtuously on his own part beheld, 128

Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss,

Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,

Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him,

We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin 132

If you do say we think him over-proud

And under-honest, in self-assumption greater

Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than himself 135

Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on,

Disguise the holy strength of their command,

And underwrite in an observing kind

His humorous predominance; yea, watch

His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if 140

The passage and whole carriage of this action

Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add,

That if he overhold his price so much,

We’ll none of him; but let him, like an engine

Not portable, lie under this report: 145

‘Bring action hither, this cannot go to war:’

A stirring dwarf we do allowance give

Before a sleeping giant: tell him so. 148

Patr.

I shall; and bring his answer presently.

[Exit.

Agam.

In second voice we’ll not be satisfied;

We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.

[Exit Ulysses.

Ajax.

What is he more than another? 152

Agam.

No more than what he thinks he is.

Ajax.

Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am?

Agam.

No question. 156

Ajax.

Will you subscribe his thought, and say he is?

Agam.

No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable. 161

Ajax.

Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is.

Agam.

Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise. 169

Ajax.

I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads.

Nest.

[Aside.] Yet he loves himself: is’t not strange? 173

Re-enter Ulysses.

Ulyss.

Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.

Agam.

What’s his excuse?

Ulyss.

He doth rely on none,

But carries on the stream of his dispose 176

Without observance or respect of any,

In will peculiar and in self-admission.

Agam.

Why will he not upon our fair request

Untent his person and share the air with us?

Ulyss.

Things small as nothing, for request’s sake only, 181

He makes important: possess’d he is with greatness,

And speaks not to himself but with a pride

That quarrels at self-breath: imagin’d worth

Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse, 185

That ’twixt his mental and his active parts

Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages

And batters down himself: what should I say?

He is so plaguy proud, that the death-tokens of it 189

Cry ‘No recovery.’

Agam.

Let Ajax go to him.

Dear lord, go you and meet him in his tent:

’Tis said he holds you well, and will be led 192

At your request a little from himself.

Ulyss.

O Agamemnon! let it not be so.

We’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes

When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord 196

That bastes his arrogance with his own seam,

And never suffers matter of the world

Enter his thoughts, save such as do revolve

And ruminate himself, shall he be worshipp’d

Of that we hold an idol more than he? 201

No, this thrice-worthy and right valiant lord

Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d;

Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, 204

As amply titled as Achilles is,

By going to Achilles:

That were to enlard his fat-already pride,

And add more coals to Cancer when he burns

With entertaining great Hyperion. 209

This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,

And say in thunder, ‘Achilles go to him.’

Nest.

[Aside.] O! this is well; he rubs the vein of him. 213

Dio.

[Aside.] And how his silence drinks up this applause!

Ajax.

If I go to him, with my armed fist 216

I’ll pash him o’er the face.

Agam.

O, no! you shall not go.

Ajax.

An a’ be proud with me, I’ll pheeze his pride.

Let me go to him. 220

Ulyss.

Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.

Ajax.

A paltry, insolent fellow!

Nest.

[Aside.] How he describes himself!

Ajax.

Can he not be sociable? 224

Ulyss.

[Aside.] The raven chides blackness.

Ajax.

I’ll let his humours blood.

Agam.

[Aside.] He will be the physician that should be the patient. 228

Ajax.

An all men were o’ my mind,—

Ulyss.

[Aside.] Wit would be out of fashion.

Ajax.

A’ should not bear it so, a’ should eat swords first: shall pride carry it? 232

Nest.

[Aside.] An’t would, you’d carry half.

Ulyss.

[Aside.] A’ would have ten shares.

Ajax.

I will knead him; I will make him supple.

Nest.

[Aside.] He’s not yet through warm: force him with praises: pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. 238

Ulyss.

[To Agamemnon.] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.

Nest.

Our noble general, do not do so. 240

Dio.

You must prepare to fight without Achilles.

Ulyss.

Why, ’tis this naming of him does him harm.

Here is a man—but ’tis before his face;

I will be silent.

Nest.

Wherefore should you so? 244

He is not emulous, as Achilles is.

Ulyss.

Know the whole world, he is as valiant.

Ajax.

A whoreson dog, that shall palter thus with us! Would he were a Trojan! 248

Nest.

What a vice were it in Ajax now,—

Ulyss.

If he were proud,—

Dio.

Or covetous of praise,—

Ulyss.

Ay, or surly borne,— 252

Dio.

Or strange, or self-affected!

Ulyss.

Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure;

Praise him that got thee, her that gave thee suck:

Fam’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature 256

Thrice-fam’d, beyond all erudition:

But he that disciplin’d thy arms to fight,

Let Mars divide eternity in twain,

And give him half: and, for thy vigour, 260

Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield

To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,

Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines

Thy spacious and dilated parts: here’s Nestor

Instructed by the antiquary times, 265

He must, he is, he cannot but be wise;

But pardon, father Nestor, were your days

As green as Ajax, and your brain so temper’d,

You should not have the eminence of him, 269

But be as Ajax.

Ajax.

Shall I call you father?

Ulyss.

Ay, my good son.

Dio.

Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax.

Ulyss.

There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles 272

Keeps thicket. Please it our great general

To call together all his state of war;

Fresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow,

We must with all our main of power stand fast:

And here’s a lord,—come knights from east to west, 277

And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.

Agam.

Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep:

Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Troy. Priam’s Palace.

Enter Pandarus and a Servant.

Pan.

Friend! you! pray you, a word: do not you follow the young Lord Paris?

Serv.

Ay, sir, when he goes before me.

Pan.

You depend upon him, I mean? 4

Serv.

Sir, I do depend upon the Lord.

Pan.

You depend upon a noble gentleman;

I must needs praise him.

Serv.

The Lord be praised! 8

Pan.

You know me, do you not?

Serv.

Faith, sir, superficially.

Pan.

Friend, know me better. I am the

Lord Pandarus. 12

Serv.

I hope I shall know your honour better.

Pan.

I do desire it.

Serv.

You are in the state of grace. 16

Pan.

Grace! not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. [Music within.] What music is this?

Serv.

I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts. 21

Pan.

Know you the musicians?

Serv.

Wholly, sir.

Pan.

Who play they to? 24

Serv.

To the hearers, sir.

Pan.

At whose pleasure, friend?

Serv.

At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.

Pan.

Command, I mean, friend. 28

Serv.

Who shall I command, sir?

Pan.

Friend, we understand not one another:

I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play? 32

Serv.

That’s to’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heartblood of beauty, love’s invisible soul. 36

Pan.

Who, my cousin Cressida?

Serv.

No, sir, Helen: could you not find out that by her attributes?

Pan.

It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus: I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes. 44

Serv.

Sodden business: there’s a stewed phrase, indeed.

Enter Paris and Helen, attended.

Pan.

Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! fair desires, in all fair measures, fairly guide them! especially to you, fair queen! fair thoughts be your fair pillow! 50

Helen.

Dear lord, you are full of fair words.

Pan.

You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music.

Par.

You have broke it, cousin; and, by my life, you shall make it whole again: you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. Nell, he is full of harmony. 57

Pan.

Truly, lady, no.

Helen.

O, sir!

Pan.

Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. 61

Par.

Well said, my lord! Well, you say so in fits.

Pan.

I have business to my lord, dear queen.

My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word? 65

Helen.

Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we’ll hear you sing, certainly.

Pan.

Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord. My dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus—

Helen.

My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,— 73

Pan.

Go to, sweet queen, go to: commends himself most affectionately to you.

Helen.

You shall not bob us out of our melody: if you do, our melancholy upon your head!

Pan.

Sweet queen, sweet queen! that’s a sweet queen, i’ faith. 80

Helen.

And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.

Pan.

Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la! Nay, I care not for such words: no, no. And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king call for him at supper, you will make his excuse.

Helen.

My Lord Pandarus,— 88

Pan.

What says my sweet queen, my very sweet queen?

Par.

What exploit’s in hand? where sups he to-night? 92

Helen.

Nay, but my lord,—

Pan.

What says my sweet queen! My cousin will fall out with you. You must know where he sups. 96

Par.

I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.

Pan.

No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick. 100

Par.

Well, I’ll make excuse.

Pan.

Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? no, your poor disposer’s sick.

Par.

I spy. 104

Pan.

You spy! what do you spy? Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen.

Helen.

Why, this is kindly done.

Pan.

My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen. 109

Helen.

She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.

Pan.

He! no, she’ll none of him; they two are twain. 113

Helen.

Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.

Pan.

Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this.

I’ll sing you a song now. 117

Helen.

Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.

Pan.

Ay, you may, you may. 120

Helen.

Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

Pan.

Love! ay, that it shall, i’ faith.

Par.

Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love. 125

Pan.

In good troth, it begins so:

[Sings.]

Love, love, nothing but love, still more!

For, oh! love’s bow  128

Shoots buck and doe:

The shaft confounds,

Not that it wounds,

But tickles still the sore.  132

These lovers cry O! O! they die!

Yet that which seems the wound to kill,

Doth turn O! O! to ha! ha! he!

So dying love lives still:  136

O! O! a while, but ha! ha! ha!

O! O! groans out for ha! ha! ha!

Heigh-ho!

Helen.

In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose. 141

Par.

He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love. 145

Pan.

Is this the generation of love? hot blood? hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers: is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field to-day? 149

Par.

Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy: I would fain have armed to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not? 153

Helen.

He hangs the lip at something: you know all, Lord Pandarus.

Pan.

Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they sped to-day. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse?

Par.

To a hair.

Pan.

Farewell, sweet queen. 160

Helen.

Commend me to your niece.

Pan.

I will, sweet queen.

[Exit. A retreat sounded.

Par.

They’re come from field: let us to Priam’s hall

To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you 164

To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles,

With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d,

Shall more obey than to the edge of steel

Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more 168

Than all the island kings,—disarm great Hector.

Helen.

’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris;

Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty

Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, 172

Yea, overshines ourself.

Par.

Sweet, above thought I love thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Pandarus’ Orchard.

Enter Pandarus and Troilus’ Boy, meeting.

Pan.

How now! where’s thy master? at my cousin Cressida’s?

Boy.

No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither. 4

Enter Troilus.

Pan.

O! here he comes. How now, how now!

Tro.

Sirrah, walk off.

[Exit Boy.

Pan.

Have you seen my cousin?

Tro.

No, Pandarus: I stalk about her door,

Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks 9

Staying for waftage. O! be thou my Charon,

And give me swift transportance to those fields

Where I may wallow in the lily-beds 12

Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandarus!

From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings,

And fly with me to Cressid.

Pan.

Walk here i’ the orchard. I’ll bring her straight.

[Exit.

Tro.

I am giddy, expectation whirls me round.

The imaginary relish is so sweet

That it enchants my sense. What will it be

When that the watery palate tastes indeed 20

Love’s thrice-repured nectar? death, I fear me,

Swounding destruction, or some joy too fine,

Too subtle-potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness

For the capacity of my ruder powers: 24

I fear it much; and I do fear besides

That I shall lose distinction in my joys;

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps

The enemy flying. 28

Re-enter Pandarus.

Pan.

She’s making her ready: she’ll come straight: you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were frayed with a sprite: I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain: she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en sparrow.

[Exit.

Tro.

Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom;

My heart beats thicker than a fev’rous pulse; 36

And all my powers do their bestowing lose,

Like vassalage at unawares encountering

The eye of majesty.

Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida.

Pan.

Come, come, what need you blush? shame’s a baby. Here she is now: swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me. What! are you gone again? you must be watched ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward, we’ll put you i’ the fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain, and let’s see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend day-light! an ’twere dark, you’d close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now! a kiss in fee-farm! build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ the river: go to, go to.

Tro.

You have bereft me of all words, lady.

Pan.

Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she’ll bereave you of the deeds too if she call your activity in question. What! billing again? Here’s ‘In witness whereof the parties interchangeably’—Come in, come in: I’ll go get a fire.

[Exit.

Cres.

Will you walk in, my lord?

Tro.

O Cressida! how often have I wished me thus! 64

Cres.

Wished, my lord! The gods grant,—O my lord!

Tro.

What should they grant? what makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love?

Cres.

More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.

Tro.

Fears make devils of cherubins; they never see truly. 73

Cres.

Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear: to fear the worst oft cures the worse. 77

Tro.

O! let my lady apprehend no fear: in all Cupid’s pageant there is presented no monster.

Cres.

Nor nothing monstrous neither? 80

Tro.

Nothing but our undertakings; when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite, and the execution confined; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit. 88

Cres.

They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters? 95

Tro.

Are there such? such are not we. Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare, till merit crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present: we will not name desert before his birth, and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be such to Cressid, as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. 105

Cres.

Will you walk in, my lord?

Re-enter Pandarus.

Pan.

What! blushing still? have you not done talking yet? 108

Cres.

Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.

Pan.

I thank you for that: if my lord get a boy of you, you’ll give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it. 113

Tro.

You know now your hostages; your uncle’s word, and my firm faith.

Pan.

Nay, I’ll give my word for her too. Our kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won: they are burrs, I can tell you; they’ll stick where they are thrown. 120

Cres.

Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart:

Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day

For many weary months.

Tro.

Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? 124

Cres.

Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord,

With the first glance that ever—pardon me—

If I confess much you will play the tyrant.

I love you now; but, till now, not so much 128

But I might master it: in faith, I lie;

My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown

Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!

Why have I blabb’d? who shall be true to us 132

When we are so unsecret to ourselves?

But, though I lov’d you well, I woo’d you not;

And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man,

Or that we women had men’s privilege 136

Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue;

For in this rapture I shall surely speak

The thing I shall repent. See, see! your silence,

Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws

My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth. 141

Tro.

And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.

Pan.

Pretty, i’ faith.

Cres.

My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;

’Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss: 145

I am asham’d: O heavens! what have I done?

For this time will I take my leave, my lord.

Tro.

Your leave, sweet Cressid? 148

Pan.

Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow morning,—

Cres.

Pray you, content you.

Tro.

What offends you, lady?

Cres.

Sir, mine own company. 152

Tro.

You cannot shun yourself.

Cres.

Let me go and try:

I have a kind of self resides with you;

But an unkind self, that itself will leave, 156

To be another’s fool. I would be gone:

Where is my wit? I speak I know not what.

Tro.

Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.

Cres.

Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love; 160

And fell so roundly to a large confession,

To angle for your thoughts: but you are wise,

Or else you love not, for to be wise, and love,

Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above. 164

Tro.

O! that I thought it could be in a woman—

As if it can I will presume in you—

To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love;

To keep her constancy in plight and youth, 168

Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind

That doth renew swifter than blood decays:

Or that persuasion could but thus convince me,

That my integrity and truth to you 172

Might be affronted with the match and weight

Of such a winnow’d purity in love;

How were I then uplifted! but, alas!

I am as true as truth’s simplicity, 176

And simpler than the infancy of truth.

Cres.

In that I’ll war with you.

Tro.

O virtuous fight!

When right with right wars who shall be most right.

True swains in love shall in the world to come

Approve their truths by Troilus: when their rimes, 181

Full of protest, of oath, and big compare,

Want similes, truth tir’d with iteration,

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, 184

As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,

As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre,

Yet, after all comparisons of truth,

As truth’s authentic author to be cited, 188

‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse

And sanctify the numbers.

Cres.

Prophet may you be!

If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,

When time is old and hath forgot itself, 192

When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,

And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up,

And mighty states characterless are grated

To dusty nothing, yet let memory, 196

From false to false, among false maids in love

Upbraid my falsehood! when they have said ‘as false

As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,

As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer’s calf, 200

Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son;’

Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,

‘As false as Cressid.’

Pan.

Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it: I’ll be the witness. Here I hold your hand, here my cousin’s. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be called to the world’s end after my name; call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers-between Pandars! say, Amen. 212

Tro.

Amen.

Cres.

Amen.

Pan.

Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death: away!

And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here

Bed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear! 220

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Grecian Camp.

Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, Ajax, Menelaus, and Calchas.

Cal.

Now, princes, for the service I have done you,

The advantage of the time prompts me aloud

To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind

That through the sight I bear in things to come,

I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, 5

Incurr’d a traitor’s name; expos’d myself,

From certain and possess’d conveniences,

To doubtful fortunes; sequestering from me all

That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition

Made tame and most familiar to my nature;

And here, to do you service, have become

As new into the world, strange, unacquainted:

I do beseech you, as in way of taste, 13

To give me now a little benefit,

Out of those many register’d in promise,

Which, you say, live to come in my behalf. 16

Agam.

What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make demand.

Cal.

You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor,

Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.

Oft have you—often have you thanks therefore— 20

Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange,

Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor

I know is such a wrest in their affairs

That their negociations all must slack, 24

Wanting his manage; and they will almost

Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam,

In change of him: let him be sent, great princes,

And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence 28

Shall quite strike off all service I have done,

In most accepted pain.

Agam.

Let Diomedes bear him,

And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have

What he requests of us. Good Diomed, 32

Furnish you fairly for this interchange:

Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow

Be answer’d in his challenge: Ajax is ready.

Dio.

This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden 36

Which I am proud to bear.

[Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus, before their tent.

Ulyss.

Achilles stands in the entrance of his tent:

Please it our general to pass strangely by him,

As if he were forgot; and, princes all, 40

Lay negligent and loose regard upon him:

I will come last. ’Tis like he’ll question me

Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him:

If so, I have derision med’cinable 44

To use between your strangeness and his pride,

Which his own will shall have desire to drink.

It may do good: pride hath no other glass

To show itself but pride, for supple knees 48

Feed arrogance and are the poor man’s fees.

Agam.

We’ll execute your purpose, and put on

A form of strangeness as we pass along:

So do each lord, and either greet him not, 52

Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more

Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way.

Achil.

What! comes the general to speak with me?

You know my mind; I’ll fight no more ’gainst Troy. 56

Agam.

What says Achilles? would he aught with us?

Nest.

Would you, my lord, aught with the general?

Achil.

No.

Nest.

Nothing, my lord. 60

Agam.

The better.

[Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor.

Achil.

Good day, good day.

Men.

How do you? how do you?

[Exit.

Achil.

What! does the cuckold scorn me? 64

Ajax.

How now, Patroclus?

Achil.

Good morrow, Ajax.

Ajax.

Ha?

Achil.

Good morrow. 68

Ajax.

Ay, and good next day too.

[Exit.

Achil.

What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?

Patr.

They pass by strangely: they were us’d to bend,

To send their smiles before them to Achilles; 72

To come as humbly as they us’d to creep

To holy altars.

Achil.

What! am I poor of late?

’Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune,

Must fall out with men too: what the declin’d is

He shall as soon read in the eyes of others 77

As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies,

Show not their mealy wings but to the summer,

And not a man, for being simply man, 80

Hath any honour, but honour for those honours

That are without him, as places, riches, and favour,

Prizes of accident as oft as merit:

Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, 84

The love that lean’d on them as slippery too,

Do one pluck down another, and together

Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me:

Fortune and I are friends: I do enjoy 88

At ample point all that I did possess,

Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out

Something not worth in me such rich beholding

As they have often given. Here is Ulysses: 92

I’ll interrupt his reading.

How now, Ulysses!

Ulyss.

Now, great Thetis’ son!

Achil.

What are you reading?

Ulyss.

A strange fellow here

Writes me,

That man, how dearly ever parted,

How much in having, or without or in, 97

Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,

Nor feels not what he owes but by reflection;

As when his virtues shining upon others 100

Heat them, and they retort that heat again

To the first giver.

Achil.

This is not strange, Ulysses!

The beauty that is borne here in the face

The bearer knows not, but commends itself 104

To others’ eyes: nor doth the eye itself—

That most pure spirit of sense—behold itself,

Not going from itself; but eye to eye oppos’d

Salutes each other with each other’s form; 108

For speculation turns not to itself

Till it hath travell’d and is mirror’d there

Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.

Ulyss.

I do not strain at the position, 112

It is familiar, but at the author s drift;

Who in his circumstance expressly proves

That no man is the lord of any thing—

Though in and of him there be much consisting— 116

Till he communicate his parts to others:

Nor doth he of himself know them for aught

Till he behold them form’d in the applause

Where they’re extended; who, like an arch, reverberates 120

The voice again, or, like a gate of steel

Fronting the sun, receives and renders back

His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;

And apprehended here immediately 124

The unknown Ajax.

Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse,

That has he knows not what. Nature, what things there are,

Most abject in regard, and dear in use! 128

What things again most dear in the esteem

And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow,

An act that very chance doth throw upon him,

Ajax renown’d. O heavens! what some men do; 132

While some men leave to do.

How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall,

Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes!

How one man eats into another’s pride, 136

While pride is fasting in his wantonness!

To see these Grecian lords! why, even already

They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,

As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast, 140

And great Troy shrinking.

Achil.

I do believe it; for they pass’d by me

As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me

Good word or look: what! are my deeds forgot?

Ulyss.

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, 145

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,

A great-siz’d monster of ingratitudes:

Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d 148

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon

As done: perseverance, dear my lord,

Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail 152

In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;

For honour travels in a strait so narrow

Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path;

For emulation hath a thousand sons 156

That one by one pursue: if you give way,

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,

Like to an enter’d tide they all rush by

And leave you hindmost; 160

Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank,

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O’errun and trampled on: then what they do in present,

Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; 164

For time is like a fashionable host,

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,

And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,

Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, 168

And farewell goes out sighing. O! let not virtue seek

Remuneration for the thing it was;

For beauty, wit,

High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, 172

Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all

To envious and calumniating time.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,

That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, 176

Though they are made and moulded of things past,

And give to dust that is a little gilt

More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.

The present eye praises the present object: 180

Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,

That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax;

Since things in motion sooner catch the eye

Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, 184

And still it might, and yet it may again,

If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive,

And case thy reputation in thy tent;

Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late,

Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves, 189

And drave great Mars to faction.

Achil.

Of this my privacy

I have strong reasons.

Ulyss.

But ’gainst your privacy

The reasons are more potent and heroical. 192

’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love

With one of Priam’s daughters.

Achil.

Ha! known!

Ulyss.

Is that a wonder? 196

The providence that’s in a watchful state

Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold,

Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps,

Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods, 200

Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.

There is a mystery—with whom relation

Durst never meddle—in the soul of state,

Which hath an operation more divine 204

Than breath or pen can give expressure to.

All the commerce that you have had with Troy

As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord;

And better would it fit Achilles much 208

To throw down Hector than Polyxena;

But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home,

When fame shall in our islands sound her trump,

And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing,

‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win, 213

But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’

Farewell, my lord: I as your lover speak;

The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break.

[Exit.

Patr.

To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d you. 217

A woman impudent and mannish grown

Is not more loath’d than an effeminate man

In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this:

They think my little stomach to the war 221

And your great love to me restrains you thus.

Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid

Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,

And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, 225

Be shook to air.

Achil.

Shall Ajax fight with Hector?

Patr.

Ay; and perhaps receive much honour by him.

Achil.

I see my reputation is at stake; 228

My fame is shrewdly gor’d.

Patr.

O! then, beware;

Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves:

Omission to do what is necessary

Seals a commission to a blank of danger; 232

And danger, like an ague, subtly taints

Even then when we sit idly in the sun.

Achil.

Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus:

I’ll send the fool to Ajax and desire him 236

T’ invite the Trojan lords after the combat

To see us here unarmed. I have a woman’s longing,

An appetite that I am sick withal,

To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; 240

To talk with him and to behold his visage,

Even to my full of view. A labour sav’d!

Enter Thersites.

Ther.

A wonder!

Achil.

What? 244

Ther.

Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for himself.

Achil.

How so?

Ther.

He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing.

Achil.

How can that be? 252

Ther.

Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock, a stride and a stand; ruminates like a hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning; bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say ‘There were wit in this head, an ’twould out;’ and so there is, but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ the combat, he’ll break’t himself in vainglory. He knows not me: I said, ‘Good morrow, Ajax;’ and he replies, ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land-fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! a man may wear it on both sides, like a leather jerkin. 269

Achil.

Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.

Ther.

Who, I? why, he’ll answer nobody; he professes not answering; speaking is for beggars; he wears his tongue in his arms. I will put on his presence: let Patroclus make demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax. 276

Achil.

To him, Patroclus: tell him, I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarmed to my tent; and to procure safe-conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious, six-or-seven-times-honoured captain-general of the Grecian army, Agamemnon, et cætera. Do this.

Patr.

Jove bless great Ajax! 284

Ther.

Hum!

Patr.

I come from the worthy Achilles,—

Ther.

Ha!

Patr.

Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent,— 289

Ther.

Hum!

Patr.

And to procure safe-conduct from Agamemnon. 292

Ther.

Agamemnon!

Patr.

Ay, my lord.

Ther.

Ha!

Patr.

What say you to’t? 296

Ther.

God be wi’ you, with all my heart.

Patr.

Your answer, sir.

Ther.

If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o’clock it will go one way or other; howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. 301

Patr.

Your answer, sir.

Ther.

Fare you well, with all my heart.

Achil.

Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?

Ther.

No, but he’s out o’ tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knocked out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on. 309

Achil.

Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.

Ther.

Let me bear another to his horse, for that’s the more capable creature. 313

Achil.

My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d;

And I myself see not the bottom of it.

[Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus.

Ther.

Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it! I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Troy. A Street.

Enter, on one side, Æneas, and Servant with a torch; on the other, Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes, and Others, with torches.

Par.

See, ho! who is that there?

Dei.

It is the Lord Æneas.

Æne.

Is the prince there in person?

Had I so good occasion to lie long

As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business 4

Should rob my bed-mate of my company.

Dio.

That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Æneas.

Par.

A valiant Greek, Æneas; take his hand:

Witness the process of your speech, wherein 8

You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,

Did haunt you in the field.

Æne.

Health to you, valiant sir,

During all question of the gentle truce;

But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance 12

As heart can think or courage execute.

Dio.

The one and other Diomed embraces.

Our bloods are now in calm, and, so long, health!

But when contention and occasion meet, 16

By Jove, I’ll play the hunter for thy life

With all my force, pursuit, and policy.

Æne.

And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly

With his face backward. In humane gentleness,

Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises’ life, 21

Welcome, indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear,

No man alive can love in such a sort

The thing he means to kill more excellently. 24

Dio.

We sympathize. Jove, let Æneas live,

If to my sword his fate be not the glory,

A thousand complete courses of the sun!

But, in mine emulous honour, let him die, 28

With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow!

Æne.

We know each other well.

Dio.

We do; and long to know each other worse.

Par.

This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, 32

The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of.

What business, lord, so early?

Æne.

I was sent for to the king; but why, I know not.

Par.

His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek 36

To Calchas’ house, and there to render him,

For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.

Let’s have your company; or, if you please,

Haste there before us. I constantly do think— 40

Or rather, call my thought a certain knowledge—

My brother Troilus lodges there to-night:

Rouse him and give him note of our approach,

With the whole quality wherefore: I fear 44

We shall be much unwelcome.

Æne.

That I assure you:

Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece

Than Cressid borne from Troy.

Par.

There is no help;

The bitter disposition of the time 48

Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you.

Æne.

Good morrow, all.

[Exit.

Par.

And tell me, noble Diomed; faith, tell me true,

Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, 52

Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best—

Myself or Menelaus?

Dio.

Both alike:

He merits well to have her that doth seek her—

Not making any scruple of her soilure— 56

With such a hell of pain and world of charge,

And you as well to keep her that defend her—

Not palating the taste of her dishonour—

With such a costly loss of wealth and friends: 60

He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up

The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;

You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins

Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors: 64

Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more;

But he as he, the heavier for a whore.

Par.

You are too bitter to your country-woman.

Dio.

She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris: 68

For every false drop in her bawdy veins

A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple

Of her contaminated carrion weight

A Trojan hath been slain. Since she could speak, 72

She hath not given so many good words breath

As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer’d death.

Par.

Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,

Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy; 76

But we in silence hold this virtue well,

We’ll not commend what we intend to sell.

Here lies our way.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Court before Pandarus’ House.

Enter Troilus and Cressida.

Tro.

Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold.

Cres.

Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down:

He shall unbolt the gates.

Tro.

Trouble him not;

To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes, 4

And give as soft attachment to thy senses

As infants’ empty of all thought!

Cres.

Good morrow then.

Tro.

I prithee now, to bed.

Cres.

Are you aweary of me?

Tro.

O Cressida! but that the busy day, 8

Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows,

And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,

I would not from thee.

Cres.

Night hath been too brief.

Tro.

Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays 12

As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love

With wings more momentary-swift than thought.

You will catch cold, and curse me.

Cres.

Prithee, tarry:

You men will never tarry. 16

O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,

And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s one up.

Pan.

[Within.] What! are all the doors open here?

Tro.

It is your uncle. 20

Cres.

A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking: I shall have such a life!

Enter Pandarus.

Pan.

How now, how now! how go maiden-heads?

Here, you maid! where’s my cousin Cressid? 24

Cres.

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

You bring me to do—and then you flout me too.

Pan.

To do what? to do what? let her say what: what have I brought you to do? 28

Cres.

Come, come; beshrew your heart! you’ll ne’er be good,

Nor suffer others.

Pan.

Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? a bugbear take him!

Cres.

Did not I tell you? ’would he were knock’d o’ the head!

[Knocking within.

Who’s that at door? good uncle, go and see. 36

My lord, come you again into my chamber:

You smile, and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.

Tro.

Ha, ha!

Cres.

Come, you are deceiv’d, I think of no such thing.

[Knocking within.

How earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in:

I would not for half Troy have you seen here.

[Exeunt Troilus and Cressida.

Pan.

[Going to the door.] Who’s there? what’s the matter? will you beat down the door? How now! what’s the matter? 45

Enter Æneas.

Æne.

Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

Pan.

Who’s there? my Lord Æneas! By my troth,

I knew you not: what news with you so early?

Æne.

Is not Prince Troilus here? 49

Pan.

Here! what should he do here?

Æne.

Come, he is here, my lord: do not deny him: it doth import him much to speak with me. 53

Pan.

Is he here, say you? ’tis more than I know, I’ll be sworn: for my own part, I came in late. What should he do here? 56

Æne.

Who! nay, then: come, come, you’ll do him wrong ere you’re ’ware. You’ll be so true to him, to be false to him. Do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go. 60

Re-enter Troilus.

Tro.

How now! what’s the matter?

Æne.

My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,

My matter is so rash: there is at hand

Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, 64

The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor

Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith,

Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,

We must give up to Diomedes’ hand 68

The Lady Cressida.

Tro.

Is it so concluded?

Æne.

By Priam, and the general state of Troy:

They are at hand and ready to effect it.

Tro.

How my achievements mock me! 72

I will go meet them: and, my Lord Æneas,

We met by chance; you did not find me here.

Æne.

Good, good, my lord; the secrets of nature

Have not more gift in taciturnity. 76

[Exeunt Troilus and Æneas.

Pan.

Is’t possible? no sooner got but lost?

The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke’s neck! 80

Enter Cressida.

Cres.

How now! What is the matter? Who was here?

Pan.

Ah! ah!

Cres.

Why sigh you so profoundly? where’s my lord? gone! Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter?

Pan.

Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above! 88

Cres.

O the gods! what’s the matter?

Pan.

Prithee, get thee in. Would thou hadst ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death. O poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! 93

Cres.

Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what’s the matter?

Pan.

Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art changed for Antenor. Thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus: ’twill be his death; ’twill be his bane; he cannot bear it. 100

Cres.

O you immortal gods! I will not go.

Pan.

Thou must.

Cres.

I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father;

I know no touch of consanguinity; 104

No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me

As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine!

Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood

If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,

Do to this body what extremes you can; 109

But the strong base and building of my love

Is as the very centre of the earth,

Drawing all things to it. I’ll go in and weep,—

Pan.

Do, do. 113

Cres.

Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks,

Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart

With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before Pandarus’ House.

Enter Paris, Troilus, Æneas, Deiphobus, Antenor, and Diomedes.

Par.

It is great morning, and the hour prefix’d

Of her delivery to this valiant Greek

Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus,

Tell you the lady what she is to do, 4

And haste her to the purpose.

Tro.

Walk into her house;

I’ll bring her to the Grecian presently:

And to his hand when I deliver her,

Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus 8

A priest, there offering to it his own heart.

[Exit.

Par.

I know what ’tis to love;

And would, as I shall pity, I could help!

Please you walk in, my lords.

[Exeunt

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room in Pandarus’ House.

Enter Pandarus and Cressida.

Pan.

Be moderate, be moderate.

Cres.

Why tell you me of moderation?

The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,

And violenteth in a sense as strong 4

As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it?

If I could temporize with my affection,

Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,

The like allayment could I give my grief: 8

My love admits no qualifying dross;

No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

Enter Troilus.

Pan.

Here, here, here he comes. Ah! sweet ducks.

Cres.

[Embracing him.] O Troilus! Troilus!

Pan.

What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is,—

O heart, heavy heart, 16

Why sigh’st thou without breaking?

when he answers again,

Because thou canst not ease thy smart

By friendship nor by speaking. 20

There was never a truer rime. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse: we see it, we see it. How now, lambs!

Tro.

Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity, 24

That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy,

More bright in zeal than the devotion which

Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.

Cres.

Have the gods envy? 28

Pan.

Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case.

Cres.

And is it true that I must go from Troy?

Tro.

A hateful truth.

Cres.

What! and from Troilus too?

Tro.

From Troy and Troilus.

Cres.

Is it possible? 32

Tro.

And suddenly; where injury of chance

Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by

All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips

Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents 36

Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows

Even in the birth of our own labouring breath.

We two, that with so many thousand sighs

Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves

With the rude brevity and discharge of one. 41

Injurious time now with a robber’s haste

Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how:

As many farewells as be stars in heaven, 44

With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them,

He fumbles up into a loose adieu,

And scants us with a single famish’d kiss,

Distasted with the salt of broken tears. 48

Æne.

[Within.] My lord, is the lady ready?

Tro.

Hark! you are call’d: some say the Genius so

Cries ‘Come!’ to him that instantly must die.

Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.

Pan.

Where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by the root!

[Exit.

Cres.

I must then to the Grecians?

Tro.

No remedy.

Cres.

A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks! 56

When shall we see again?

Tro.

Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart,—

Cres.

I true! how now! what wicked deem is this?

Tro.

Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,

For it is parting from us: 61

I speak not ‘be thou true,’ as fearing thee,

For I will throw my glove to Death himself,

That there’s no maculation in thy heart; 64

But, ‘be thou true,’ say I, to fashion in

My sequent protestation; be thou true,

And I will see thee.

Cres.

O! you shall be expos’d, my lord, to dangers 68

As infinite as imminent; but I’ll be true.

Tro.

And I’ll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.

Cres.

And you this glove. When shall I see you?

Tro.

I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels, 72

To give thee nightly visitation.

But yet, be true.

Cres.

O heavens! ‘be true’ again!

Tro.

Hear why I speak it, love:

The Grecian youths are full of quality; 76

They’re loving, well compos’d, with gifts of nature,

Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise:

How novelty may move, and parts with person,

Alas! a kind of godly jealousy,— 80

Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin,—

Makes me afear’d.

Cres.

O heavens! you love me not.

Tro.

Die I a villain, then!

In this I do not call your faith in question 84

So mainly as my merit: I cannot sing,

Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,

Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all,

To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant: 88

But I can tell that in each grace of these

There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil

That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted.

Cres.

Do you think I will? 92

Tro.

No.

But something may be done that we will not:

And sometimes we are devils to ourselves

When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,

Presuming on their changeful potency. 97

Æne.

[Within.] Nay, good my lord,—

Tro.

Come, kiss; and let us part.

Par.

[Within.] Brother Troilus!

Tro.

Good brother, come you hither;

And bring Æneas and the Grecian with you. 100

Cres.

My lord, will you be true?

Tro.

Who, I? alas, it is my vice, my fault:

While others fish with craft for great opinion,

I with great truth catch mere simplicity; 104

Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,

With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.

Fear not my truth; the moral of my wit

Is plain, and true; there’s all the reach of it.

Enter Æneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus, and Diomedes.

Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady 109

Which for Antenor we deliver you:

At the port, lord, I’ll give her to thy hand,

And by the way possess thee what she is. 112

Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek,

If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword,

Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe

As Priam is in Ilion.

Dio.

Fair Lady Cressid, 116

So please you, save the thanks this prince expects:

The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek,

Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed

You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.

Tro.

Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously, 121

To shame the zeal of my petition to thee

In praising her: I tell thee, lord of Greece,

She is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises 124

As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant.

I charge thee use her well, even for my charge;

For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,

Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard,

I’ll cut thy throat.

Dio.

O! be not mov’d, Prince Troilus:

Let me be privileg’d by my place and message

To be a speaker free; when I am hence,

I’ll answer to my lust; and know you, lord, 132

I’ll nothing do on charge: to her own worth

She shall be priz’d; but that you say ‘be’t so,’

I’ll speak it in my spirit and honour, ‘no.’

Tro.

Come, to the port. I’ll tell thee, Diomed,

This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. 137

Lady, give me your hand, and, as you walk,

To our own selves bend we our needful talk.

[Exeunt Troilus, Cressida, and Diomedes. Trumpet sounded.

Par.

Hark! Hector’s trumpet.

Æne.

How have we spent this morning!

The prince must think me tardy and remiss, 141

That swore to ride before him to the field.

Par.

’Tis Troilus’ fault. Come, come, to field with him.

Dei.

Let us make ready straight. 144

Æne.

Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity,

Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels:

The glory of our Troy doth this day lie

On his fair worth and single chivalry.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Grecian Camp. Lists set out.

Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor, and Others.

Agam.

Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,

Anticipating time with starting courage.

Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,

Thou dreadful Ajax; that the appalled air 4

May pierce the head of the great combatant

And hale him hither.

Ajax.

Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse.

Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:

Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek 8

Outswell the colic of puff’d Aquilon.

Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood;

Thou blow’st for Hector.

[Trumpet sounds.

Ulyss.

No trumpet answers.

Achil.

’Tis but early days. 12

Agam.

Is not yond Diomed with Calchas’ daughter?

Ulyss.

’Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait;

He rises on the toe: that spirit of his

In aspiration lifts him from the earth. 16

Enter Diomedes, with Cressida.

Agam.

Is this the Lady Cressid?

Dio.

Even she.

Agam.

Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.

Nest.

Our general doth salute you with a kiss.

Ulyss.

Yet is the kindness but particular; 20

’Twere better she were kiss’d in general.

Nest.

And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin.

So much for Nestor.

Achil.

I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady: 24

Achilles bids you welcome.

Men.

I had good argument for kissing once.

Patr.

But that’s no argument for kissing now;

For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment, 28

And parted thus you and your argument.

Ulyss.

O, deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!

For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.

Patr.

The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine: 32

Patroclus kisses you.

Men.

O! this is trim.

Patr.

Paris and I, kiss evermore for him.

Men.

I’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.

Cres.

In kissing, do you render or receive? 36

Patr.

Both take and give.

Cres.

I’ll make my match to live,

The kiss you take is better than you give;

Therefore no kiss.

Men.

I’ll give you boot; I’ll give you three for one. 40

Cres.

You’re an odd man; give even, or give none.

Men.

An odd man, lady! every man is odd.

Cres.

No, Paris is not; for, you know ’tis true,

That you are odd, and he is even with you. 44

Men.

You fillip me o’ the head.

Cres.

No, I’ll be sworn.

Ulyss.

It were no match, your nail against his horn.

May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?

Cres.

You may.

Ulyss.

I do desire it.

Cres.

Why, beg, then. 48

Ulyss.

Why, then, for Venus’ sake, give me a kiss,

When Helen is a maid again, and his.

Cres.

I am your debtor; claim it when ’tis due.

Ulyss.

Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you. 52

Dio.

Lady, a word: I’ll bring you to your father.

[Diomedes leads out Cressida.

Nest.

A woman of quick sense.

Ulyss.

Fie, fie upon her!

There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,

Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out 56

At every joint and motive of her body.

O! these encounterers, so glib of tongue,

That give a coasting welcome ere it comes,

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts

To every tickling reader, set them down 61

For sluttish spoils of opportunity

And daughters of the game.

[Trumpet within.

All.

The Trojans’ trumpet.

Agam.

Yonder comes the troop. 64

Enter Hector, armed; Æneas, Troilus, and other Trojans, with Attendants.

Æne.

Hail, all you state of Greece! what shall be done

To him that victory commands? or do you purpose

A victor shall be known? will you the knights

Shall to the edge of all extremity 68

Pursue each other, or shall be divided

By any voice or order of the field?

Hector bade ask.

Agam.

Which way would Hector have it?

Æne.

He cares not; he’ll obey conditions. 72

Achil.

’Tis done like Hector; but securely done,

A little proudly, and great deal misprising

The knight oppos’d.

Æne.

If not Achilles, sir.

What is your name?

Achil.

If not Achilles, nothing. 76

Æne.

Therefore Achilles; but, whate’er, know this:

In the extremity of great and little,

Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector;

The one almost as infinite as all, 80

The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well,

And that which looks like pride is courtesy.

This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood:

In love whereof half Hector stays at home; 84

Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek

This blended knight, half Trojan, and half Greek.

Achil.

A maiden battle, then? O! I perceive you.

Re-enter Diomedes.

Agam.

Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, 88

Stand by our Ajax: as you and Lord Æneas

Consent upon the order of their fight,

So be it; either to the uttermost,

Or else a breath: the combatants being kin 92

Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.

[Ajax and Hector enter the lists.

Ulyss.

They are oppos’d already.

Agam.

What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy?

Ulyss.

The youngest son of Priam, a true knight: 96

Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word,

Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;

Not soon provok’d, nor being provok’d soon calm’d:

His heart and hand both open and both free; 100

For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows;

Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,

Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath.

Manly as Hector, but more dangerous; 104

For Hector, in his blaze of wrath, subscribes

To tender objects; but he in heat of action

Is more vindicative than jealous love.

They call him Troilus, and on him erect 108

A second hope, as fairly built as Hector.

Thus says Æneas; one that knows the youth

Even to his inches, and with private soul

Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. 112

[Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight.

Agam.

They are in action.

Nest.

Now, Ajax, hold thine own!

Tro.

Hector, thou sleep’st; awake thee!

Agam.

His blows are well dispos’d: there, Ajax!

Dio.

You must no more.

[Trumpets cease.

Æne.

Princes, enough, so please you. 116

Ajax.

I am not warm yet; let us fight again.

Dio.

As Hector pleases.

Hect.

Why, then will I no more:

Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son,

A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed; 120

The obligation of our blood forbids

A gory emulation ’twixt us twain.

Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so

That thou couldst say, ‘This hand is Grecian all,

And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg 125

All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood

Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister

Bounds in my father’s,’ by Jove multipotent, 128

Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member

Wherein my sword had not impressure made

Of our rank feud. But the just gods gainsay

That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother,

My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword 133

Be drain’d! Let me embrace thee, Ajax;

By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;

Hector would have them fall upon him thus:

Cousin, all honour to thee!

Ajax.

I thank thee, Hector:

Thou art too gentle and too free a man:

I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence

A great addition earned in thy death. 140

Hect.

Not Neoptolemus so mirable,

On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st byes

Cries, ‘This is he!’ could promise to himself

A thought of added honour torn from Hector.

Æne.

There is expectance here from both the sides, 145

What further you will do.

Hect.

We’ll answer it;

The issue is embracement: Ajax, farewell.

Ajax.

If I might in entreaties find success,—

As seld I have the chance,—I would desire 149

My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.

Dio.

’Tis Agamemnon’s wish, and great Achilles

Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector.

Hect.

Æneas, call my brother Troilus to me,

And signify this loving interview

To the expecters of our Trojan part;

Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; 156

I will go eat with thee and see your knights.

Ajax.

Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.

Hect.

The worthiest of them tell me name by name;

But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes 160

Shall find him by his large and portly size.

Agam.

Worthy of arms! as welcome as to one

That would be rid of such an enemy;

But that’s no welcome; understand more clear,

What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks 165

And formless ruin of oblivion;

But in this extant moment, faith and troth,

Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, 168

Bids thee, with most divine integrity,

From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.

Hect.

I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.

Agam.

[To Troilus.] My well-fam’d Lord of Troy, no less to you. 172

Men.

Let me confirm my princely brother’s greeting:

You brace of war-like brothers, welcome hither.

Hect.

Whom must we answer?

Æne.

The noble Menelaus.

Hect.

O! you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet, thanks! 176

Mock not that I affect the untraded oath;

Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove:

She’s well, but bade me not commend her to you.

Men.

Name her not now, sir; she’s a deadly theme. 180

Hec.

O! pardon; I offend.

Nest.

I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft,

Labouring for destiny, make cruel way

Through ranks of Greekish youth: and I have seen thee, 184

As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,

Despising many forfeits and subduements,

When thou hast hung thy advanc’d sword i’ th’ air,

Not letting it decline on the declin’d; 188

That I have said to some my standers-by,

‘Lo! Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!’

And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath,

When that a ring of Greeks have hemm’d thee in, 192

Like an Olympian wrestling: this have I seen;

But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel,

I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire,

And once fought with him: he was a soldier good; 196

But, by great Mars, the captain of us all,

Never like thee. Let an old man embrace thee;

And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.

Æne.

’Tis the old Nestor. 200

Hect.

Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,

That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time:

Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.

Nest.

I would my arms could match thee in contention, 204

As they contend with thee in courtesy.

Hect.

I would they could.

Nest.

Ha!

By this white beard, I’d fight with thee to-morrow. 208

Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.—

Ulyss.

I wonder now how yonder city stands,

When we have here her base and pillar by us.

Hect.

I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.

Ah! sir, there’s many a Greek and Trojan dead,

Since first I saw yourself and Diomed

In Ilion, on your Greekish embassy.

Ulyss.

Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue: 216

My prophecy is but half his journey yet;

For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,

Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,

Must kiss their own feet.

Hect.

I must not believe you: 220

There they stand yet, and modestly I think,

The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost

A drop of Grecian blood: the end crowns all,

And that old common arbitrator, Time, 224

Will one day end it.

Ulyss.

So to him we leave it.

Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome.

After the general, I beseech you next

To feast with me and see me at my tent. 228

Achil.

I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!

Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee;

I have with exact view perus’d thee, Hector,

And quoted joint by joint.

Hect.

Is this Achilles? 232

Achil.

I am Achilles.

Hect.

Stand fair, I pray thee: let me look on thee.

Achil.

Behold thy fill.

Hect.

Nay, I have done already.

Achil.

Thou art too brief: I will the second time, 236

As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.

Hect.

O! like a book of sport thou’lt read me o’er;

But there’s more in me than thou understand’st.

Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?

Achil.

Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body 241

Shall I destroy him? whether there, or there, or there?

That I may give the local wound a name,

And make distinct the very breach whereout 244

Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens!

Hect.

It would discredit the bless’d gods, proud man,

To answer such a question. Stand again:

Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly 248

As to prenominate in nice conjecture

Where thou wilt hit me dead?

Achil.

I tell thee, yea.

Hect.

Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,

I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well,

For I’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there;

But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,

I’ll kill thee every where, yea, o’er and o’er.

You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag; 256

His insolence draws folly from my lips;

But I’ll endeavour deeds to match these words,

Or may I never—

Ajax.

Do not chafe thee, cousin:

And you, Achilles, let these threats alone, 260

Till accident or purpose bring you to’t:

You may have every day enough of Hector,

If you have stomach. The general state, I fear,

Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. 264

Hect.

I pray you, let us see you in the field;

We have had pelting wars since you refus’d

The Grecians’ cause.

Achil.

Dost thou entreat me, Hector?

To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death; 268

To-night all friends.

Hect.

Thy hand upon that match.

Agam.

First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent;

There in the full convive we afterwards,

As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall 272

Concur together, severally entreat him.

Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow,

That this great soldier may his welcome know.

[Exeunt all except Troilus and Ulysses.

Tro.

My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,

In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?

Ulyss.

At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus:

There Diomed doth feast with him to-night;

Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth,

But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view 281

On the fair Cressid.

Tro.

Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to thee so much,

After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, 284

To bring me thither?

Ulyss.

You shall command me, sir.

As gentle tell me, of what honour was

This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there

That wails her absence? 288

Tro.

O, sir! to such as boasting show their scars

A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?

She was belov’d, she lov’d; she is, and doth:

But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Grecian Camp. Before Achilles’ Tent.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

Achil.

I’ll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night,

Which with my scimitar I’ll cool to-morrow.

Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.

Patr.

Here comes Thersites.

Enter Thersites.

Achil.

How now, thou core of envy! 4

Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the news?

Ther.

Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot-worshippers, here’s a letter for thee. 8

Achil.

From whence, fragment?

Ther.

Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.

Patr.

Who keeps the tent now?

Ther.

The surgeon’s box, or the patient’s wound. 13

Patr.

Well said, adversity! and what need these tricks?

Ther.

Prithee, be silent, boy: I profit not by thy talk: thou art thought to be Achilles’ male varlet. 18

Patr.

Male varlet, you rogue! what’s that?

Ther.

Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries! 28

Patr.

Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?

Ther.

Do I curse thee?

Patr.

Why, no, you ruinous butt, you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no. 33

Ther.

No! why art thou then exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse, thou? Ah! how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature.

Patr.

Out, gall! 40

Ther.

Finch egg!

Achil.

My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite

From my great purpose in to-morrow’s battle.

Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, 44

A token from her daughter, my fair love,

Both taxing me and gaging me to keep

An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it:

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;

My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey. 49

Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent;

This night in banqueting must all be spent.

Away, Patroclus! 52

[Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus.

Ther.

With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad; but if with too much brain, and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax: and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue, and oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother’s leg, to what form but that he is should wit larded with malice and malice forced with wit turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass and ox; to an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus! I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites, for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! spirits and fires! 74

Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus, and Diomedes, with lights.

Agam.

We go wrong, we go wrong.

Ajax.

No, yonder ’tis;

There, where we see the lights.

Hect.

I trouble you. 76

Ajax.

No, not a whit.

Ulyss.

Here comes himself to guide you.

Re-enter Achilles.

Achil.

Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, princes all.

Agam.

So now, fair prince of Troy, I bid good-night.

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. 80

Hect.

Thanks and good-night to the Greeks’ general.

Men.

Good-night, my lord.

Hect.

Good-night, sweet Lord Menelaus.

Ther.

Sweet draught: ‘sweet,’ quoth a’! sweet sink, sweet sewer. 85

Achil.

Good-night and welcome both at once, to those

That go or tarry.

Agam.

Good-night. 88

[Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus.

Achil.

Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,

Keep Hector company an hour or two.

Dio.

I cannot, lord; I have important business,

The tide whereof is now. Good-night, great Hector. 92

Hect.

Give me your hand.

Ulyss.

[Aside to Troilus.] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas’ tent.

I’ll keep you company.

Tro.

Sweet sir, you honour me.

Hect.

And so, good-night. 96

[Exit Diomedes; Ulysses and Troilus following.

Achil.

Come, come, enter my tent.

[Exeunt Achilles, Hector, Ajax, and Nestor.

Ther.

That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will come some change: the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, than not to dog him: they say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! all incontinent varlets.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. Before Calchas’ Tent.

Enter Diomedes.

Dio.

What, are you up here, ho! speak.

Cal.

[Within.] Who calls?

Dio.

Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter?

Cal.

[Within.] She comes to you. 4

Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them Thersites.

Ulyss.

Stand where the torch may not discover us.

Enter Cressida.

Tro.

Cressid comes forth to him.

Dio.

How now, my charge!

Cres.

Now, my sweet guardian! Hark! a word with you.

[Whispers.

Tro.

Yea, so familiar! 8

Ulyss.

She will sing any man at first sight.

Ther.

And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she’s noted.

Dio.

Will you remember? 12

Cres.

Remember! yes.

Dio.

Nay, but do, then;

And let your mind be coupled with your words.

Tro.

What should she remember? 16

Ulyss.

List!

Cres.

Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.

Ther.

Roguery!

Dio.

Nay, then,—

Cres.

I’ll tell you what,— 20

Dio.

Foh, foh! come, tell a pin: you are forsworn.

Cres.

In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?

Ther.

A juggling trick,—to be secretly open.

Dio.

What did you swear you would bestow on me? 24

Cres.

I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;

Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.

Dio.

Good-night.

Tro.

Hold, patience! 28

Ulyss.

How now, Trojan?

Cres.

Diomed,—

Dio.

No, no, good-night; I’ll be your fool no more.

Tro.

Thy better must.

Cres.

Hark! one word in your ear. 32

Tro.

O plague and madness!

Ulyss.

You are mov’d, prince; let us depart, I pray you,

Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself

To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous; 36

The time right deadly. I beseech you, go.

Tro.

Behold, I pray you!

Ulyss.

Nay, good my lord, go off:

You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.

Tro.

I pray thee, stay.

Ulyss.

You have not patience; come. 40

Tro.

I pray you, stay. By hell, and all hell’s torments,

I will not speak a word!

Dio.

And so, good-night.

Cres.

Nay, but you part in anger.

Tro.

Doth that grieve thee?

O wither’d truth!

Ulyss.

Why, how now, lord!

Tro.

By Jove, 44

I will be patient.

Cres.

Guardian!—why, Greek!

Dio.

Foh, foh! adieu; you palter.

Cres.

In faith, I do not: come hither once again.

Ulyss.

You shake, my lord, at something: will you go? 48

You will break out.

Tro.

She strokes his cheek!

Ulyss.

Come, come.

Tro.

Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:

There is between my will and all offences

A guard of patience: stay a little while. 52

Ther.

How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!

Dio.

But will you, then? 56

Cres.

In faith, I will, la; never trust me else.

Dio.

Give me some token for the surety of it.

Cres.

I’ll fetch you one.

[Exit

Ulyss.

You have sworn patience.

Tro.

Fear me not, sweet lord; 60

I will not be myself, nor have cognition

Of what I feel: I am all patience.

Re-enter Cressida.

Ther.

Now the pledge! now, now, now!

Cres.

Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. 64

Tro.

O beauty! where is thy faith?

Ulyss.

My lord,—

Tro.

I will be patient; outwardly I will.

Cres.

You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.

He lov’d me—O false wench!—Give’t to me again. 68

Dio.

Whose was’t?

Cres.

It is no matter, now I have’t again.

I will not meet with you to-morrow night.

I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.

Ther.

Now she sharpens: well said, whetstone! 72

Dio.

I shall have it.

Cres.

What, this?

Dio.

Ay, that.

Cres.

O! all you gods. O pretty, pretty pledge!

Thy master now lies thinking in his bed

Of thee and me; and sighs, and takes my glove,

And gives me norial dainty kisses to it, 77

As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;

He that takes that doth take my heart withal.

Dio.

I had your heart before; this follows it.

Tro.

I did swear patience. 81

Cres.

You shall not have it, Diomed; faith you shall not;

I’ll give you something else.

Dio.

I will have this. Whose was it?

Cres.

’Tis no matter.

Dio.

Come, tell me whose it was. 85

Cres.

’Twas one’s that loved me better than you will.

But, now you have it, take it.

Dio.

Whose was it?

Cres.

By all Diana’s waiting-women yond, 88

And by herself, I will not tell you whose.

Dio.

To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,

And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.

Tro.

Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn, 92

It should be challeng’d.

Cres.

Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past: and yet it is not:

I will not keep my word.

Dio.

Why then, farewell;

Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. 96

Cres.

You shall not go: one cannot speak a word,

But it straight starts you.

Dio.

I do not like this fooling.

Ther.

Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not me

Pleases me best. 100

Dio.

What, shall I come? the hour?

Cres.

Ay, come:—O Jove!—

Do come:—I shall be plagu’d.

Dio.

Farewell till then.

Cres.

Good-night: I prithee, come.—

[Exit Diomedes.

Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee, 104

But with my heart the other eye doth see.

Ah! poor our sex; this fault in us I find,

The error of our eye directs our mind.

What error leads must err. O! then conclude

Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude. 109

[Exit.

Ther.

A proof of strength she could not publish more,

Unless she said, ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’

Ulyss.

All’s done, my lord.

Tro.

It is.

Ulyss.

Why stay we, then?

Tro.

To make a recordation to my soul 113

Of every syllable that here was spoke.

But if I tell how these two did co-act,

Shall I not lie in publishing a truth? 116

Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,

An esperance so obstinately strong,

That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears,

As if those organs had deceptions functions,

Created only to calumniate. 121

Was Cressid here?

Ulyss.

I cannot conjure, Trojan.

Tro.

She was not, sure.

Ulyss.

Most sure she was.

Tro.

Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. 124

Ulyss.

Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but now.

Tro.

Let it not be believ’d for womanhood!

Think we had mothers; do not give advantage

To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, 128

For depravation, to square the general sex

By Cressid’s rule: rather think this not Cressid.

Ulyss.

What hath she done, prince, that can soil our mothers?

Tro.

Nothing at all, unless that this were she.

Ther.

Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes? 133

Tro.

This she? no, this is Diomed’s Cressida.

If beauty have a soul, this is not she;

If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimony, 136

If sanctimony be the gods’ delight,

If there be rule in unity itself,

This is not she. O madness of discourse,

That cause sets up with and against itself; 140

Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt

Without perdition, and loss assume all reason

Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.

Within my soul there doth conduce a fight 144

Of this strange nature that a thing inseparate

Divides more wider than the sky and earth;

And yet the spacious breadth of this division

Admits no orifice for a point as subtle 148

As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter.

Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates;

Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven:

Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself;

The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d; 153

And with another knot, five-finger-tied,

The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,

The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy reliques 156

Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.

Ulyss.

May worthy Troilus be half attach’d

With that which here his passion doth express?

Tro.

Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well 160

In characters as red as Mars his heart

Inflam’d with Venus: never did young man fancy

With so eternal and so fix’d a soul.

Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, 164

So much by weight hate I her Diomed;

That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm;

Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill,

My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout

Which shipmen do the hurricano call, 169

Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun,

Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear

In his descent than shall my prompted sword

Falling on Diomed. 173

Ther.

He’ll tickle it for his concupy.

Tro.

O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!

Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, 176

And they’ll seem glorious.

Ulyss.

O! contain yourself;

Your passion draws ears hither.

Enter Æneas.

Æne.

I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.

Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy: 180

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.

Tro.

Have with you, prince. My courteous lord, adieu.

Farewell, revolted fair! and Diomed,

Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head! 184

Ulyss.

I’ll bring you to the gates.

Tro.

Accept distracted thanks.

[Exeunt Troilus, Æneas, and Ulysses.

Ther.

Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus would give me any thing for the intelligence of this whore: the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take them!

[Exit.

Scene III.— Troy. Before Priam’s Palace.

Enter Hector and Andromache.

And.

When was my lord so much ungently temper’d,

To stop his ears against admonishment?

Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.

Hect.

You train me to offend you; get you in: 4

By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go.

And.

My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.

Hect.

No more, I say.

Enter Cassandra.

Cas.

Where is my brother Hector?

And.

Here, sister; arm’d, and bloody in intent. 8

Consort with me in loud and dear petition;

Pursue we him on knees; for I have dream’d

Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night

Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter. 12

Cas.

O! ’tis true.

Hect.

Ho! bid my trumpet sound.

Cas.

No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother.

Hect.

Be gone, I say: the gods have heard me swear.

Cas.

The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows: 16

They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d

Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.

And.

O! be persuaded: do not count it holy

To hurt by being just: it is as lawful, 20

For we would give much, to use violent thefts,

And rob in the behalf of charity.

Cas.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;

But vows to every purpose must not hold. 24

Unarm, sweet Hector.

Hect.

Hold you still, I say;

Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate:

Life every man holds dear; but the dear man

Holds honour far more precious-dear than life.

Enter Troilus.

How now, young man! mean’st thou to fight to-day? 29

And.

Cassandra, call my father to persuade.

[Exit Cassandra.

Hect.

No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;

I am to-day i’ the vein of chivalry: 32

Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,

And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.

Unarm thee, go, and doubt thou not, brave boy,

I’ll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy. 36

Tro.

Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,

Which better fits a lion than a man.

Hect.

What vice is that, good Troilus? chide me for it.

Tro.

When many times the captive Grecian falls, 40

Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,

You bid them rise, and live.

Hect.

O! ’tis fair play.

Tro.

Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.

Hect.

How now! how now!

Tro.

For the love of all the gods, 44

Let’s leave the hermit pity with our mothers,

And when we have our armours buckled on,

The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords,

Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth. 48

Hect.

Fie, savage, fie!

Tro.

Hector, then ’tis wars.

Hect.

Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.

Tro.

Who should withhold me?

Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars 52

Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;

Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,

Their eyes o’ergalled with recourse of tears;

Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, 56

Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way,

But by my ruin.

Re-enter Cassandra, with Priam.

Cas.

Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast:

He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay, 60

Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,

Fall all together.

Pri.

Come, Hector, come; go back:

Thy wife hath dream’d; thy mother hath had visions;

Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself 64

Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt,

To tell thee that this day is ominous:

Therefore, come back.

Hect.

Æneas is a-field;

And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks, 68

Even in the faith of valour, to appear

This morning to them.

Pri.

Ay, but thou shalt not go.

Hect.

I must not break my faith.

You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, 72

Let me not shame respect, but give me leave

To take that course by your consent and voice,

Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.

Cas.

O Priam! yield not to him.

And.

Do not, dear father. 76

Hect.

Andromache, I am offended with you:

Upon the love you bear me, get you in.

[Exit Andromache.

Tro.

This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl

Makes all these bodements.

Cas.

O farewell! dear Hector. 80

Look! how thou diest; look! how thy eye turns pale;

Look! how thy wounds do bleed at many vents:

Hark! how Troy roars: how Hecuba cries out!

How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth!

Behold, distraction, frenzy, and amazement, 85

Like witless anticks, one another meet,

And all cry Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!

Tro.

Away! Away! 88

Cas.

Farewell. Yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave:

Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.

[Exit.

Hect.

You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim.

Go in and cheer the town: we’ll forth and fight;

Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. 93

Pri.

Farewell: the gods with safety stand about thee!

[Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums.

Tro.

They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,

I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve. 96

As Troilus is going out, enter, from the other side, Pandarus.

Pan.

Do you hear, my lord? do you hear?

Tro.

What now?

Pan.

Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.

Tro.

Let me read. 100

Pan.

A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o’ these days: and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there? 108

Tro.

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;

The effect doth operate another way.

[Tearing the letter.

Go, wind to wind, there turn and change together.

My love with words and errors still she feeds,

But edifies another with her deeds. 113

[Exeunt severally.

Scene IV.— Between Troy and the Grecian Camp.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Thersites.

Ther.

Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his helm: I would fain see them meet; that that same young Trojan ass, that loves the whore there, might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, on a sleeveless errand. O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals,—that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not proved worth a blackberry: they set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’ other. 20

Enter Diomedes, Troilus following.

Tro.

Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx,

I would swim after.

Dio.

Thou dost miscall retire:

I do not fly; but advantageous care

Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. 24

Have at thee!

Ther.

Hold thy whore, Grecian! now for thy whore, Trojan! now the sleeve, now the sleeve!

[Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes, fighting.

Enter Hector.

Hect.

What art thou, Greek? art thou for Hector’s match? 28

Art thou of blood and honour?

Ther.

No, no, I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue.

Hect.

I do believe thee: live.

[Exit.

Ther.

God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another: I would laugh at that miracle; yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Diomedes and a Servant.

Dio.

Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse;

Present the fair steed to my Lady Cressid:

Fellow, commend my service to her beauty:

Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan, 4

And am her knight by proof.

Serv.

I go, my lord.

[Exit.

Enter Agamemnon.

Agam.

Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas

Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon

Hath Doreus prisoner, 8

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,

Upon the pashed corses of the kings

Epistrophus and Cedius; Polixenes is slain;

Amphimachus, and Thoas, deadly hurt; 12

Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes

Sore hurt and bruis’d; the dreadful Sagittary

Appals our numbers: haste we, Diomed,

To reinforcement, or we perish all. 16

Enter Nestor.

Nest.

Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles;

And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame.

There is a thousand Hectors in the field:

Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, 20

And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot,

And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls

Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,

And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,

Fall down before him, like the mower’s swath:

Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes,

Dexterity so obeying appetite

That what he will he does; and does so much

That proof is called impossibility. 29

Enter Ulysses.

Ulyss.

O! courage, courage, princes; great Achilles

Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance:

Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood,

Together with his mangled Myrmidons, 33

That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him,

Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend,

And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, 36

Roaring for Troilus, who hath done to-day

Mad and fantastic execution,

Engaging and redeeming of himself

With such a careless force and forceless care 40

As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,

Bade him win all.

Enter Ajax.

Ajax.

Troilus! thou coward Troilus!

[Exit.

Dio.

Ay, there, there.

Nest.

So, so, we draw together.

Enter Achilles.

Achil.

Where is this Hector?

Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; 45

Know what it is to meet Achilles angry:

Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Ajax.

Ajax.

Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head!

Enter Diomedes.

Dio.

Troilus, I say! where’s Troilus?

Ajax.

What wouldst thou?

Dio.

I would correct him.

Ajax.

Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office 4

Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! what, Troilus!

Enter Troilus.

Tro.

O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor!

And pay thy life thou ow’st me for my horse!

Dio.

Ha! art thou there? 8

Ajax.

I’ll fight with him alone: stand, Diomed.

Dio.

He is my prize; I will not look upon.

Tro.

Come, both you cogging Greeks; have at you both!

[Exeunt, fighting.

Enter Hector.

Hect.

Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother! 12

Enter Achilles.

Achil.

Now I do see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector!

Hect.

Pause, if thou wilt.

Achil.

I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan.

Be happy that my arms are out of use: 16

My rest and negligence befriend thee now,

But thou anon shalt hear of me again;

Till when, go seek thy fortune.

[Exit.

Hect.

Fare thee well:—

I would have been much more a fresher man, 20

Had I expected thee. How now, my brother!

Re-enter Troilus.

Tro.

Ajax hath ta’en Æneas: shall it be?

No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,

He shall not carry him: I’ll be ta’en too, 24

Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say!

I reck not though I end my life to-day.

[Exit.

Enter One in sumptuous armour.

Hect.

Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.

No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; 28

I’ll frush it, and unlock the rivets all,

But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?

Why then, fly on, I’ll hunt thee for thy hide.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Achilles, with Myrmidons.

Achil.

Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;

Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel:

Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath:

And when I have the bloody Hector found, 4

Empale him with your weapons round about;

In fellest manner execute your aims.

Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye:

It is decreed, Hector the great must die. 8

[Exeunt.

Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites.

Ther.

The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now, my double-henned sparrow! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game: ’ware horns, ho!

[Exeunt Paris and Menelaus.

Enter Margarelon.

Mar.

Turn, slave, and fight.

Ther.

What art thou?

Mar.

A bastard son of Priam’s. 16

Ther.

I am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment. Farewell, bastard.

[Exit.

Mar.

The devil take thee, coward!

[Exit.

Scene VIII.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Hector.

Hect.

Most putrefied core, so fair without,

Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.

Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take good breath:

Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death.

[Puts off his helmet, and hangs his shield behind him.

Enter Achilles and Myrmidons.

Achil.

Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set; 5

How ugly night comes breathing at his heels:

Even with the vail and darking of the sun,

To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. 8

Hect.

I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.

Achil.

Strike, fellows, strike! this is the man I seek.

[Hector falls.

So, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down!

Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. 12

On! Myrmidons, and cry you all amain,

‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’—

[A retreat sounded.

Hark! a retreat upon our Grecian part.

Myr.

The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord. 16

Achil.

The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth,

And, stickler-like, the armies separates.

My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed,

Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.—

[Sheathes his sword.

Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; 21

Along the field I will the Trojan trail.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes, and Others marching. Shouts within.

Agam.

Hark! hark! what shout is that?

Nest.

Peace, drums!

[Within.] Achilles!

Achilles! Hector’s slain! Achilles!

Dio.

The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles.

Ajax.

If it be so, yet bragless let it be; 4

Great Hector was a man as good as he.

Agam.

March patiently along. Let one be sent

To pray Achilles see us at our tent.

If in his death the gods have us befriended, 8

Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.

[Exeunt marching.

Scene X.— Another Part of the Plains.

Enter Æneas and Trojans.

Æne.

Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.

Never go home; here starve we out the night.

Enter Troilus.

Tro.

Hector is slain.

All.

Hector! the gods forbid!

Tro.

He’s dead; and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, 4

In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.

Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed!

Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy!

I say, at once let your brief plagues be mercy, 8

And linger not our sure destructions on!

Æne.

My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

Tro.

You understand me not that tell me so.

I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death; 12

But dare all imminence that gods and men

Address their dangers in. Hector is gone:

Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?

Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d 16

Go in to Troy, and say there Hector’s dead:

There is a word will Priam turn to stone,

Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,

Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, 20

Scare Troy out of itself. But march away:

Hector is dead; there is no more to say.

Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,

Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,

Let Titan rise as early as he dare, 25

I’ll through and through you! And, thou great-siz’d coward,

No space of earth shall sunder our two hates:

I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, 28

That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts.

Strike a free march to Troy! with comfort go:

Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.

[Exeunt Æneas and Trojan Forces.

As Troilus is going out, enter, from the other side, Pandarus.

Pan.

But hear you, hear you! 32

Tro.

Hence, broker lackey! ignomy and shame

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!

[Exit.

Pan.

A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! why should our endeavour be so loved, and the performance so loathed? what verse for it? what instance for it?—Let me see!— 41

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,

Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;

And being once subdu’d in armed tail, 44

Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths.

As many as be here of pander’s hall,  48

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall;

Or if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,

Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.

Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,  52

Some two months hence my will shall here be made.

It should be now, but that my fear is this,

Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.

Till then I’ll sweat, and seek about for eases;  56

And at that time bequeath you my diseases

[Exit.

CORIOLANUS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Caius Marcius,	afterwards Caius Marcius Coriolanus.
Titus Lartius, }	Generals against the Volscians.
Cominius, }	Generals against the Volscians.
Menenius Agrippa,	Friend to Coriolanus.
Sicinius Velutus, }	Tribunes of the People.
Junius Brutus, }	Tribunes of the People.
Young Marcius,	Son to Coriolanus.
A Roman Herald.
Tullus Aufidius,	General of the Volscians.
Lieutenant to Aufidius.
Conspirators with Aufidius.
Nicanor,	a Roman.
A Citizen of Antium.
Adrian,	a Volsce.
Two Volscian Guards.
Volumnia,	Mother to Coriolanus.
Virgilia,	Wife to Coriolanus.
Valeria,	Friend to Virgilia.
Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia.
Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Ædiles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Rome and the Neighbourhood; Corioli and the Neighbourhood; Antium.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Rome. A Street.

Enter a Company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons.

First Cit.

Before we proceed any further, hear me speak.

All.

Speak, speak.

First Cit.

You are all resolved rather to die than to famish? 5

All.

Resolved, resolved.

First Cit.

First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people. 8

All.

We know’t, we know’t.

First Cit.

Let us kill him, and we’ll have corn at our own price. Is’t a verdict?

All.

No more talking on’t; let it be done.

Away, away! 13

Sec. Cit.

One word, good citizens.

First Cit.

We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us. If they would yield us but the superfluity, while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear: the leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularise their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. 26

Sec. Cit.

Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius?

First Cit.

Against him first: he’s a very dog to the commonalty.

Sec. Cit.

Consider you what services he has done for his country? 32

First Cit.

Very well; and could be content to give him good report for’t, but that he pays himself with being proud.

Sec. Cit.

Nay, but speak not maliciously. 36

First Cit.

I say unto you, what he hath done famously, he did it to that end: though soft-conscienced men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother, and to be partly proud; which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue. 42

Sec. Cit.

What he cannot help in his nature, you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous. 45

First Cit.

If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations: he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within.] What shouts are these? The other side o’ the city is risen: why stay we prating here? to the Capitol!

All.

Come, come.

First Cit.

Soft! who comes here? 52

Enter Menenius Agrippa.

Sec. Cit.

Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always loved the people.

First Cit.

He’s one honest enough: would all the rest were so! 56

Men.

What work’s, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you

With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

First Cit.

Our business is not unknown to the senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we’ll show ’em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths: they shall know we have strong arms too. 64

Men.

Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours,

Will you undo yourselves?

First Cit.

We cannot, sir; we are undone already. 68

Men.

I tell you, friends, most charitable care

Have the patricians of you. For your wants,

Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well

Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them 72

Against the Roman state, whose course will on

The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs

Of more strong link asunder than can ever

Appear in your impediment. For the dearth,

The gods, not the patricians, make it, and 77

Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack!

You are transported by calamity

Thither where more attends you; and you slander 80

The helms o’ the state, who care for you like fathers,

When you curse them as enemies.

First Cit.

Care for us! True, indeed! They ne’er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all the love they bear us.

Men.

Either you must 92

Confess yourselves wondrous malicious,

Or be accus’d of folly. I shall tell you

A pretty tale: it may be you have heard it;

But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture

To scale’t a little more. 97

First Cit.

Well, I’ll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale; but, an’t please you, deliver. 100

Men.

There was a time when all the body’s members

Rebell’d against the belly; thus accus’d it:

That only like a gulf it did remain

I’ the midst o’ the body, idle and unactive, 104

Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing

Like labour with the rest, where the other instruments

Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel,

And, mutually participate, did minister 108

Unto the appetite and affection common

Of the whole body. The belly answer’d,—

First Cit.

Well, sir, what answer made the belly? 112

Men.

Sir, I shall tell you.—With a kind of smile,

Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even thus—

For, look you, I may make the belly smile

As well as speak—it tauntingly replied 116

To the discontented members, the mutinous parts

That envied his receipt; even so most fitly

As you malign our senators for that

They are not such as you.

First Cit.

Your belly’s answer? What!

The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, 121

The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,

Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter,

With other muniments and petty helps 124

In this our fabric, if that they—

Men.

What then?—

’Fore me, this fellow speaks! what then? what then?

First Cit.

Should by the cormorant belly be restrain’d,

Who is the sink o’ the body,—

Men.

Well, what then? 128

First Cit.

The former agents, if they did complain,

What could the belly answer?

Men.

I will tell you;

If you’ll bestow a small, of what you have little,

Patience a while, you’ll hear the belly’s answer.

First Cit.

You’re long about it.

Men.

Note me this, good friend; 133

Your most grave belly was deliberate,

Not rash like his accusers, and thus answer’d:

‘True is it, my incorporate friends,’ quoth he,

‘That I receive the general food at first, 137

Which you do live upon; and fit it is;

Because I am the store-house and the shop

Of the whole body: but, if you do remember,

I send it through the rivers of your blood, 141

Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o’ the brain;

And, through the cranks and offices of man,

The strongest nerves and small inferior veins

From me receive that natural competency 145

Whereby they live. And though that all at once,

You, my good friends,’—this says the belly, mark me,—

First Cit.

Ay, sir; well, well.

Men.

‘Though all at once cannot

See what I do deliver out to each, 149

Yet I can make my audit up, that all

From me do back receive the flour of all,

And leave me but the bran.’ What say you to’t?

First Cit.

It was an answer: how apply you this? 153

Men.

The senators of Rome are this good belly,

And you the mutinous members; for, examine

Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly 156

Touching the weal o’ the common, you shall find

No public benefit which you receive

But it proceeds or comes from them to you,

And no way from yourselves. What do you think, 160

You, the great toe of this assembly?

First Cit.

I the great toe? Why the great toe?

Men.

For that, being one o’ the lowest, basest, poorest,

Of this most wise rebellion, thou go’st foremost: 164

Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run,

Lead’st first to win some vantage.

But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:

Rome and her rats are at the point of battle;

The one side must have bale.

Enter Caius Marcius.

Hail, noble Marcius!

Mar.

Thanks.—What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues,

That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,

Make yourselves scabs?

First Cit.

We have ever your good word.

Mar.

He that will give good words to thee will flatter 173

Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs,

That like nor peace nor war? the one affrights you,

The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, 176

Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;

Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,

Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,

Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is, 180

To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,

And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness

Deserves your hate; and your affections are

A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that 184

Which would increase his evil. He that depends

Upon your favours swims with fins of lead

And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye?

With every minute you do change a mind, 188

And call him noble that was now your hate,

Him vile that was your garland. What’s the matter,

That in these several places of the city

You cry against the noble senate, who, 192

Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else

Would feed on one another? What’s their seeking?

Men.

For corn at their own rates; whereof they say

The city is well stor’d.

Mar.

Hang ’em! They say! 196

They’ll sit by the fire, and presume to know

What’s done i’ the Capitol; who’s like to rise,

Who thrives, and who declines; side factions, and give out

Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,

And feebling such as stand not in their liking,

Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s grain enough! 202

Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,

And let me use my sword, I’d make a quarry

With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high 205

As I could pick my lance.

Men.

Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;

For though abundantly they lack discretion, 208

Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,

What says the other troop?

Mar.

They are dissolv’d: hang ’em!

They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth proverbs:

That hunger broke stone walls; that dogs must eat; 212

That meat was made for mouths; that the gods sent not

Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds

They vented their complainings; which being answer’d,

And a petition granted them, a strange one,—

To break the heart of generosity, 217

And make bold power look pale,—they threw their caps

As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,

Shouting their emulation.

Men.

What is granted them?

Mar.

Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms, 221

Of their own choice: one’s Junius Brutus,

Sicinius Velutus, and I know not—’Sdeath!

The rabble should have first unroof’d the city,

Ere so prevail’d with me; it will in time 225

Win upon power, and throw forth greater themes

For insurrection’s arguing.

Men.

This is strange.

Mar.

Go; get you home, you fragments! 228

Enter a Messenger, hastily.

Mess.

Where’s Caius Marcius?

Mar.

Here: what’s the matter?

Mess.

The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.

Mar.

I am glad on’t; then we shall ha’ means to vent

Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. 232

Enter Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Senators; Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus.

First Sen.

Marcius, ’tis true that you have lately told us;

The Volsces are in arms.

Mar.

They have a leader,

Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t.

I sin in envying his nobility, 236

And were I anything but what I am,

I would wish me only he.

Com.

You have fought together.

Mar.

Were half to half the world by the ears, and he

Upon my party, I’d revolt, to make 240

Only my wars with him: he is a lion

That I am proud to hunt.

First Sen.

Then, worthy Marcius,

Attend upon Cominius to these wars.

Com.

It is your former promise.

Mar.

Sir, it is; 244

And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou

Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face.

What! art thou stiff? stand’st out?

Tit.

No, Caius Marcius;

I’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with t’other, 248

Ere stay behind this business.

Men.

O! true-bred.

First Sen.

Your company to the Capitol; where I know

Our greatest friends attend us.

Tit.

[To Cominius.] Lead you on:

[To Marcius.] Follow Cominius; we must follow you; 252

Right worthy you priority.

Com.

Noble Marcius!

First Sen.

[To the Citizens.] Hence! to your homes! be gone.

Mar.

Nay, let them follow:

The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither

To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutiners,

Your valour puts well forth; pray, follow. 257

[Exeunt Senators, Cominius, Marcius, Titus, and Menenius. Citizens steal away.

Sic.

Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius?

Bru.

He has no equal.

Sic.

When we were chosen tribunes for the people,— 260

Bru.

Mark’d you his lip and eyes?

Sic.

Nay, but his taunts.

Bru.

Being mov’d, he will not spare to gird the gods.

Sic.

Bemock the modest moon.

Bru.

The present wars devour him; he is grown 264

Too proud to be so valiant.

Sic.

Such a nature,

Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow

Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder

His insolence can brook to be commanded 268

Under Cominius.

Bru.

Fame, at the which he aims,

In whom already he is well grac’d, cannot

Better be held nor more attain’d than by

A place below the first; for what miscarries 272

Shall be the general’s fault, though he perform

To the utmost of a man; and giddy censure

Will then cry out of Marcius ‘O! if he

Had borne the business.’

Sic.

Besides, if things go well, 276

Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall

Of his demerits rob Cominius.

Bru.

Come:

Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius,

Though Marcius earn’d them not; and all his faults 280

To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed

In aught he merit not.

Sic.

Let’s hence and hear

How the dispatch is made; and in what fashion,

More than his singularity, he goes 284

Upon this present action.

Bru.

Let’s along.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Corioli. The Senate-house.

Enter Tullus Aufidius and Senators.

First Sen.

So, your opinion is, Aufidius,

That they of Rome are enter’d in our counsels,

And know how we proceed.

Auf.

Is it not yours?

What ever have been thought on in this state, 4

That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome

Had circumvention? ’Tis not four days gone

Since I heard thence; these are the words: I think

I have the letter here; yes, here it is. 8

They have press’d a power, but it is not known

Whether for east, or west: the dearth is great;

The people mutinous; and it is rumour’d,

Cominius, Marcius, your old enemy,— 12

Who is of Rome worse hated than of you,—

And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman,

These three lead on this preparation

Whither ’tis bent: most likely ’tis for you: 16

Consider of it.

First Sen.

Our army’s in the field:

We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready

To answer us.

Auf.

Nor did you think it folly

To keep your great pretences veil’d till when 20

They needs must show themselves; which in the hatching,

It seem’d, appear’d to Rome. By the discovery

We shall be shorten’d in our aim, which was

To take in many towns ere almost Rome 24

Should know we were afoot.

Sec. Sen.

Noble Aufidius,

Take your commission; hie you to your bands;

Let us alone to guard Corioli:

If they set down before’s, for the remove 28

Bring up your army; but, I think you’ll find

They’ve not prepared for us.

Auf.

O! doubt not that;

I speak from certainties. Nay, more;

Some parcels of their power are forth already, 32

And only hitherward. I leave your honours.

If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet,

’Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike

Till one can do no more.

All.

The gods assist you! 36

Auf.

And keep your honours safe!

First Sen.

Farewell.

Sec. Sen.

Farewell.

All.

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Rome. A Room in Marcius’s House.

Enter Volumnia and Virgilia: they set them down on two low stools and sew.

Vol.

I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I would freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied and the only son of my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way, when for a day of kings’ entreaties a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding, I, considering how honour would become such a person, that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him; from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. 19

Vir.

But had he died in the business, madam; how then?

Vol.

Then, his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. 28

Enter a Gentlewoman.

Gen.

Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.

Vir.

Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

Vol.

Indeed, you shall not. 32

Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum,

See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair,

As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:

Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:

‘Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,

Though you were born in Rome.’ His bloody brow

With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he goes,

Like to a harvestman that’s task’d to mow 40

Or all or lose his hire.

Vir.

His bloody brow! O Jupiter! no blood.

Vol.

Away, you fool! it more becomes a man

Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba, 44

When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier

Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood

At Grecian swords, contemning. Tell Valeria

We are fit to bid her welcome. 48

[Exit Gentlewoman.

Vir.

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

Vol.

He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee,

And tread upon his neck.

Re-enter Gentlewoman, with Valeria and an Usher.

Val.

My ladies both, good day to you. 52

Vol.

Sweet madam.

Vir.

I am glad to see your ladyship.

Val.

How do you both? you are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son? 58

Vir.

I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.

Vol.

He had rather see the swords and hear a drum, than look upon his schoolmaster. 61

Val.

O’ my word, the father’s son; I’ll swear ’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together: he has such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it, he let it go again; and after it again; and over and over he comes, and up again; catched it again: or whether his fall enraged him, or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it; O! I warrant, how he mammocked it!

Vol.

One on’s father’s moods. 72

Val.

Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.

Vir.

A crack, madam.

Val.

Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. 77

Vir.

No, good madam; I will not out of doors.

Val.

Not out of doors!

Vol.

She shall, she shall. 80

Vir.

Indeed, no, by your patience; I’ll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars.

Vol.

Fie! you confine yourself most unreasonably. Come; you must go visit the good lady that lies in. 86

Vir.

I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither.

Vol.

Why, I pray you?

Vir.

’Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love. 91

Val.

You would be another Penelope; yet, they say, all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. 97

Vir.

No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will not forth.

Val.

In truth, la, go with me; and I’ll tell you excellent news of your husband. 101

Vir.

O, good madam, there can be none yet.

Val.

Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. 104

Vir.

Indeed, madam?

Val.

In earnest, it’s true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: The Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power: your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. 113

Vir.

Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in every thing hereafter.

Vol.

Let her alone, lady: as she is now she will but disease our better mirth. 117

Val.

In troth, I think she would. Fare you well then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go along with us. 121

Vir.

No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth.

Val.

Well then, farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Before Corioli.

Enter, with drum and colours, Marcius, Titus Lartius, Officers, and Soldiers. To them a Messenger.

Mar.

Yonder comes news: a wager they have met.

Lart.

My horse to yours, no.

Mar.

’Tis done.

Lart.

Agreed.

Mar.

Say, has our general met the enemy?

Mess.

They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. 4

Lart.

So the good horse is mine.

Mar.

I’ll buy him of you.

Lart.

No, I’ll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will

For half a hundred years. Summon the town.

Mar.

How far off lie these armies?

Mess.

Within this mile and half. 8

Mar.

Then shall we hear their ’larum, and they ours.

Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work,

That we with smoking swords may march from hence,

To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. 12

A Parley sounded. Enter, on the Walls, two Senators, and Others.

Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

First Sen.

No, nor a man that fears you less than he,

That’s lesser than a little. Hark, our drums

[Drums afar off.

Are bringing forth our youth: we’ll break our walls, 16

Rather than they shall pound us up: our gates,

Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn’d with rushes;

They’ll open of themselves. Hark you, far off!

[Alarum afar off.

There is Aufidius: list, what work he makes 20

Amongst your cloven army.

Mar.

O! they are at it!

Lart.

Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho!

The Volsces enter, and pass over the stage.

Mar.

They fear us not, but issue forth their city.

Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight 24

With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus:

They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,

Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows:

He that retires, I’ll take him for a Volsce, 28

And he shall feel mine edge.

Alarum. The Romans are beaten back to their trenches. Re-enter Marcius.

Mar.

All the contagion of the south light on you,

You shames of Rome! you herd of—Boils and plagues

Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorr’d 32

Further than seen, and one infect another

Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese,

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run

From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! 36

All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale

With flight and agu’d fear! Mend and charge home,

Or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe

And make my wars on you; look to ’t: come on;

If you’ll stand fast, we’ll beat them to their wives, 41

As they us to our trenches follow’d.

Another alarum. The Volsces and Romans re-enter, and the fight is renewed. The Volsces retire into Corioli, and Marcius follows them to the gates.

So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds:

’Tis for the followers Fortune widens them, 44

Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like.

[He enters the gates.

First Sol.

Foolhardiness! not I.

Sec. Sol.

Nor I.

[Marcius is shut in.

Third Sol.

See, they have shut him in.

All.

To the pot, I warrant him.

[Alarum continues.

Re-enter Titus Lartius.

Lart.

What is become of Marcius?

All.

Slain, sir, doubtless. 48

First Sol.

Following the fliers at the very heels,

With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,

Clapp’d-to their gates; he is himself alone,

To answer all the city.

Lart.

O noble fellow! 52

Who, sensibly, outdares his senseless sword,

And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, Marcius:

A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,

Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier

Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible 57

Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and

The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,

Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, as if the world 60

Were feverous and did tremble.

Re-enter Marcius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy.

First Sol.

Look, sir!

Lart.

O! ’tis Marcius!

Let’s fetch him off, or make remain alike.

[They fight, and all enter the city.

Scene V.— Corioli. A Street.

Enter certain Romans, with spoils.

First Rom.

This will I carry to Rome.

Sec. Rom.

And I this.

Third Rom.

A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.

[Alarum continues still ajar off.

Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius, with a trumpet.

Mar.

See here these movers that do prize their hours 4

At a crack’d drachme! Cushions, leaden spoons,

Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would

Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,

Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them! 8

And hark, what noise the general makes! To him!

There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius,

Piercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take

Convenient numbers to make good the city, 12

Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste

To help Cominius.

Lart.

Worthy sir, thou bleed’st;

Thy exercise hath been too violent

For a second course of fight.

Mar.

Sir, praise me not; 16

My work hath yet not warm’d me: fare you well:

The blood I drop is rather physical

Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus

I will appear, and fight.

Lart.

Now the fair goddess, Fortune, 20

Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms

Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman,

Prosperity be thy page!

Mar.

Thy friend no less

Than those she places highest! So, farewell. 24

Lart.

Thou worthiest Marcius!—

[Exit Marcius.

Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;

Call thither all the officers of the town,

Where they shall know our mind. Away! 28

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Near the Camp of Cominius.

Enter Cominius and Forces, retreating.

Com.

Breathe you, my friends: well fought; we are come off

Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands,

Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs,

We shall be charg’d again. Whiles we have struck, 4

By interims and conveying gusts we have heard

The charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods!

Lead their successes as we wish our own,

That both our powers, with smiling fronts encountering, 8

May give you thankful sacrifice.

Enter a Messenger.

Thy news?

Mess.

The citizens of Corioli have issu’d,

And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:

I saw our party to their trenches driven, 12

And then I came away.

Com.

Though thou speak’st truth,

Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long is’t since?

Mess.

Above an hour, my lord.

Com.

’Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums: 16

How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,

And bring thy news so late?

Mess.

Spies of the Volsces

Held me in chase, that I was forc’d to wheel

Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, 20

Half an hour since brought my report.

Com.

Who’s yonder,

That does appear as he were flay’d? O gods!

He has the stamp of Marcius; and I have

Before-time seen him thus.

Mar.

[Within.] Come I too late? 24

Com.

The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor,

More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue

From every meaner man.

Enter Marcius.

Mar.

Come I too late?

Com.

Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, 28

But mantled in your own.

Mar.

O! let me clip ye

In arms as sound as when I woo’d, in heart

As merry as when our nuptial day was done,

And tapers burn’d to bedward.

Com.

Flower of warriors. 32

How is’t with Titus Lartius?

Mar.

As with a man busied about decrees:

Condemning some to death, and some to exile;

Ransoming him, or pitying, threat’ning the other; 36

Holding Corioli in the name of Rome,

Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,

To let him slip at will.

Com.

Where is that slave

Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? 40

Where is he? Call him hither.

Mar.

Let him alone;

He did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen,

The common file—a plague! tribunes for them!—

The mouse ne’er shunn’d the cat as they did budge 44

From rascals worse than they.

Com.

But how prevail’d you?

Mar.

Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.

Where is the enemy? Are you lords o’ the field?

If not, why cease you till you are so? 48

Com.

Marcius, we have at disadvantage fought,

And did retire to win our purpose.

Mar.

How lies their battle? Know you on which side

They have plac’d their men of trust?

Com.

As I guess, Marcius, 52

Their bands i’ the vaward are the Antiates,

Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,

Their very heart of hope.

Mar.

I do beseech you,

By all the battles wherein we have fought, 56

By the blood we have shed together, by the vows

We have made to endure friends, that you directly

Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates;

And that you not delay the present, but, 60

Filling the air with swords advanc’d and darts,

We prove this very hour.

Com.

Though I could wish

You were conducted to a gentle bath,

And balms applied to you, yet dare I never 64

Deny your asking: take your choice of those

That best can aid your action.

Mar.

Those are they

That most are willing. If any such be here—

As it were sin to doubt—that love this painting

Wherein you see me smear’d; if any fear 69

Lesser his person than an ill report;

If any think brave death outweighs bad life,

And that his country’s dearer than himself; 72

Let him, alone, or so many so minded,

Wave thus, to express his disposition,

And follow Marcius.

[They all shout, and wave their swords; take him up in their arms, and cast up their caps.

O! me alone? Make you a sword of me? 76

If these shows be not outward, which of you

But is four Volsces? None of you but is

Able to bear against the great Aufidius

A shield as hard as his. A certain number, 80

Though thanks to all, must I select from all: the rest

Shall bear the business in some other fight,

As cause will be obey’d. Please you to march;

And four shall quickly draw out my command,

Which men are best inclin’d.

Com.

March on, my fellows: 85

Make good this ostentation, and you shall

Divide in all with us.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The Gates of Corioli.

Titus Lartius, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet towards Cominius and Caius Marcius, enters with a Lieutenant, a party of Soldiers, and a Scout.

Lart.

So; let the ports be guarded: keep your duties,

As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch

Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve

For a short holding: if we lose the field, 4

We cannot keep the town.

Lieu.

Fear not our care, sir.

Lart.

Hence, and shut your gates upon us.

Our guider, come; to the Roman camp conduct us.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— A Field of Battle between the Roman and the Volscian Camps.

Alarum. Enter from opposite sides Marcius and Aufidius.

Mar.

I’ll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee

Worse than a promise-breaker.

Auf.

We hate alike:

Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor

More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. 4

Mar.

Let the first budger die the other’s slave,

And the gods doom him after!

Auf.

If I fly, Marcius,

Halloo me like a hare.

Mar.

Within these three hours, Tullus, 8

Alone I fought in your Corioli walls,

And made what work I pleas’d; ’tis not my blood

Wherein thou seest me mask’d; for thy revenge

Wrench up thy power to the highest.

Auf.

Wert thou the Hector 12

That was the whip of your bragg’d progeny,

Thou shouldst not ’scape me here.—

[They fight, and certain Volsces come to the aid of Aufidius.

Officious, and not valiant, you have sham’d me

In your condemned seconds. 16

[Exeunt fighting, all driven in by Marcius.

Scene IX.— The Roman Camp.

Alarum. A retreat sounded. Flourish. Enter from one side, Cominius and Romans; from the other side, Marcius, with his arm in a scarf, and other Romans.

Com.

If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,

Thou’lt not believe thy deeds: but I’ll report it

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles,

Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, 4

I’ the end, admire; where ladies shall be frighted,

And, gladly quak’d, hear more; where the dull Tribunes,

That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,

Shall say, against their hearts, 8

‘We thank the gods our Rome hath such a soldier!’

Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast,

Having fully din’d before.

Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the pursuit.

Lart.

O general,

Here is the steed, we the caparison: 12

Hadst thou beheld—

Mar.

Pray now, no more: my mother,

Who has a charter to extol her blood,

When she does praise me grieves me. I have done

As you have done; that’s what I can; induc’d

As you have been; that’s for my country: 17

He that has but effected his good will

Hath overta’en mine act.

Com.

You shall not be

The grave of your deserving; Rome must know

The value of her own: ’twere a concealment 21

Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,

To hide your doings; and to silence that,

Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d,

Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you,— 25

In sign of what you are, not to reward

What you have done,—before our army hear me.

Mar.

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart 28

To hear themselves remember’d.

Com.

Should they not.

Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude,

And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses,

Whereof we have ta’en good, and good store, of all 32

The treasure, in this field achiev’d and city,

We render you the tenth; to be ta’en forth,

Before the common distribution,

At your only choice.

Mar.

I thank you, general; 36

But cannot make my heart consent to take

A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;

And stand upon my common part with those

That have beheld the doing. 40

[A long flourish. They all cry ‘Marcius! Marcius!’ cast up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius stand bare.

Mar.

May these same instruments, which you profane,

Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall

I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be

Made all of false-fac’d soothing! 44

When steel grows soft as is the parasite’s silk,

Let him be made a coverture for the wars!

No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d

My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch,

Which, without note, here’s many else have done, 49

You shout me forth

In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I lov’d my little should be dieted 52

In praises sauc’d with lies.

Com.

Too modest are you;

More cruel to your good report than grateful

To us that give you truly. By your patience,

If ’gainst yourself you be incens’d, we’ll put you,

Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, 57

Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known,

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius

Wears this war’s garland; in token of the which,

My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,

With all his trim belonging; and from this time,

For what he did before Corioli, call him,

With all the applause and clamour of the host,

Caius Marcius Coriolanus! Bear 65

The addition nobly ever!

All.

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

[Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

Cor.

I will go wash; 68

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive

Whether I blush, or no: howbeit, I thank you.

I mean to stride your steed, and at all times

To undercrest your good addition 72

To the fairness of my power.

Com.

So, to our tent;

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write

To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,

Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome 76

The best, with whom we may articulate,

For their own good and ours.

Lart.

I shall, my lord.

Cor.

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

Refus’d most princely gifts, am bound to beg 80

Of my lord general.

Com.

Take it; ’tis yours. What is’t?

Cor.

I sometime lay here in Corioli

At a poor man’s house; he us’d me kindly:

He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; 84

But then Aufidius was within my view,

And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity: I request you

To give my poor host freedom.

Com.

O! well begg’d!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should 88

Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Lart.

Marcius, his name?

Cor.

By Jupiter! forgot.

I am weary; yea, my memory is tir’d.

Have we no wine here?

Com.

Go we to our tent: 92

The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time

It should be look’d to: come.

[Exeunt.

Scene X.— The Camp of the Volsces.

A Flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three Soldiers.

Auf.

The town is ta’en!

First Sol.

’Twill be deliver’d back on good condition.

Auf.

Condition!

I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, 4

Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition!

What good condition can a treaty find

I’ the part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius,

I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me, 8

And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter

As often as we eat. By the elements,

If e’er again I meet him beard to beard,

He is mine, or I am his: mine emulation 12

Hath not that honour in’t it had; for where

I thought to crush him in an equal force—

True sword to sword—I’ll potch at him some way

Or wrath or craft may get him.

First Sol.

He’s the devil. 16

Auf.

Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s poison’d

With only suffering stain by him; for him

Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary,

Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, 20

The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,

Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up

Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst

My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it

At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there

Against the hospitable canon, would I

Wash my fierce hand in ’s heart. Go you to the city;

Learn how ’tis held, and what they are that must 28

Be hostages for Rome.

First Sol.

Will not you go?

Auf.

I am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you—

’Tis south the city mills—bring me word thither

How the world goes, that to the pace of it 32

I may spur on my journey.

First Sol.

I shall, sir.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Rome. A Public Place.

Enter Menenius, Sicinius, and Brutus.

Men.

The augurer tells me we shall have news to-night.

Bru.

Good or bad?

Men.

Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius. 5

Sic.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Men.

Pray you, who does the wolf love? 8

Sic.

The lamb.

Men.

Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.

Bru.

He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. 13

Men.

He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. 16

Sic.

Well, sir.

Bru.

Well, sir.

Men.

In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

Bru.

He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all. 21

Sic.

Especially in pride.

Bru.

And topping all others in boasting.

Men.

This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ the right hand file? Do you? 26

Both.

Why, how are we censured?

Men.

Because you talk of pride now,—Will you not be angry?

Both.

Well, well, sir; well. 30

Men.

Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?

Bru.

We do it not alone, sir. 37

Men.

I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like, for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves. O! that you could. 45

Bru.

What then, sir?

Men.

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates—alias fools—as any in Rome. 49

Sic.

Menenius, you are known well enough too.

Men.

I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are,—I cannot call you Lycurguses,—if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too? 73

Bru.

Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.

Men.

You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of three-pence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause is, calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones. 90

Bru.

Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. 93

Men.

Our very priests must become mockers if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion, or to be entombed in an ass’s pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. Good den to your worships: more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[Brutus and Sicinius go aside.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria.

How now, my as fair as noble ladies,—and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,—whither do you follow your eyes so fast? 111

Vol.

Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let’s go.

Men.

Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol.

Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation. 116

Men.

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home!

Vol.

Nay, ’tis true.

Vir.

Nay, ’tis true.

Vol.

Look, here’s a letter from him: the state hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s one at home for you.

Men.

I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for me! 124

Vir.

Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.

Men.

A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years’ health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded. 133

Vir.

O! no, no, no.

Vol.

O! he is wounded, I thank the gods for’t.

Men.

So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a’ victory in his pocket? The wounds become him.

Vol.

On ’s brows, Menenius; he comes the third time home with the oaken garland. 140

Men.

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Vol.

Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off. 143

Men.

And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that: an he had stayed by him I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that’s in them. Is the senate possessed of this? 148

Vol.

Good ladies, let’s go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war. He hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. 153

Val.

In troth there’s wondrous things spoke of him.

Men.

Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing. 157

Vir.

The gods grant them true!

Vol.

True! pow, wow.

Men.

True! I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the Tribunes.] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud. [To Volumnia.] Where is he wounded? 164

Vol.

I’ the shoulder, and i’ the left arm: there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ the body. 168

Men.

One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh, there’s nine that I know.

Vol.

He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him. 172

Men.

Now, it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy’s grave. [A shout and flourish.] Hark! the trumpets.

Vol.

These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears: 178

Death, that dark spirit, in ’s nervy arm doth lie;

Which, being advanc’d, declines, and then men die.

A Sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius and Titus Lartius; between them, Coriolanus, crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains, Soldiers, and a Herald.

Her.

Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight

Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,

With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these

In honour follows Coriolanus. 184

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish.

All.

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

Cor.

No more of this; it does offend my heart:

Pray now, no more.

Com.

Look, sir, your mother!

Cor.

O!

You have, I know, petition’d all the gods 189

For my prosperity.

[Kneels.

Vol.

Nay, my good soldier, up;

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and

By deed-achieving honour newly nam’d,— 192

What is it?—Coriolanus must I call thee?

But O! thy wife!—

Cor.

My gracious silence, hail!

Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home,

That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah! my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, 197

And mothers that lack sons.

Men.

Now, the gods crown thee!

Cor.

And live you yet? [To Valeria.] O my sweet lady, pardon.

Vol.

I know not where to turn: O! welcome home; 200

And welcome, general; and ye’re welcome all.

Men.

A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,

And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy. Welcome.

A curse begnaw at very root on ’s heart 204

That is not glad to see thee! You are three

That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men,

We have some old crab-trees here at home that will not

Be grafted to your relish. Yet, welcome, warriors! 208

We call a nettle but a nettle, and

The faults of fools but folly.

Com.

Ever right.

Cor.

Menenius, ever, ever.

Her.

Give way there, and go on!

Cor.

[To Volumnia and Valeria.] Your hand, and yours: 212

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,

The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have receiv’d not only greetings,

But with them change of honours.

Vol.

I have liv’d 216

To see inherited my very wishes,

And the buildings of my fancy: only

There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but

Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor.

Know, good mother, 220

I had rather be their servant in my way

Than sway with them in theirs.

Com.

On, to the Capitol!

[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The Tribunes remain.

Bru.

All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights 224

Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse

Into a rapture lets her baby cry

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins

Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, 228

Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,

Are smother’d up, leads fill’d, and ridges hors’d

With variable complexions, all agreeing 231

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens

Do press among the popular throngs, and puff

To win a vulgar station: our veil’d dames

Commit the war of white and damask in

Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil

Of Phœbus’ burning kisses: such a pother 237

As if that whatsoever god who leads him

Were slily crept into his human powers,

And gave him graceful posture.

Sic.

On the sudden 240

I warrant him consul.

Bru.

Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep.

Sic.

He cannot temperately transport his honours

From where he should begin and end, but will

Lose those he hath won.

Bru.

In that there’s comfort. 245

Sic.

Doubt not, the commoners, for whom we stand,

But they upon their ancient malice will

Forget with the least cause these his new honours, 248

Which that he’ll give them, make I as little question

As he is proud to do’t.

Bru.

I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he

Appear i’ the market-place, nor on him put 252

The napless vesture of humility;

Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds

To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic.

’Tis right.

Bru.

It was his word. O! he would miss it rather 256

Than carry it but by the suit o’ the gentry to him

And the desire of the nobles.

Sic.

I wish no better

Than have him hold that purpose and to put it

In execution.

Bru.

’Tis most like he will. 260

Sic.

It shall be to him then, as our good wills,

A sure destruction.

Bru.

So it must fall out

To him or our authorities. For an end,

We must suggest the people in what hatred 264

He still hath held them; that to his power he would

Have made them mules, silenc’d their pleaders, and

Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them,

In human action and capacity, 268

Of no more soul nor fitness for the world

Than camels in the war; who have their provand

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows

For sinking under them.

Sic.

This, as you say, suggested 272

At some time when his soaring insolence

Shall teach the people—which time shall not want,

If he be put upon ’t; and that’s as easy

As to set dogs on sheep—will be his fire 276

To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze

Shall darken him for ever.

Enter a Messenger.

Bru.

What’s the matter?

Mess.

You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought

That Marcius shall be consul. 280

I have seen the dumb men throng to see him, and

The blind to hear him speak: matrons flung gloves,

Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers

Upon him as he pass’d; the nobles bended, 284

As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made

A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts:

I never saw the like.

Bru.

Let’s to the Capitol;

And carry with us ears and eyes for the time, 288

But hearts for the event.

Sic.

Have with you.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The Capitol.

Enter two Officers to lay cushions.

First Off.

Come, come, they are almost here.

How many stand for consulships?

Sec. Off.

Three, they say; but ’tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. 4

First Off.

That’s a brave fellow; but he’s vengeance proud, and loves not the common people. 7

Sec. Off.

Faith, there have been many great men that have flattered the people, who ne’er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore: so that if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition; and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see’t. 17

First Off.

If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him; and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love. 26

Sec. Off.

He hath deserved worthily of his country; and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes, and his actions in their hearts, that for their tongues to be silent, and not confess so much, were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise, were a malice, that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it.

First Off.

No more of him; he is a worthy man: make way, they are coming. 41

A Sennet. Enter, with Lictors before them, Cominius the Consul, Menenius, Coriolanus, many other Senators, Sicinius and Brutus. The Senators take their places; the Tribunes take theirs also by themselves.

Men.

Having determin’d of the Volsces, and

To send for Titus Lartius, it remains,

As the main point of this our after-meeting, 44

To gratify his noble service that

Hath thus stood for his country: therefore, please you,

Most reverend and grave elders, to desire

The present consul, and last general 48

In our well-found successes, to report

A little of that worthy work perform’d

By Caius Marcius Coriolanus, whom

We meet here both to thank and to remember

With honours like himself.

First Sen.

Speak, good Cominius: 53

Leave nothing out for length, and make us think

Rather our state’s defective for requital,

Than we to stretch it out. [To the Tribunes.] Masters o’ the people, 56

We do request your kindest ears, and, after,

Your loving motion toward the common body,

To yield what passes here.

Sic.

We are convented

Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts 60

Inclinable to honour and advance

The theme of our assembly.

Bru.

Which the rather

We shall be bless’d to do, if he remember

A kinder value of the people than 64

He hath hereto priz’d them at.

Men.

That’s off, that’s off;

I would you rather had been silent. Please you

To hear Cominius speak?

Bru.

Most willingly;

But yet my caution was more pertinent 68

Than the rebuke you give it.

Men.

He loves your people;

But tie him not to be their bedfellow.

Worthy Cominius, speak.

[Coriolanus rises, and offers to go away.

Nay, keep your place.

First Sen.

Sit, Coriolanus; never shame to hear 72

What you have nobly done.

Cor.

Your honours’ pardon:

I had rather have my wounds to heal again

Than hear say how I got them.

Bru.

Sir, I hope

My words disbench’d you not.

Cor.

No, sir: yet oft, 76

When blows have made me stay, I fled from words.

You sooth’d not, therefore hurt not. But your people,

I love them as they weigh.

Men.

Pray now, sit down.

Cor.

I had rather have one scratch my head i’ the sun 80

When the alarum were struck than idly sit

To hear my nothings monster’d.

[Exit.

Men.

Masters of the people,

Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter,—

That’s thousand to one good one,—when you now see 84

He had rather venture all his limbs for honour

Than one on ’s ears to hear it. Proceed, Cominius.

Com.

I shall lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus

Should not be utter’d feebly. It is held 88

That valour is the chiefest virtue, and

Most dignifies the haver: if it be,

The man I speak of cannot in the world

Be singly counterpois’d. At sixteen years, 92

When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought

Beyond the mark of others; our then dictator,

Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight,

When with his Amazonian chin he drove 96

The bristled lips before him. He bestrid

An o’er-press’d Roman, and i’ the consul’s view

Slew three opposers: Tarquin’s self he met,

And struck him on his knee: in that day’s feats, 100

When he might act the woman in the scene,

He prov’d best man i’ the field, and for his meed

Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age

Man-enter’d thus, he waxed like a sea, 104

And in the brunt of seventeen battles since

He lurch’d all swords of the garland. For this last,

Before and in Corioli, let me say,

I cannot speak him home: he stopp’d the fliers,

And by his rare example made the coward 109

Turn terror into sport: as weeds before

A vessel under sail, so men obey’d,

And fell below his stem: his sword, death’s stamp, 112

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot

He was a thing of blood, whose every motion

Was tim’d with dying cries: alone he enter’d

The mortal gate of the city, which he painted

With shunless destiny; aidless came off, 117

And with a sudden re-enforcement struck

Corioli like a planet. Now all’s his:

When by and by the din of war ’gan pierce 120

His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit

Re-quicken’d what in flesh was fatigate,

And to the battle came he; where he did

Run reeking o’er the lives of men, as if 124

’Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call’d

Both field and city ours, he never stood

To ease his breast with panting.

Men.

Worthy man!

First Sen.

He cannot but with measure fit the honours 128

Which we devise him.

Com.

Our spoils he kick’d at,

And look’d upon things precious as they were

The common muck o’ the world: he covets less

Than misery itself would give; rewards 132

His deeds with doing them, and is content

To spend the time to end it.

Men.

He’s right noble:

Let him be call’d for.

First Sen.

Call Coriolanus.

Off.

He doth appear. 136

Re-enter Coriolanus.

Men.

The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas’d

To make thee consul.

Cor.

I do owe them still

My life and services.

Men.

It then remains

That you do speak to the people.

Cor.

I do beseech you,

Let me o’erleap that custom, for I cannot 141

Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them,

For my wounds’ sake, to give their suffrage: please you,

That I may pass this doing.

Sic.

Sir, the people 144

Must have their voices; neither will they bate

One jot of ceremony.

Men.

Put them not to ’t:

Pray you, go fit you to the custom, and

Take to you, as your predecessors have, 148

Your honour with your form.

Cor.

It is a part

That I shall blush in acting, and might well

Be taken from the people.

Bru.

[Aside to Sicinius.] Mark you that?

Cor.

To brag unto them, thus I did, and thus;

Show them the unaching scars which I should hide, 153

As if I had receiv’d them for the hire

Of their breath only!

Men.

Do not stand upon’t.

We recommend to you, tribunes of the people,

Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul

Wish we all joy and honour.

Sen.

To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus.

Bru.

You see how he intends to use the people. 160

Sic.

May they perceive ’s intent! He will require them,

As if he did contemn what he requested

Should be in them to give.

Bru.

Come; we’ll inform them

Of our proceedings here: on the market-place

I know they do attend us.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. The Forum.

Enter several Citizens.

First Cit.

Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.

Sec. Cit.

We may, sir, if we will. 3

Third Cit.

We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his wounds, and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of the which, we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. 14

First Cit.

And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude. 18

Third Cit.

We have been called so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some abram, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured: and truly I think, if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south; and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o’ the compass.

Sec. Cit.

Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? 28

Third Cit.

Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man’s will; ’tis strongly wedged up in a block-head; but if it were at liberty, ’twould, sure, southward. 32

Sec. Cit.

Why that way?

Third Cit.

To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience’ sake, to help to get thee a wife. 37

Sec. Cit.

You are never without your tricks. you may, you may.

Third Cit.

Are you all resolved to give your voices? But that’s no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man. 43

Re-enter Coriolanus, in a gown of humility, and Menenius.

Here he comes, and in a gown of humility mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He’s to make his requests by particulars; wherein every one of us has a single honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues: therefore follow me, and I’ll direct you how you shall go by him.

All.

Content, content.

[Exeunt Citizens.

Men.

O, sir, you are not right: have you not known 53

The worthiest men have done’t?

Cor.

What must I say?

‘I pray, sir,’—Plague upon’t! I cannot bring

My tongue to such a pace. ‘Look, sir, my wounds! 56

I got them in my country’s service, when

Some certain of your brethren roar’d and ran

From the noise of our own drums.’

Men.

O me! the gods!

You must not speak of that: you must desire them 60

To think upon you.

Cor.

Think upon me! Hang ’em!

I would they would forget me, like the virtues

Which our divines lose by ’em.

Men.

You’ll mar all:

I’ll leave you. Pray you, speak to ’em, I pray you, 64

In wholesome manner.

Cor.

Bid them wash their faces,

And keep their teeth clean.

[Exit Menenius.

So, here comes a brace.

Re-enter two Citizens.

You know the cause, sir, of my standing here?

First Cit.

We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to ’t. 69

Cor.

Mine own desert.

Sec. Cit.

Your own desert!

Cor.

Ay, not mine own desire. 72

First Cit.

How! not your own desire?

Cor.

No, sir, ’twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging.

First Cit.

You must think, if we give you any thing, we hope to gain by you. 77

Cor.

Well, then, I pray, your price o’ the consulship?

First Cit.

The price is, to ask it kindly. 80

Cor.

Kindly! sir, I pray, let me ha ’t: I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir; what say you?

Sec. Cit.

You shall ha ’t, worthy sir. 84

Cor.

A match, sir. There is in all two worthy voices begged. I have your alms: adieu.

First Cit.

But this is something odd.

Sec. Cit.

An ’twere to give again,—but ’tis no matter.

[Exeunt the two Citizens.

Re-enter two other Citizens.

Cor.

Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. 92

Third Cit.

You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly.

Cor.

Your enigma? 95

Third Cit.

You have been a scourge to her enemies, you have been a rod to her friends; you have not indeed loved the common people.

Cor.

You should account me the more virtuous that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; ’tis a condition they account gentle: and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod, and be off to them most counterfeitly; that is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man, and give it bountifully to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul. 110

Fourth Cit.

We hope to find you our friend, and therefore give you our voices heartily.

Third Cit.

You have received many wounds for your country. 114

Cor.

I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further. 117

Both Cit.

The gods give you joy, sir, heartily!

[Exeunt.

Cor.

Most sweet voices!

Better it is to die, better to starve, 120

Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.

Why in this woolvish toge should I stand here,

To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear,

Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to ’t:

What custom wills, in all things should we do ’t,

The dust on antique time would lie unswept,

And mountainous error be too highly heap’d

For truth to o’er-peer. Rather than fool it so,

Let the high office and the honour go 129

To one that would do thus. I am half through;

The one part suffer’d, the other will I do.

Here come more voices. 132

Re-enter three other Citizens.

Your voices: for your voices I have fought;

Watch’d for your voices; for your voices bear

Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six

I have seen and heard of; for your voices have

Done many things, some less, some more; your voices: 137

Indeed, I would be consul.

Fifth Cit.

He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man’s voice. 140

Sixth Cit.

Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people!

All.

Amen, amen. 144

God save thee, noble consul!

[Exeunt Citizens.

Cor.

Worthy voices!

Re-enter Menenius, with Brutus and Sicinius.

Men.

You have stood your limitation; and the tribunes

Endue you with the people’s voice: remains

That, in the official marks invested, you 148

Anon do meet the senate.

Cor.

Is this done?

Sic.

The custom of request you have discharg’d:

The people do admit you, and are summon’d

To meet anon, upon your approbation. 152

Cor.

Where? at the senate-house?

Sic.

There, Coriolanus.

Cor.

May I change these garments?

Sic.

You may, sir.

Cor.

That I’ll straight do; and, knowing myself again, 156

Repair to the senate-house.

Men.

I’ll keep you company. Will you along?

Bru.

We stay here for the people.

Sic.

Fare you well.

[Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius.

He has it now; and by his looks, methinks, 160

’Tis warm at’s heart.

Bru.

With a proud heart he wore

His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people?

Re-enter Citizens.

Sic.

How now, my masters! have you chose this man?

First Cit.

He has our voices, sir. 164

Bra.

We pray the gods he may deserve your love.

Sec. Cit.

Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice,

He mock’d us when he begg’d our voices.

Third Cit.

Certainly,

He flouted us downright. 168

First Cit.

No, ’tis his kind of speech; he did not mock us.

Sec. Cit.

Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says

He used us scornfully: he should have show’d us

His marks of merit, wounds receiv’d for’s country. 172

Sic.

Why, so he did, I am sure.

All.

No, no; no man saw ’em.

Third Cit.

He said he had wounds, which he could show in private;

And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn,

‘I would be consul,’ says he: ‘aged custom, 176

But by your voices, will not so permit me;

Your voices therefore:’ when we granted that,

Here was, ‘I thank you for your voices, thank you,

Your most sweet voices: now you have left your voices 180

I have no further with you.’ Was not this mockery?

Sic.

Why, either were you ignorant to see ’t,

Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness

To yield your voices?

Bru.

Could you not have told him

As you were lesson’d, when he had no power, 185

But was a petty servant to the state,

He was your enemy, ever spake against

Your liberties and the charters that you bear

I’ the body of the weal; and now, arriving 189

A place of potency and sway o’ the state,

If he should still malignantly remain

Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might 192

Be curses to yourselves? You should have said

That as his worthy deeds did claim no less

Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature

Would think upon you for your voices and 196

Translate his malice towards you into love,

Standing your friendly lord.

Sic.

Thus to have said,

As you were fore-advis’d, had touch’d his spirit

And tried his inclination; from him pluck’d 200

Either his gracious promise, which you might,

As cause had call’d you up, have held him to;

Or else it would have gall’d his surly nature,

Which easily endures not article 204

Tying him to aught; so, putting him to rage,

You should have ta’en the advantage of his choler,

And pass’d him unelected.

Bru.

Did you perceive

He did solicit you in free contempt 208

When he did need your loves, and do you think

That his contempt shall not be bruising to you

When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies

No heart among you? or had you tongues to cry

Against the rectorship of judgment?

Sic.

Have you 213

Ere now denied the asker? and now again

Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow

Your su’d-for tongues? 216

Third Cit.

He’s not confirm’d; we may deny him yet.

Sec. Cit.

And will deny him:

I’ll have five hundred voices of that sound.

First Cit.

Ay, twice five hundred and their friends to piece ’em. 220

Bru.

Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends,

They have chose a consul that will from them take

Their liberties; make them of no more voice

Than dogs that are as often beat for barking 224

As therefore kept to do so.

Sic.

Let them assemble;

And, on a safer judgment, all revoke

Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride,

And his old hate unto you; besides, forget not 228

With what contempt he wore the humble weed;

How in his suit he scorn’d you; but your loves,

Thinking upon his services, took from you

The apprehension of his present portance, 232

Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion

After the inveterate hate he bears you.

Bru.

Lay

A fault on us, your tribunes; that we labour’d,—

No impediment between,—but that you must

Cast your election on him.

Sic.

Say, you chose him 237

More after our commandment than as guided

By your own true affections; and that, your minds,

Pre-occupied with what you rather must do 240

Than what you should, made you against the grain

To voice him consul: lay the fault on us.

Bru.

Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you,

How youngly he began to serve his country, 244

How long continu’d, and what stock he springs of,

The noble house o’ the Marcians, from whence came

That Ancus Marcius, Numa’s daughter’s son,

Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; 248

Of the same house Publius and Quintus were,

That our best water brought by conduits hither;

And Censorinus, that was so surnam’d,—

And nobly nam’d so, twice being censor,— 252

Was his great ancestor.

Sic.

One thus descended,

That hath, beside, well in his person wrought

To be set high in place, we did commend

To your remembrances: but you have found,

Scaling his present bearing with his past, 257

That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke

Your sudden approbation.

Bru.

Say you ne’er had done ’t—

Harp on that still—but by our putting on; 260

And presently, when you have drawn your number,

Repair to the Capitol.

All.

We will so; almost all

Repent in their election.

[Exeunt Citizens.

Bru.

Let them go on;

This mutiny were better put in hazard 264

Than stay, past doubt, for greater.

If, as his nature is, he fall in rage

With their refusal, both observe and answer

The vantage of his anger.

Sic.

To the Capitol, come: 268

We will be there before the stream o’ the people;

And this shall seem, as partly ’tis, their own,

Which we have goaded onward.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Rome. A Street.

Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, Cominius, Titus Lartius, Senators, and Patricians.

Cor.

Tullus Aufidius then had made new head?

Lart.

He had, my lord; and that it was which caus’d

Our swifter composition.

Cor.

So then the Volsces stand but as at first,

Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road 5

Upon ’s again.

Com.

They are worn, lord consul, so,

That we shall hardly in our ages see

Their banners wave again.

Cor.

Saw you Aufidius? 8

Lart.

On safe-guard he came to me; and did curse

Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely

Yielded the town: he is retir’d to Antium.

Cor.

Spoke he of me?

Lart.

He did, my lord.

Cor.

How? what? 12

Lart.

How often he had met you, sword to sword;

That of all things upon the earth he hated

Your person most, that he would pawn his fortunes

To hopeless restitution, so he might 16

Be call’d your vanquisher.

Cor.

At Antium lives he?

Lart.

At Antium.

Cor.

I wish I had a cause to seek him there,

To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. 20

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Behold! these are the tribunes of the people,

The tongues o’ the common mouth: I do despise them;

For they do prank them in authority

Against all noble sufferance.

Sic.

Pass no further. 24

Cor.

Ha! what is that?

Bru.

It will be dangerous to go on: no further.

Cor.

What makes this change?

Men.

The matter?

Com.

Hath he not pass’d the noble and the common? 28

Bru.

Cominius, no.

Cor.

Have I had children’s voices?

First Sen.

Tribunes, give way; he shall to the market-place.

Bru.

The people are incens’d against him.

Sic.

Stop,

Or all will fall in broil.

Cor.

Are these your herd? 32

Must these have voices, that can yield them now,

And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices?

You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth?

Have you not set them on?

Men.

Be calm, be calm. 36

Cor.

It is a purpos’d thing, and grows by plot,

To curb the will of the nobility:

Suffer’t, and live with such as cannot rule

Nor ever will be rul’d.

Bru.

Call’t not a plot: 40

The people cry you mock’d them, and of late,

When corn was given them gratis, you repin’d;

Scandall’d the suppliants for the people, call’d them

Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. 44

Cor.

Why, this was known before.

Bru.

Not to them all.

Cor.

Have you inform’d them sithence?

Bru.

How! I inform them!

Cor.

You are like to do such business.

Bru.

Not unlike,

Each way, to better yours. 48

Cor.

Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds,

Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me

Your fellow tribune.

Sic.

You show too much of that

For which the people stir; if you will pass 52

To where you are bound, you must inquire your way,

Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit;

Or never be so noble as a consul,

Nor yoke with him for tribune.

Men.

Let’s be calm. 56

Com.

The people are abus’d; set on. This paltering

Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus

Deserv’d this so dishonour’d rub, laid falsely

I’ the plain way of his merit.

Cor.

Tell me of corn! 60

This was my speech, and I will speak’t again,—

Men.

Not now, not now.

First Sen.

Not in this heat, sir, now.

Cor.

Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends,

I crave their pardons: 64

For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them

Regard me as I do not flatter, and

Therein behold themselves: I say again,

In soothing them we nourish ’gainst our senate

The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, 69

Which we ourselves have plough’d for, sow’d and scatter’d,

By mingling them with us, the honour’d number;

Who lack’d not virtue, no, nor power, but that

Which they have given to beggars.

Men.

Well, no more. 73

First Sen.

No more words, we beseech you.

Cor.

How! no more!

As for my country I have shed my blood,

Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs 76

Coin words till they decay against those measles,

Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought

The very way to catch them.

Bru.

You speak o’ the people,

As if you were a god to punish, not 80

A man of their infirmity.

Sic.

’Twere well

We let the people know’t.

Men.

What, what? his choler?

Cor.

Choler!

Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, 84

By Jove, ’twould be my mind!

Sic.

It is a mind

That shall remain a poison where it is,

Not poison any further.

Cor.

Shall remain!

Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you 88

His absolute ‘shall?’

Com.

’Twas from the canon.

Cor.

‘Shall!’

O good but most unwise patricians! why,

You grave but reckless senators, have you thus

Given Hydra here to choose an officer, 92

That with his peremptory ‘shall,’ being but

The horn and noise o’ the monster’s, wants not spirit

To say he’ll turn your current in a ditch,

And make your channel his? If he have power,

Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake 97

Your dangerous lenity. If you are learned,

Be not as common fools; if you are not,

Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians 100

If they be senators; and they are no less,

When, both your voices blended, the great’st taste

Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate,

And such a one as he, who puts his ‘shall,’ 104

His popular ‘shall,’ against a graver bench

Than ever frown’d in Greece. By Jove himself!

It makes the consuls base; and my soul aches

To know, when two authorities are up; 108

Neither supreme, how soon confusion

May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take

The one by the other.

Com.

Well, on to the market-place.

Cor.

Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth

The corn o’ the store-house gratis, as ’twas us’d

Sometime in Greece,—

Men.

Well, well; no more of that.

Cor.

Though there the people had more absolute power,

I say, they nourish’d disobedience, fed 116

The ruin of the state.

Bru.

Why, shall the people give

One that speaks thus their voice?

Cor.

I’ll give my reasons,

More worthier than their voices. They know the corn 119

Was not our recompense, resting well assur’d

They ne’er did service for ’t. Being press’d to the war,

Even when the navel of the state was touch’d,

They would not thread the gates: this kind of service 123

Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ the war,

Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show’d

Most valour, spoke not for them. The accusation

Which they have often made against the senate,

All cause unborn, could never be the motive 128

Of our so frank donation. Well, what then?

How shall this bisson multitude digest

The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express

What’s like to be their words: ‘We did request it; 132

We are the greater poll, and in true fear

They gave us our demands.’ Thus we debase

The nature of our seats, and make the rabble

Call our cares, fears; which will in time break ope 136

The locks o’ the senate, and bring in the crows

To peck the eagles.

Men.

Come, enough.

Bru.

Enough, with over-measure.

Cor.

No, take more:

What may be sworn by, both divine and human,

Seal what I end withal! This double worship, 141

Where one part does disdain with cause, the other

Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom,

Cannot conclude, but by the yea and no 144

Of general ignorance,—it must omit

Real necessities, and give way the while

To unstable slightness: purpose so barr’d, it follows

Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you,— 148

You that will be less fearful than discreet,

That love the fundamental part of state

More than you doubt the change on ’t, that prefer

A noble life before a long, and wish 152

To jump a body with a dangerous physic

That’s sure of death without it, at once pluck out

The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick

The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour 156

Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state

Of that integrity which should become it,

Not having the power to do the good it would,

For the ill which doth control ’t.

Bru.

He has said enough. 160

Sic.

He has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer

As traitors do.

Cor.

Thou wretch! despite o’erwhelm thee!

What should the people do with these bald tribunes? 164

On whom depending, their obedience fails

To the greater bench. In a rebellion,

When what’s not meet, but what must be, was law,

Then were they chosen: in a better hour, 168

Let what is meet be said it must be meet,

And throw their power i’ the dust.

Bru.

Manifest treason!

Sic.

This a consul? no.

Bru.

The ædiles, ho! Let him be apprehended. 172

Enter an Ædile.

Sic.

Go, call the people; [Exit Ædile] in whose name, myself

Attach thee as a traitorous innovator,

A foe to the public weal: obey, I charge thee,

And follow to thine answer.

Cor.

Hence, old goat! 176

Sen.

We’ll surety him.

Com.

Aged sir, hands off.

Cor.

Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy bones

Out of thy garments.

Sic.

Help, ye citizens!

Re-enter Ædiles, with Others, and a rabble of Citizens.

Men.

On both sides more respect. 180

Sic.

Here’s he that would take from you all your power.

Bru.

Seize him, ædiles!

Citizens.

Down with him!—down with him!—

Sen.

Weapons!—weapons!—weapons!— 184

[They all bustle about Coriolanus, crying Tribunes!—patricians!—citizens!—What ho!—Sicinius! — Brutus! — Coriolanus!—Citizens! Peace!—Peace!—Peace!—Stay!—Hold!—Peace!

Men.

What is about to be?—I am out of breath; 188

Confusion’s near; I cannot speak. You, tribunes

To the people! Coriolanus, patience!

Speak, good Sicinius.

Sic.

Hear me, people; peace!

Citizens.

Let’s hear our tribune:—Peace!—Speak, speak, speak. 192

Sic.

You are at point to lose your liberties:

Marcius would have all from you; Marcius,

Whom late you have nam’d for consul.

Men.

Fie, fie, fie!

This is the way to kindle, not to quench. 196

First Sen.

To unbuild the city and to lay all flat.

Sic.

What is the city but the people?

Citizens.

True,

The people are the city.

Bru.

By the consent of all, we were establish’d

The people’s magistrates.

Citizens.

You so remain. 201

Men.

And so are like to do.

Com.

That is the way to lay the city flat;

To bring the roof to the foundation, 204

And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,

In heaps and piles of ruin.

Sic.

This deserves death.

Bru.

Or let us stand to our authority,

Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, 208

Upon the part o’ the people, in whose power

We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy

Of present death.

Sic.

Therefore lay hold of him;

Bear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence

Into destruction cast him.

Bru.

Ædiles, seize him! 213

Citizens.

Yield, Marcius, yield!

Men.

Hear me one word;

Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word.

Æd.

Peace, peace! 216

Men.

Be that you seem, truly your country’s friends,

And temperately proceed to what you would

Thus violently redress.

Bru.

Sir, those cold ways,

That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous

Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him, 221

And bear him to the rock.

Cor.

No, I’ll die here.

[Drawing his sword.

There’s some among you have beheld me fighting:

Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me. 224

Men.

Down with that sword! Tribunes, withdraw awhile.

Bru.

Lay hands upon him.

Men.

Help Marcius, help,

You that be noble; help him, young and old!

Citizens.

Down with him!—down with him!

[In this mutiny the Tribunes, the Ædiles, and the People are beat in.

Men.

Go, get you to your house; be gone, away! 229

All will be naught else.

Sec. Sen.

Get you gone.

Cor.

Stand fast;

We have as many friends as enemies.

Men.

Shall it be put to that?

First Sen.

The gods forbid!

I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house; 233

Leave us to cure this cause.

Men.

For ’tis a sore upon us,

You cannot tent yourself: be gone, beseech you.

Com.

Come, sir, along with us. 236

Cor.

I would they were barbarians,—as they are,

Though in Rome litter’d,—not Romans,—as they are not,

Though calv’d i’ the porch o’ the Capitol,—

Men.

Be gone;

Put not your worthy rage into your tongue; 240

One time will owe another.

Cor.

On fair ground

I could beat forty of them.

Men.

I could myself

Take up a brace o’ the best of them; yea, the two tribunes.

Com.

But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic;

And manhood is call’d foolery when it stands 245

Against a falling fabric. Will you hence,

Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend

Like interrupted waters and o’erbear 248

What they are us’d to bear.

Men.

Pray you, be gone.

I’ll try whether my old wit be in request

With those that have but little: this must be patch’d

With cloth of any colour.

Com.

Nay, come away. 252

[Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, and Others.

First Pat.

This man has marr’d his fortune.

Men.

His nature is too noble for the world:

He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,

Or Jove for ’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth: 256

What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;

And, being angry, does forget that ever

He heard the name of death.

[A noise within.

Here’s goodly work!

Sec. Pat.

I would they were a-bed!

Men.

I would they were in Tiber! What the vengeance! 261

Could he not speak ’em fair?

Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble.

Sic.

Where is this viper

That would depopulate the city and

Be every man himself?

Men.

You worthy tribunes,—

Sic.

He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock 265

With rigorous hands: he hath resisted law,

And therefore law shall scorn him further trial

Than the severity of the public power, 268

Which he so sets at nought.

First Cit.

He shall well know

The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths,

And we their hands.

Citizens.

He shall, sure on’t.

Men.

Sir, sir,—

Sic.

Peace! 272

Men.

Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt

With modest warrant.

Sic.

Sir, how comes ’t that you

Have holp to make this rescue?

Men.

Hear me speak:

As I do know the consul’s worthiness, 276

So can I name his faults.

Sic.

Consul! what consul?

Men.

The Consul Coriolanus.

Bru.

He consul!

Citizens.

No, no, no, no, no.

Men.

If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, good people, 280

I may be heard, I would crave a word or two,

The which shall turn you to no further harm

Than so much loss of time.

Sic.

Speak briefly then;

For we are peremptory to dispatch 284

This viperous traitor. To eject him hence

Were but one danger, and to keep him here

Our certain death; therefore it is decreed

He dies to-night.

Men.

Now the good gods forbid 288

That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude

Towards her deserved children is enroll’d

In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam

Should now eat up her own! 292

Sic.

He’s a disease that must be cut away.

Men.

O! he’s a limb that has but a disease;

Mortal to cut it off; to cure it easy.

What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death? 296

Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost,—

Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath

By many an ounce,—he dropp’d it for his country;

And what is left, to lose it by his country, 300

Were to us all, that do’t and suffer it,

A brand to th’ end o’ the world.

Sic.

This is clean kam.

Bru.

Merely awry: when he did love his country

It honour’d him.

Men.

The service of the foot 304

Being once gangren’d, is not then respected

For what before it was.

Bru.

We’ll hear no more.

Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence,

Lest his infection, being of catching nature, 308

Spread further.

Men.

One word more, one word.

This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find

The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will, too late,

Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process; 312

Lest parties—as he is belov’d—break out,

And sack great Rome with Romans.

Bru.

If ’twere so,—

Sic.

What do ye talk?

Have we not had a taste of his obedience? 316

Our ædiles smote? ourselves resisted? Come!

Men.

Consider this: he has been bred i’ the wars

Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school’d

In bolted language; meal and bran together 320

He throws without distinction. Give me leave,

I’ll go to him, and undertake to bring him

Where he shall answer by a lawful form,—

In peace,—to his utmost peril.

First Sen.

Noble tribunes, 324

It is the humane way: the other course

Will prove too bloody, and the end of it

Unknown to the beginning.

Sic.

Noble Menenius,

Be you then as the people’s officer. 328

Masters, lay down your weapons.

Bru.

Go not home.

Sic.

Meet on the market-place. We’ll attend you there:

Where, if you bring not Marcius, we’ll proceed

In our first way. 332

Men.

I’ll bring him to you.

[To the Senators.] Let me desire your company. He must come,

Or what is worst will follow.

First Sen.

Pray you, let’s to him.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in Coriolanus’s House.

Enter Coriolanus and Patricians.

Cor.

Let them pull all about mine ears; present me

Death on the wheel, or at wild horses’ heels;

Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,

That the precipitation might down stretch 4

Below the beam of sight; yet will I still

Be thus to them.

First Pat.

You do the nobler.

Cor.

I muse my mother

Does not approve me further, who was wont 8

To call them woollen vassals, things created

To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads

In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder,

When one but of my ordinance stood up 12

To speak of peace or war.

Enter Volumnia.

I talk of you:

Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me

False to my nature? Rather say I play

The man I am.

Vol.

O! sir, sir, sir, 16

I would have had you put your power well on

Before you had worn it out.

Cor.

Let go.

Vol.

You might have been enough the man you are

With striving less to be so: lesser had been 20

The thwarting of your dispositions if

You had not show’d them how you were dispos’d,

Ere they lack’d power to cross you.

Cor.

Let them hang.

Vol.

Ay, and burn too. 24

Enter Menenius and Senators.

Men.

Come, come; you have been too rough, something too rough;

You must return and mend it.

First Sen

There’s no remedy;

Unless, by not so doing, our good city

Cleave in the midst, and perish.

Vol.

Pray be counsell’d. 28

I have a heart of mettle apt as yours,

But yet a brain that leads my use of anger

To better vantage.

Men.

Well said, noble woman!

Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that 32

The violent fit o’ the time craves it as physic

For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,

Which I can scarcely bear.

Cor.

What must I do?

Men.

Return to the tribunes.

Cor.

Well, what then? what then? 36

Men.

Repent what you have spoke.

Cor.

For them! I cannot do it to the gods;

Must I then do’t to them?

Vol.

You are too absolute;

Though therein you can never be too noble, 40

But when extremities speak. I have heard you say,

Honour and policy, like unsever’d friends,

I’ the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me,

In peace what each of them by th’ other lose, 44

That they combine not there.

Cor.

Tush, tush!

Men.

A good demand.

Vol.

If it be honour in your wars to seem

The same you are not,—which, for your best ends,

You adopt your policy,—how is it less or worse,

That it shall hold companionship in peace 49

With honour, as in war, since that to both

It stands in like request?

Cor.

Why force you this?

Vol.

Because that now it lies you on to speak 52

To the people; not by your own instruction,

Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you,

But with such words that are but rooted in

Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables

Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. 57

Now, this no more dishonours you at all

Than to take in a town with gentle words,

Which else would put you to your fortune and

The hazard of much blood. 61

I would dissemble with my nature where

My fortunes and my friends at stake requir’d

I should do so in honour: I am in this, 64

Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;

And you will rather show our general louts

How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em,

For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard 68

Of what that want might ruin.

Men.

Noble lady!

Come, go with us; speak fair; you may salve so,

Not what is dangerous present, but the loss

Of what is past.

Vol.

I prithee now, my son, 72

Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand;

And thus far having stretch’d it,—here be with them,

Thy knee bussing the stones,—for in such business

Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant 76

More learned than the ears,—waving thy head,

Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,

Now humble as the ripest mulberry

That will not hold the handling: or say to them,

Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils

Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,

Were fit for thee to use as they to claim,

In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame

Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far 85

As thou hast power and person.

Men.

This but done,

Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;

For they have pardons, being ask’d, as free 88

As words to little purpose.

Vol.

Prithee now,

Go, and be rul’d; although I know thou hadst rather

Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf

Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius.

Enter Cominius.

Com.

I have been i’ the market-place; and, sir, ’tis fit 93

You make strong party, or defend yourself

By calmness or by absence: all’s in anger.

Men.

Only fair speech.

Com.

I think ’twill serve if he 96

Can thereto frame his spirit.

Vol.

He must, and will.

Prithee now, say you will, and go about it.

Cor.

Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce?

Must I with my base tongue give to my noble heart 100

A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t:

Yet, were there but this single plot to lose,

This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,

And throw ’t against the wind. To the market-place! 104

You have put me now to such a part which never

I shall discharge to the life.

Com.

Come, come, we’ll prompt you.

Vol.

I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said

My praises made thee first a soldier, so, 108

To have my praise for this, perform a part

Thou hast not done before.

Cor.

Well, I must do ’t:

Away, my disposition, and possess me

Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turn’d,

Which quired with my drum, into a pipe 113

Small as a eunuch, or the virgin voice

That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves

Tent in my cheeks, and school-boys’ tears take up 116

The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue

Make motion through my lips, and my arm’d knees,

Who bow’d but in my stirrup, bend like his

That hath receiv’d an alms! I will not do ’t, 120

Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,

And by my body’s action teach my mind

A most inherent baseness.

Vol.

At thy choice then:

To beg of thee it is my more dishonour 124

Than thou of them. Come all to ruin; let

Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear

Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death

With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list, 128

Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it from me,

But owe thy pride thyself.

Cor.

Pray, be content:

Mother, I am going to the market-place;

Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves, 132

Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov’d

Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going:

Commend me to my wife. I’ll return consul,

Or never trust to what my tongue can do 136

I’ the way of flattery further.

Vol.

Do your will.

[Exit.

Com.

Away! the tribunes do attend you: arm yourself

To answer mildly; for they are prepar’d

With accusations, as I hear, more strong 140

Than are upon you yet.

Men.

The word is ‘mildly.’

Cor.

Pray you, let us go:

Let them accuse me by invention, I

Will answer in mine honour.

Men.

Ay, but mildly. 144

Cor.

Well, mildly be it then. Mildly!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. The Forum.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Bru.

In this point charge him home, that he affects

Tyrannical power: if he evade us there,

Enforce him with his envy to the people,

And that the spoil got on the Antiates 4

Was ne’er distributed.—

Enter an Ædile.

What, will he come?

Æd.

He’s coming.

Bru.

How accompanied?

Æd.

With old Menenius, and those senators

That always favour’d him.

Sic.

Have you a catalogue 8

Of all the voices that we have procur’d,

Set down by the poll?

Æd.

I have; ’tis ready.

Sic.

Have you collected them by tribes?

Æd.

I have.

Sic.

Assemble presently the people hither; 12

And when they hear me say, ‘It shall be so,

I’ the right and strength o’ the commons,’ be it either

For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them,

If I say, fine, cry ‘fine,’—if death, cry ‘death,’ 16

Insisting on the old prerogative

And power i’ the truth o’ the cause.

Æd.

I shall inform them.

Bru.

And when such time they have begun to cry,

Let them not cease, but with a din confus’d 20

Enforce the present execution

Of what we chance to sentence.

Æd.

Very well.

Sic.

Make them be strong and ready for this hint,

When we shall hap to give ’t them.

Bru.

Go about it. 24

[Exit Ædile.

Put him to choler straight. He hath been us’d

Ever to conquer, and to have his worth

Of contradiction: being once chaf’d, he cannot

Be rein’d again to temperance; then he speaks

What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks 29

With us to break his neck.

Sic.

Well, here he comes.

Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, Cominius, Senators, and Patricians.

Men.

Calmly, I do beseech you.

Cor.

Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece 32

Will bear the knave by the volume. The honour’d gods

Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice

Supplied with worthy men! plant love among us!

Throng our large temples with the shows of peace, 36

And not our streets with war!

First Sen.

Amen, amen.

Men.

A noble wish.

Re-enter Ædile, with Citizens.

Sic.

Draw near, ye people.

Æd.

List to your tribunes; audience; peace! I say.

Cor.

First, hear me speak.

Both Tri.

Well, say. Peace, ho! 40

Cor.

Shall I be charg’d no further than this present?

Must all determine here?

Sic.

I do demand,

If you submit you to the people’s voices,

Allow their officers, and are content 44

To suffer lawful censure for such faults

As shall be prov’d upon you?

Cor.

I am content.

Men.

Lo! citizens, he says he is content:

The war-like service he has done, consider; think 48

Upon the wounds his body bears, which show

Like graves i’ the holy churchyard.

Cor.

Scratches with briers,

Scars to move laughter only.

Men.

Consider further,

That when he speaks not like a citizen, 52

You find him like a soldier: do not take

His rougher accents for malicious sounds,

But, as I say, such as become a soldier,

Rather than envy you.

Com.

Well, well; no more. 56

Cor.

What is the matter,

That being pass’d for consul with full voice

I am so dishonour’d that the very hour

You take it off again?

Sic.

Answer to us. 60

Cor.

Say, then: ’tis true, I ought so.

Sic.

We charge you, that you have contriv’d to take

From Rome all season’d office, and to wind

Yourself into a power tyrannical; 64

For which you are a traitor to the people.

Cor.

How! Traitor!

Men.

Nay, temperately; your promise.

Cor.

The fires i’ the lowest hell fold-in the people!

Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune!

Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,

In thy hands clutch’d as many millions, in

Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say

‘Thou liest’ unto thee with a voice as free 72

As I do pray the gods.

Sic.

Mark you this, people!

Citizens.

To the rock!—to the rock with him!

Sic.

Peace!

We need not put new matter to his charge:

What you have seen him do, and heard him speak, 76

Beating your officers, cursing yourselves,

Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying

Those whose great power must try him; even this,

So criminal and in such capital kind, 80

Deserves the extremest death.

Bru.

But since he hath

Serv’d well for Rome,—

Cor.

What do you prate of service?

Bru.

I talk of that, that know it.

Cor.

You!

Men.

Is this the promise that you made your mother? 84

Com.

Know, I pray you,—

Cor.

I’ll know no further:

Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,

Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger

But with a grain a day, I would not buy 88

Their mercy at the price of one fair word,

Nor check my courage for what they can give,

To have ’t with saying ‘Good morrow.’

Sic.

For that he has,—

As much as in him lies,—from time to time 92

Envied against the people, seeking means

To pluck away their power, as now at last

Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence

Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers 96

That do distribute it; in the name o’ the people,

And in the power of us the tribunes, we,

Even from this instant, banish him our city,

In peril of precipitation 100

From off the rock Tarpeian, never more

To enter our Rome gates: i’ the people’s name,

I say, it shall be so.

Citizens.

It shall be so,—It shall be so,—Let him away.— 104

He’s banish’d, and it shall be so.

Com.

Hear me, my masters, and my common friends,—

Sic.

He’s sentenc’d; no more hearing.

Com.

Let me speak:

I have been consul, and can show for Rome 108

Her enemies’ marks upon me. I do love

My country’s good with a respect more tender,

More holy, and profound, than mine own life,

My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase,

And treasure of my loins; then if I would 113

Speak that—

Sic.

We know your drift: speak what?

Bru.

There’s no more to be said, but he is banish’d,

As enemy to the people and his country: 116

It shall be so.

Citizens.

It shall be so,—it shall be so.

Cor.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate

As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize

As the dead carcases of unburied men 120

That do corrupt my air, I banish you;

And here remain with your uncertainty!

Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!

Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, 124

Fan you into despair! Have the power still

To banish your defenders; till at length

Your ignorance,—which finds not, till it feels,—

Making but reservation of yourselves,— 128

Still your own foes,—deliver you as most

Abated captives to some nation

That won you without blows! Despising,

For you, the city, thus I turn my back: 132

There is a world elsewhere.

[Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, Menenius, Senators, and Patricians.

Æd.

The people’s enemy is gone, is gone!

Citizens.

Our enemy is banish’d!—he is gone!—Hoo! hoo!

[They all shout and throw up their caps.

Sic.

Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,

As he hath follow’d you, with all despite; 137

Give him deserv’d vexation. Let a guard

Attend us through the city.

Citizens.

Come, come,—let us see him out at gates! come! 140

The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come!

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Rome. Before a Gate of the City.

Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius, and several young Patricians.

Cor.

Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: the beast

With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,

Where is your ancient courage? you were us’d,

To say extremity was the trier of spirits; 4

That common chances common men could bear;

That when the sea was calm all boats alike

Show’d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows,

When most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves 8

A noble cunning: you were us’d to load me

With precepts that would make invincible

The heart that conn’d them.

Vir.

O heavens! O heavens!

Cor.

Nay, I prithee, woman,—

Vol.

Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, 13

And occupations perish!

Cor.

What, what, what!

I shall be lov’d when I am lack’d. Nay, mother,

Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say,

If you had been the wife of Hercules, 17

Six of his labours you’d have done, and sav’d

Your husband so much sweat. Cominius,

Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife! my mother! 20

I’ll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,

Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s.

And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime general,

I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld

Heart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women 25

’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes

As ’tis to laugh at them. My mother, you wot well

My hazards still have been your solace; and 28

Believe ’t not lightly,—though I go alone

Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen

Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen,—your son

Will or exceed the common or be caught 32

With cautelous baits and practice.

Vol.

My first son,

Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius

With thee awhile: determine on some course,

More than a wild exposture to each chance 36

That starts i’ the way before thee.

Cor.

O the gods!

Com.

I’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee

Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us,

And we of thee: so, if the time thrust forth 40

A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send

O’er the vast world to seek a single man,

And lose advantage, which doth ever cool

I’ the absence of the needer.

Cor.

Fare ye well: 44

Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full

Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one

That’s yet unbruis’d: bring me but out at gate.

Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and 48

My friends of noble touch, when I am forth,

Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.

While I remain above the ground you shall

Hear from me still; and never of me aught 52

But what is like me formerly.

Men.

That’s worthily

As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep.

If I could shake off but one seven years

From these old arms and legs, by the good gods,

I’d with thee every foot.

Cor.

Give me thy hand: 57

Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Street near the Gate.

Enter Sicinius, Brutus, and an Ædile.

Sic.

Bid them all home; he’s gone, and we’ll no further.

The nobility are vex’d, whom we see have sided

In his behalf.

Bru.

Now we have shown our power,

Let us seem humbler after it is done 4

Than when it was a-doing.

Sic.

Bid them home;

Say their great enemy is gone, and they

Stand in their ancient strength.

Bru.

Dismiss them home.

[Exit Ædile.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius.

Here comes his mother.

Sic.

Let’s not meet her.

Bru.

Why?

Sic.

They say she’s mad. 9

Bru.

They have ta’en note of us: keep on your way.

Vol.

O! you’re well met. The hoarded plague o’ the gods

Requite your love!

Men.

Peace, peace! be not so loud.

Vol.

If that I could for weeping, you should hear,— 13

Nay, and you shall hear some. [To Brutus.] Will you be gone?

Vir.

[To Sicinius.] You shall stay too. I would I had the power

To say so to my husband.

Sic.

Are you mankind? 16

Vol.

Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this fool.

Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship

To banish him that struck more blows for Rome

Than thou hast spoken words?

Sic.

O blessed heavens!

Vol.

More noble blows than ever thou wise words; 21

And for Rome’s good. I’ll tell thee what; yet go:

Nay, but thou shalt stay too: I would my son

Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him, 24

His good sword in his hand.

Sic.

What then?

Vir.

What then!

He’d make an end of thy posterity.

Vol.

Bastards and all.

Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! 28

Men.

Come, come: peace!

Sic.

I would he had continu’d to his country

As he began, and not unknit himself

The noble knot he made.

Bru.

I would he had. 32

Vol.

‘I would he had!’ ’Twas you incens’d the rabble:

Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth

As I can of those mysteries which heaven

Will not have earth to know.

Bru.

Pray, let us go. 36

Vol.

Now, pray, sir, get you gone:

You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this:

As far as doth the Capitol exceed

The meanest house in Rome, so far my son,— 40

This lady’s husband here, this, do you see,—

Whom you have banish’d, does exceed you all.

Bru.

Well, well, we’ll leave you.

Sic.

Why stay we to be baited

With one that wants her wits?

Vol.

Take my prayers with you.

[Exeunt Tribunes.

I would the gods had nothing else to do 45

But to confirm my curses! Could I meet ’em

But once a day, it would unclog my heart

Of what lies heavy to ’t.

Men.

You have told them home,

And, by my troth, you have cause. You’ll sup with me? 49

Vol.

Anger’s my meat; I sup upon myself,

And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let’s go.

Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, 52

In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.

Men.

Fie, fie, fie!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Highway between Rome and Antium.

Enter a Roman and a Volsce, meeting.

Rom.

I know you well, sir, and you know me: your name I think is Adrian.

Vols.

It is so, sir: truly, I have forget you.

Rom.

I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against ’em: know you me yet? 5

Vols.

Nicanor? No.

Rom.

The same, sir.

Vols.

You had more beard, when I last saw you; but your favour is well approved by your tongue. What’s the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state to find you out there: you have well saved me a day’s journey.

Rom.

There hath been in Rome strange insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles. 15

Vols.

Hath been! Is it ended then? Our state thinks not-so; they are in a most war-like preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division. 19

Rom.

The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again. For the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

Vols.

Coriolanus banished! 28

Rom.

Banished, sir.

Vols.

You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor. 31

Rom.

The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. 38

Vols.

He cannot choose. I am most fortunate, thus accidentally to encounter you: you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. 42

Rom.

I shall, between this and supper, tell you most strange things from Rome; all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? 46

Vols.

A most royal one: the centurions and their charges distinctly billeted, already in the entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning. 50

Rom.

I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.

Vols.

You take my part from me, sir; I have the most cause to be glad of yours. 56

Rom.

Well, let us go together.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Antium. Before Aufidius’ House.

Enter Coriolanus, in mean apparel, disguised and muffled.

Cor.

A goodly city is this Antium. City,

’Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir

Of these fair edifices ’fore my wars

Have I heard groan and drop: then, know me not, 4

Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones

In puny battle slay me.

Enter a Citizen.

Save you, sir.

Cit.

And you.

Cor.

Direct me, if it be your will,

Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? 8

Cit.

He is, and feasts the nobles of the state

At his house this night.

Cor.

Which is his house, beseech you?

Cit.

This, here before you.

Cor.

Thank you, sir. Farewell.

[Exit Citizen.

O world! thy slippery turns. Friends now fast sworn, 12

Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,

Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,

Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love

Unseparable, shall within this hour, 16

On a dissension of a doit, break out

To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes,

Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep

To take the one the other, by some chance, 20

Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends

And interjoin their issues. So with me:

My birth-place hate I, and my love’s upon

This enemy town. I’ll enter: if he slay me, 24

He does fair justice; if he give me way,

I’ll do his country service.

[Exit.

Scene V.— The Same. A Hall in Aufidius’ House.

Music within. Enter a Servingman.

First Serv.

Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep.

[Exit.

Enter a Second Servingman.

Sec. Serv.

Where’s Cotus? my master calls for him. Cotus!

[Exit.

Enter Coriolanus.

Cor.

A goodly house: the feast smells well; but I 5

Appear not like a guest.

Re-enter the First Servingman.

First Serv.

What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here’s no place for you: pray, go to the door.

[Exit.

Cor.

I have deserv’d no better entertainment,

In being Coriolanus. 11

Re-enter Second Servingman.

Sec. Serv.

Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray, get you out.

Cor.

Away!

Sec. Serv.

‘Away!’ Get you away. 16

Cor.

Now, thou art troublesome.

Sec. Serv.

Are you so brave? I’ll have you talked with anon.

Enter a Third Servingman. Re-enter the First.

Third Serv.

What fellow’s this? 20

First Serv.

A strange one as ever I looked on:

I cannot get him out o’ the house: prithee, call my master to him.

Third Serv.

What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you, avoid the house. 25

Cor.

Let me but stand; I will not hurt your hearth.

Third Serv.

What are you? 28

Cor.

A gentleman.

Third Serv.

A marvellous poor one.

Cor.

True, so I am.

Third Serv.

Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here’s no place for you; pray you, avoid: come. 34

Cor.

Follow your function; go, and batten on cold bits.

[Pushes him away.

Third Serv.

What, you will not? Prithee, tell my master what a strange guest he has here.

Sec. Serv.

And I shall.

[Exit.

Third Serv.

Where dwell’st thou? 40

Cor.

Under the canopy.

Third Serv.

‘Under the canopy!’

Cor.

Ay.

Third Serv.

Where’s that? 44

Cor.

I’ the city of kites and crows.

Third Serv.

‘I’ the city of kites and crows!’ What an ass it is! Then thou dwell’st with daws too? 48

Cor.

No; I serve not thy master.

Third Serv.

How sir! Do you meddle with my master?

Cor.

Ay; ’tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. 53

Thou prat’st, and prat’st: serve with thy trencher. Hence.

[Beats him away.

Enter Aufidius and First Servingman.

Auf.

Where is this fellow?

Sec. Serv.

Here, sir: I’d have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within. 57

Auf.

Whence com’st thou? what wouldst thou? Thy name?

Why speak’st not? Speak, man: what’s thy name?

Cor.

[Unmuffling.] If, Tullus, 60

Not yet thou know’st me, and, seeing me, dost not

Think me for the man I am, necessity

Commands me name myself.

Auf.

What is thy name?

[Servants retire.

Cor.

A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears,

And harsh in sound to thine.

Auf.

Say, what’s thy name? 65

Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face

Bears a command in ’t; though thy tackle’s torn,

Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name?

Cor.

Prepare thy brow to frown. Know’st thou me yet? 69

Auf.

I know thee not. Thy name?

Cor.

My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done

To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, 72

Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may

My surname, Coriolanus: the painful service,

The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood

Shed for my thankless country, are requited 76

But with that surname; a good memory,

And witness of the malice and displeasure

Which thou shouldst bear me: only that name remains;

The cruelty and envy of the people, 80

Permitted by our dastard nobles, who

Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest;

And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be

Whoop’d out of Rome. Now this extremity 84

Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope,

Mistake me not, to save my life; for if

I had fear’d death, of all the men i’ the world

I would have ’voided thee; but in mere spite,

To be full quit of those my banishers, 89

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast

A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge

Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims 92

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight,

And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it,

That my revengeful services may prove

As benefits to thee, for I will fight 96

Against my canker’d country with the spleen

Of all the under fiends. But if so be

Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunes

Thou art tir’d, then, in a word, I also am 100

Longer to live most weary, and present

My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;

Which not to cut would show thee but a fool,

Since I have ever follow’d thee with hate, 104

Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast,

And cannot live but to thy shame, unless

It be to do thee service.

Auf.

O Marcius, Marcius!

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart 108

A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter

Should from yond cloud speak divine things,

And say, ‘’Tis true,’ I’d not believe them more

Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine

Mine arms about that body, where against 113

My grained ash a hundred times hath broke,

And scarr’d the moon with splinters: here I clip

The anvil of my sword, and do contest 116

As hotly and as nobly with thy love

As ever in ambitious strength I did

Contend against thy valour. Know thou first,

I lov’d the maid I married; never man 120

Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,

Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart

Than when I first my wedded mistress saw

Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee, 124

We have a power on foot; and I had purpose

Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,

Or lose mine arm for ’t. Thou hast beat me out 127

Twelve several times, and I have nightly since

Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me;

We have been down together in my sleep,

Unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat,

And wak’d half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius, 132

Had we no quarrel else to Rome, but that

Thou art thence banish’d, we would muster all

From twelve to seventy, and, pouring war

Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, 136

Like a bold flood o’er-bear. O! come; go in,

And take our friendly senators by the hands,

Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,

Who am prepar’d against your territories, 140

Though not for Rome itself.

Cor.

You bless me, gods!

Auf.

Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have

The leading of thine own revenges, take

The one half of my commission, and set down,

As best thou art experienc’d, since thou know’st

Thy country’s strength and weakness, thine own ways;

Whether to knock against the gates of Rome,

Or rudely visit them in parts remote, 148

To fright them, ere destroy. But come in:

Let me commend thee first to those that shall

Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes!

And more a friend than e’er an enemy; 152

Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand: most welcome!

[Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius.

First Serv.

[Advancing.] Here’s a strange alteration!

Sec. Serv.

By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him. 159

First Serv.

What an arm he has! He turned me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top.

Sec. Serv.

Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him: he had, sir, a kind of face, methought,—I cannot tell how to term it. 165

First Serv.

He had so; looking as it were,— would I were hanged but I thought there was more in him than I could think. 168

Sec. Serv.

So did I, I’ll be sworn: he is simply the rarest man i’ the world.

First Serv.

I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot on. 172

Sec. Serv.

Who? my master?

First Serv.

Nay, it’s no matter for that.

Sec. Serv.

Worth six on him.

First Serv.

Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater soldier. 177

Sec. Serv.

Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that: for the defence of a town our general is excellent. 180

First Serv.

Ay, and for an assault too.

Re-enter Third Servingman.

Third Serv.

O slaves! I can tell you news; news, you rascals.

First Serv.

What, what, what? let’s partake.

Sec. Serv.

What, what, what? let’s partake.

Third Serv.

I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemned man. 186

First Serv.

Wherefore? wherefore?

Sec. Serv.

Wherefore? wherefore?

Third Serv.

Why, here’s he that was wont to thwack our general, Caius Marcius.

First Serv.

Why do you say ‘thwack our general?’ 191

Third Serv.

I do not say, ‘thwack our general;’ but he was always good enough for him.

Sec. Serv.

Come, we are fellows and friends: he was ever too hard for him; I have heard him say so himself. 196

First Serv.

He was too hard for him,—directly to say the truth on ’t: before Corioli he scotched him and notched him like a carbonado.

Sec. Serv.

An he had been cannibally given, he might have broiled and eaten him too. 201

First Serv.

But, more of thy news.

Third Serv.

Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ the table; no question asked him by any of the senators, but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him; sanctifies himself with ’s hand, and turns up the white o’ the eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is out i’ the middle, and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half, by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He’ll go, he says, and sowle the porter of Rome gates by the ears: he will mow down all before him, and leave his passage polled. 216

Sec. Serv.

And he’s as like to do ’t as any man I can imagine.

Third Serv.

Do ’t! he will do ’t for—look you, sir—he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir—as it were—durst not—look you, sir—show themselves—as we term it—his friends, whilst he’s in directitude.

First Serv.

Directitude! what’s that? 224

Sec. Serv.

But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like comes after rain, and revel all with him. 228

First Serv.

But when goes this forward?

Third Serv.

To-morrow; to-day; presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon; ’tis, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips. 233

Sec. Serv.

Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers.

First Serv.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it’s spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men. 242

Sec. Serv.

’Tis so: and as war, in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.

First Serv.

Ay, and it makes men hate one another. 247

Third Serv.

Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. 251

All.

In, in, in, in!

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Rome. A Public Place.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Sic.

We hear not of him, neither need we fear him;

His remedies are tame i’ the present peace

And quietness o’ the people, which before

Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends 4

Blush that the world goes well, who rather had,

Though they themselves did suffer by ’t, behold

Dissentious numbers pestering streets, than see

Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going

About their functions friendly. 9

Enter Menenius.

Bru.

We stood to ’t in good time. Is this Menenius?

Sic.

’Tis he, ’tis he O! he is grown most kind

Of late. Hail, sir!

Men.

Hail to you both! 12

Sic.

Your Coriolanus is not much miss’d

But with his friends: the commonwealth doth stand,

And so would do, were he more angry at it.

Men.

All’s well; and might have been much better, if 16

He could have temporiz’d.

Sic.

Where is he, hear you?

Men.

Nay, I hear nothing: his mother and his wife

Hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens.

Citizens.

The gods preserve you both!

Sic.

Good den, our neighbours. 20

Bru.

Good den to you all, good den to you all.

First Cit.

Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees,

Are bound to pray for you both.

Sic.

Live, and thrive!

Bru.

Farewell, kind neighbours: we wish’d Coriolanus 24

Had lov’d you as we did.

Citizens.

Now the gods keep you!

Sic.

Farewell, farewell.

[Exeunt Citizens.

Bru.

Farewell, farewell.

Sic.

This is a happier and more comely time

Than when these fellows ran about the streets

Crying confusion.

Bru.

Caius Marcius was 29

A worthy officer i’ the war; but insolent,

O’ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking,

Self-loving,—

Sic.

And affecting one sole throne. 32

Without assistance.

Men.

I think not so.

Sic.

We should by this, to all our lamentation,

If he had gone forth consul, found it so.

Bru.

The gods have well prevented it, and Rome 36

Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Ædile.

Æd.

Worthy tribunes,

There is a slave, whom we have put in prison,

Reports, the Volsces with two several powers

Are enter’d in the Roman territories, 40

And with the deepest malice of the war

Destroy what lies before them.

Men.

’Tis Aufidius,

Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment,

Thrusts forth his horns again into the world; 44

Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for Rome,

And durst not once peep out.

Sic.

Come, what talk you of Marcius?

Bru.

Go see this rumourer whipp’d. It cannot be 48

The Volsces dare break with us.

Men.

Cannot be!

We have record that very well it can,

And three examples of the like have been

Within my age. But reason with the fellow, 52

Before you punish him, where he heard this,

Lest you shall chance to whip your information,

And beat the messenger who bids beware

Of what is to be dreaded.

Sic.

Tell not me: 56

I know this cannot be.

Bru.

Not possible.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

The nobles in great earnestness are going

All to the senate-house: some news is come,

That turns their countenances.

Sic.

’Tis this slave.— 60

Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes: his raising;

Nothing but his report.

Mess.

Yes, worthy sir,

The slave’s report is seconded; and more,

More fearful, is deliver’d.

Sic.

What more fearful? 64

Mess.

It is spoke freely out of many mouths—

How probable I do not know—that Marcius,

Join’d with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome,

And vows revenge as spacious as between 68

The young’st and oldest thing.

Sic.

This is most likely.

Bru.

Rais’d only, that the weaker sort may wish

Good Marcius home again.

Sic.

The very trick on ’t.

Men.

This is unlikely: 72

He and Aufidius can no more atone,

Than violentest contrariety.

Enter another Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

You are sent for to the senate:

A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius, 76

Associated with Aufidius, rages

Upon our territories; and have already

O’erborne their way, consum’d with fire, and took

What lay before them. 80

Enter Cominius.

Com.

O! you have made good work!

Men.

What news? what news?

Com.

You have holp to ravish your own daughters; and

To melt the city leads upon your pates.

To see your wives dishonour’d to your noses,—

Men.

What’s the news? what’s the news? 85

Com.

Your temples burned in their cement, and

Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin’d

Into an auger’s bore.

Men.

Pray now, your news?— 88

You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your news?

If Marcius should be join’d with Volscians,—

Com.

If!

He is their god: he leads them like a thing

Made by some other deity than Nature, 92

That shapes man better; and they follow him,

Against us brats, with no less confidence

Than boys pursuing summer butterflies,

Or butchers killing flies.

Men.

You have made good work, 96

You, and your apron-men; you that stood so much

Upon the voice of occupation and

The breath of garlic-eaters!

Com.

He will shake

Your Rome about your ears.

Men.

As Hercules 100

Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work!

Bru.

But is this true, sir?

Com.

Ay; and you’ll look pale

Before you find it other. All the regions

Do smilingly revolt; and who resist 104

Are mock’d for valiant ignorance,

And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him?

Your enemies, and his, find something in him.

Men.

We are all undone unless 108

The noble man have mercy.

Com.

Who shall ask it?

The tribunes cannot do’t for shame; the people

Deserve such pity of him as the wolf

Does of the shepherds: for his best friends, if they 112

Should say, ‘Be good to Rome,’ they charg’d him even

As those should do that had deserv’d his hate,

And therein show’d like enemies.

Men.

’Tis true:

If he were putting to my house the brand 116

That should consume it, I have not the face

To say, ‘Beseech you, cease.’—You have made fair hands,

You and your crafts! you have crafted fair!

Com.

You have brought

A trembling upon Rome, such as was never 120

So incapable of help.

Sic.

Say not we brought it.

Bru.

Say not we brought it.

Men.

How! Was it we? We lov’d him; but, like beasts

And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters,

Who did hoot him out o’ the city.

Com.

But I fear 124

They’ll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius,

The second name of men, obeys his points

As if he were his officer: desperation

Is all the policy, strength, and defence, 128

That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens.

Men.

Here come the clusters.

And is Aufidius with him? You are they

That made the air unwholesome, when you cast

Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at 132

Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming;

And not a hair upon a soldier’s head

Which will not prove a whip: as many coxcombs

As you threw caps up will he tumble down, 136

And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter;

If he could burn us all into one coal,

We have deserv’d it.

Citizens.

Faith, we hear fearful news.

First Cit.

For mine own part,

When I said banish him, I said ’twas pity. 141

Sec. Cit.

And so did I.

Third Cit.

And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

Com.

You’re goodly things, you voices!

Men.

You have made

Good work, you and your cry! Shall’s to the Capitol? 149

Com.

O! ay; what else?

[Exeunt Cominius and Menenius.

Sic.

Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay’d:

These are a side that would be glad to have 152

This true which they so seem to fear. Go home,

And show no sign of fear.

First Cit.

The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s home. I ever said we were i’ the wrong when we banished him. 157

Sec. Cit.

So did we all. But come, let’s home.

[Exeunt Citizens.

Bru.

I do not like this news.

Sic.

Nor I. 160

Bru.

Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my wealth

Would buy this for a lie!

Sic.

Pray let us go.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— A Camp at a small distance from Rome.

Enter Aufidius and his Lieutenant.

Auf.

Do they still fly to the Roman?

Lieu.

I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but

Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat,

Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; 4

And you are darken’d in this action, sir,

Even by your own.

Auf.

I cannot help it now,

Unless, by using means, I lame the foot

Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier,

Even to my person, than I thought he would 9

When first I did embrace him; yet his nature

In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse

What cannot be amended.

Lieu.

Yet, I wish, sir,— 12

I mean for your particular,—you had not

Join’d in commission with him; but either

Had borne the action of yourself, or else

To him had left it solely. 16

Auf.

I understand thee well; and be thou sure,

When he shall come to his account, he knows not

What I can urge against him. Although it seems,

And so he thinks, and is no less apparent 20

To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly,

And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,

Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon

As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone 24

That which shall break his neck or hazard mine,

Whene’er we come to our account.

Lieu.

Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?

Auf.

All places yield to him ere he sits down;

And the nobility of Rome are his: 29

The senators and patricians love him too:

The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people

Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty 32

To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome

As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it

By sovereignty of nature. First he was

A noble servant to them, but he could not 36

Carry his honours even; whether ’twas pride,

Which out of daily fortune ever taints

The happy man; whether defect of judgment,

To fail in the disposing of those chances 40

Which he was lord of; or whether nature,

Not to be other than one thing, not moving

From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace

Even with the same austerity and garb 44

As he controll’d the war; but one of these,

As he hath spices of them all, not all,

For I dare so far free him, made him fear’d,

So hated, and so banish’d: but he has a merit 48

To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues

Lie in the interpretation of the time;

And power, unto itself most commendable,

Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair 52

To extol what it hath done.

One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;

Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.

Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,

Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Rome. A Public Place.

Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus, and Others.

Men.

No, I’ll not go: you hear what he hath said

Which was sometime his general; who lov’d him

In a most dear particular. He call’d me father:

But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d him; 4

A mile before his tent fall down, and knee

The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy’d

To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.

Com.

He would not seem to know me.

Men.

Do you hear? 8

Com.

Yet one time he did call me by my name.

I urg’d our old acquaintance, and the drops

That we have bled together. Coriolanus

He would not answer to; forbad all names; 12

He was a kind of nothing, titleless,

Till he had forg’d himself a name o’ the fire

Of burning Rome.

Men.

Why, so: you have made good work!

A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome, 16

To make coals cheap: a noble memory!

Com.

I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon

When it was less expected: he replied,

It was a bare petition of a state 20

To one whom they had punish’d.

Men.

Very well.

Could he say less?

Com.

I offer’d to awaken his regard

For’s private friends: his answer to me was, 24

He could not stay to pick them in a pile

Of noisome musty chaff: he said ’twas folly,

For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,

And still to nose the offence.

Men.

For one poor grain or two! 28

I am one of those; his mother, wife, his child,

And this brave fellow too, we are the grains:

You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt

Above the moon. We must be burnt for you. 32

Sic.

Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid

In this so-never-needed help, yet do not

Upbraid’s with our distress. But, sure, if you

Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, 36

More than the instant army we can make,

Might stop our countryman.

Men.

No; I’ll not meddle.

Sic.

Pray you, go to him.

Men.

What should I do? 40

Bru.

Only make trial what your love can do

For Rome, towards Marcius.

Men.

Well; and say that Marcius

Return me, as Cominius is return’d,

Unheard; what then? 44

But as a discontented friend, grief-shot

With his unkindness? say ’t be so?

Sic.

Yet your good will

Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure

As you intended well.

Men.

I’ll undertake it: 48

I think he’ll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip,

And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.

He was not taken well; he had not din’d:

The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then 52

We pout upon the morning, are unapt

To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d

These pipes and these conveyances of our blood

With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls 56

Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore, I’ll watch him

Till he be dieted to my request,

And then I’ll set upon him.

Bru.

You know the very road into his kindness, 60

And cannot lose your way.

Men.

Good faith, I’ll prove him,

Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge

Of my success.

[Exit.

Com.

He’ll never hear him.

Sic.

Not?

Com.

I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye 64

Red as ’twould burn Rome, and his injury

The gaoler to his pity. I kneel’d before him;

’Twas very faintly he said ‘Rise;’ dismiss’d me

Thus, with his speechless hand: what he would do 68

He sent in writing after me; what he would not,

Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions:

So that all hope is vain

Unless his noble mother and his wife, 72

Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him

For mercy to his country. Therefore let’s hence,

And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Volscian Camp before Rome. The Guards at their stations.

Enter to them, Menenius.

First Guard.

Stay! whence are you?

Sec. Guard.

Stand! and go back.

Men.

You guard like men; ’tis well; but, by your leave,

I am an officer of state, and come

To speak with Coriolanus.

First Guard.

From whence?

Men.

From Rome.

First Guard.

You may not pass; you must return: our general 5

Will no more hear from thence.

Sec. Guard.

You’ll see your Rome embrac’d with fire before

You’ll speak with Coriolanus.

Men.

Good my friends,

If you have heard your general talk of Rome, 9

And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks

My name hath touch’d your ears: it is Menenius.

First Guard.

Be it so; go back: the virtue of your name 12

Is not here passable.

Men.

I tell thee, fellow,

Thy general is my lover: I have been

The book of his good acts, whence men have read

His fame unparallel’d, haply amplified; 16

For I have ever glorified my friends—

Of whom he’s chief—with all the size that verity

Would without lapsing suffer: nay, sometimes,

Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, 20

I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise

Have almost stamp’d the leasing. Therefore, fellow,

I must have leave to pass.

First Guard.

Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore go back. 28

Men.

Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general.

Sec. Guard.

Howsoever you have been his liar—as you say you have—I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. 35

Men.

Has he dined, canst thou tell? for I would not speak with him till after dinner.

First Guard.

You are a Roman, are you?

Men.

I am as thy general is. 39

First Guard.

Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance, given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceived; therefore, back to Rome, and prepare for your execution: you are condemned, our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon. 53

Men.

Sirrah, if thy captain know I were here, he would use me with estimation.

Sec. Guard.

Come, my captain knows you not.

Men.

I mean, thy general. 57

First Guard.

My general cares not for you.

Back, I say: go, lest I let forth your half-pint of blood; back, that’s the utmost of your having: back. 61

Men.

Nay, but, fellow, fellow,—

Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius.

Cor.

What’s the matter?

Men.

Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for you: you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus: guess, but by my entertainment with him, if thou standest not i’ the state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship, and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swound for what’s to come upon thee. [To Coriolanus.] The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs; and conjure thee to pardon Rome, and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee. 85

Cor.

Away!

Men.

How! away!

Cor.

Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs 88

Are servanted to others: though I owe

My revenge properly, my remission lies

In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar,

Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather 92

Than pity note how much. Therefore, be gone:

Mine ears against your suits are stronger than

Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov’d thee,

Take this along; I writ it for thy sake, 96

[Gives a paper.

And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius,

I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius,

Was my belov’d in Rome: yet thou behold’st!

Auf.

You keep a constant temper. 100

[Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius.

First Guard.

Now, sir, is your name Menenius?

Sec. Guard.

’Tis a spell, you see, of much power. You know the way home again.

First Guard.

Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back? 105

Sec. Guard.

What cause, do you think, I have to swound?

Men.

I neither care for the world, nor your general: for such things as you, I can scarce think there’s any, ye’re so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to, Away!

[Exit.

First Guard.

A noble fellow, I warrant him.

Sec. Guard.

The worthy fellow is our general: he is the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Tent of Coriolanus.

Enter Coriolanus, Aufidius, and Others.

Cor.

We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow

Set down our host. My partner in this action,

You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly

I have borne this business.

Auf.

Only their ends 4

You have respected; stopp’d your ears against

The general suit of Rome; never admitted

A private whisper; no, not with such friends

That thought them sure of you.

Cor.

This last old man, 8

Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome,

Lov’d me above the measure of a father;

Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge

Was to send him; for whose old love I have, 12

Though I show’d sourly to him, once more offer’d

The first conditions, which they did refuse,

And cannot now accept, to grace him only

That thought he could do more. A very little 16

I have yielded to; fresh embassies and suits,

Nor from the state, nor private friends, hereafter

Will I lend ear to. [Shout within.] Ha! what shout is this?

Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow 20

In the same time ’tis made? I will not.

Enter, in mourning habits, Virgilia, Volumnia, leading young Marcius, Valeria, and Attendants.

My wife comes foremost; then the honour’d mould

Wherein this trunk was fram’d, and in her hand

The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! 24

All bond and privilege of nature, break!

Let it be virtuous to be obstinate.

What is that curtsy worth? or those doves’ eyes,

Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not 28

Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows,

As if Olympus to a molehill should

In supplication nod; and my young boy

Hath an aspect of intercession, which 32

Great nature cries, ‘Deny not.’ Let the Volsces

Plough Rome, and harrow Italy; I’ll never

Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand

As if a man were author of himself 36

And knew no other kin.

Vir.

My lord and husband!

Cor.

These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

Vir.

The sorrow that delivers us thus chang’d

Makes you think so.

Cor.

Like a dull actor now, 40

I have forgot my part, and I am out,

Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,

Forgive my tyranny; but do not say

For that, ‘Forgive our Romans.’ O! a kiss 44

Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss

I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip

Hath virgin’d it e’er since. You gods! I prate,

And the most noble mother of the world 49

Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ the earth;

[Kneels.

Of thy deep duty more impression show

Than that of common sons.

Vol.

O! stand up bless’d; 52

Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint,

I kneel before thee, and unproperly

Show duty, as mistaken all this while

Between the child and parent.

[Kneels.

Cor.

What is this? 56

Your knees to me! to your corrected son!

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach

Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds

Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, 60

Murd’ring impossibility, to make

What cannot be, slight work.

Vol.

Thou art my warrior;

I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?

Cor.

The noble sister of Publicola, 64

The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle

That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow,

And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!

Vol.

This is a poor epitome of yours, 68

[Pointing to the Child.

Which by the interpretation of full time

May show like all yourself.

Cor.

The god of soldiers,

With the consent of supreme Jove, inform

Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove 72

To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ the wars

Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,

And saving those that eye thee!

Vol.

Your knee, sirrah.

Cor.

That’s my brave boy! 76

Vol.

Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,

Are suitors to you.

Cor.

I beseech you, peace:

Or, if you’d ask, remember this before:

The things I have forsworn to grant may never

Be held by you denials. Do not bid me 81

Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate

Again with Rome’s mechanics: tell me not

Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not 84

To allay my rages and revenges with

Your colder reasons.

Vol.

O! no more, no more;

You have said you will not grant us any thing;

For we have nothing else to ask but that 88

Which you deny already: yet we will ask;

That, if you fail in our request, the blame

May hang upon your hardness. Therefore, hear us.

Cor.

Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we’ll 92

Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request?

Vol.

Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment

And state of bodies would bewray what life

We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself

How more unfortunate than all living women

Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which should 98

Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts,

Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow; 100

Making the mother, wife, and child to see

The son, the husband, and the father tearing

His country’s bowels out. And to poor we

Thine enmity’s most capital: thou barr’st us 104

Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort

That all but we enjoy; for how can we,

Alas! how can we for our country pray,

Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, 108

Whereto we are bound? Alack! or we must lose

The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person,

Our comfort in the country. We must find

An evident calamity, though we had 112

Our wish, which side should win; for either thou

Must, as a foreign recreant, be led

With manacles through our streets, or else

Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin, 116

And bear the palm for having bravely shed

Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son,

I purpose not to wait on Fortune till

These wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee 120

Rather to show a noble grace to both parts

Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner

March to assault thy country than to tread—

Trust to’t, thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb, 124

That brought thee to this world.

Vir.

Ay, and mine,

That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name

Living to time.

Boy.

A’ shall not tread on me:

I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight. 128

Cor.

Not of a woman’s tenderness to be,

Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.

I have sat too long.

[Rising.

Vol.

Nay, go not from us thus.

If it were so, that our request did tend 132

To save the Romans, thereby to destroy

The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us,

As poisonous of your honour: no; our suit

Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces

May say, ‘This mercy we have show’d;’ the Romans, 137

‘This we receiv’d;’ and each in either side

Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, ‘Be bless’d

For making up this peace!’ Thou know’st, great son, 140

The end of war’s uncertain; but this certain,

That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit

Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name

Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses; 144

Whose chronicle thus writ: ‘The man was noble,

But with his last attempt he wip’d it out,

Destroy’d his country, and his name remains

To the ensuing age abhorr’d.’ Speak to me, son! 148

Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour,

To imitate the graces of the gods;

To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ the air,

And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt 152

That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?

Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man

Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you:

He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy: 156

Perhaps thy childishness will move him more

Than can our reasons. There is no man in the world

More bound to ’s mother; yet here he lets me prate

Like one i’ the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life 160

Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy;

When she—poor hen! fond of no second brood—

Has cluck’d thee to the wars, and safely home,

Loaden with honour. Say my request’s unjust,

And spurn me back; but if it be not so, 165

Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee,

That thou restrain’st from me the duty which

To a mother’s part belongs. He turns away:

Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees.

To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride

Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end;

This is the last: so we will home to Rome, 172

And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold us.

This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,

But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship,

Does reason our petition with more strength 176

Than thou hast to deny ’t. Come, let us go:

This fellow had a Volscian to his mother;

His wife is in Corioli, and his child

Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch:

I am hush’d until our city be a-fire, 181

And then I’ll speak a little.

Cor.

[Holding Volumnia by the hand, silent.]

O, mother, mother!

What have you done? Behold! the heavens do ope,

The gods look down, and this unnatural scene

They laugh at. O my mother! mother! O! 185

You have won a happy victory to Rome;

But, for your son, believe it, O! believe it,

Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d, 188

If not most mortal to him. But let it come.

Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars,

I’ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius,

Were you in my stead, would you have heard

A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius? 193

Auf.

I was mov’d withal.

Cor.

I dare be sworn you were:

And, sir, it is no little thing to make

Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir,

What peace you’ll make, advise me: for my part, 197

I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you,

Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife!

Auf.

[Aside.] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour 200

At difference in thee: out of that I’ll work

Myself a former fortune.

[The ladies make signs to Coriolanus.

Cor.

Ay, by and by;

But we will drink together; and you shall bear

A better witness back than words, which we, 204

On like conditions, would have counter-seal’d.

Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve

To have a temple built you: all the swords

In Italy, and her confederate arms, 208

Could not have made this peace.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rome. A Public Place.

Enter Menenius and Sicinius.

Men.

See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond corner-stone?

Sic.

Why, what of that? 3

Men.

If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say, there is no hope in ’t. Our throats are sentenced and stay upon execution. 9

Sic.

Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

Men.

There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he’s more than a creeping thing.

Sic.

He loved his mother dearly. 16

Men.

So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Sic.

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly. 28

Men.

I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find: and all this is ’long of you. 33

Sic.

The gods be good unto us!

Men.

No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house:

The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune, 40

And hale him up and down; all swearing, if

The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,

They’ll give him death by inches.

Enter a second Messenger.

Sic.

What’s the news?

Sec. Mess.

Good news, good news! the ladies have prevail’d, 44

The Volscians are dislodg’d, and Marcius gone.

A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,

No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.

Sic.

Friend,

Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain? 48

Sec. Mess.

As certain as I know the sun is fire:

Where have you lurk’d that you make doubt of it?

Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,

As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you! 52

[Trumpets and hautboys sounded, and drums beaten, all together. Shouting also within.

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes,

Tabors, and cymbals, and the shouting Romans,

Make the sun dance. Hark you!

[A shout within.

Men.

This is good news:

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia 56

Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,

A city full; of tribunes, such as you,

A sea and land full. You have pray’d well to-day: 59

This morning for ten thousand of your throats

I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

[Music still and shouts.

Sic.

First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next,

Accept my thankfulness.

Sec. Mess.

Sir, we have all

Great cause to give great thanks.

Sic.

They are near the city? 64

Sec. Mess.

Almost at point to enter.

Sic.

We will meet them,

And help the joy.

[Going.

Enter the Ladies, accompanied by Senators, Patricians, and People. They pass over the stage.

First Sen.

Behold our patroness, the life of Rome!

Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, 68

And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them:

Unshout the noise that banish’d Marcius;

Repeal him with the welcome of his mother;

Cry, ‘Welcome, ladies, welcome!’

All.

Welcome, ladies, 72

Welcome!

[A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt.

Scene V.— Corioli. A Public Place.

Enter Tullus Aufidius, with Attendants.

Auf.

Go tell the lords o’ the city I am here:

Deliver them this paper: having read it,

Bid them repair to the market-place; where I,

Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, 4

Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse

The city ports by this hath enter’d, and

Intends to appear before the people, hoping

To purge himself with words: dispatch. 8

[Exeunt Attendants.

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’ faction.

Most welcome!

First Con.

How is it with our general?

Auf.

Even so

As with a man by his own alms empoison’d,

And with his charity slain.

Sec. Con.

Most noble sir, 12

If you do hold the same intent wherein

You wish’d us parties, we’ll deliver you

Of your great danger.

Auf.

Sir, I cannot tell:

We must proceed as we do find the people. 16

Third Con.

The people will remain uncertain whilst

’Twixt you there’s difference; but the fall of either

Makes the survivor heir of all.

Auf.

I know it;

And my pretext to strike at him admits 20

A good construction. I rais’d him, and I pawn’d

Mine honour for his truth: who being so heighten’d,

He water’d his new plants with dews of flattery,

Seducing so my friends; and, to this end, 24

He bow’d his nature, never known before

But to be rough, unswayable, and free.

Third Con.

Sir, his stoutness

When he did stand for consul, which he lost 28

By lack of stooping,—

Auf.

That I would have spoke of:

Being banish’d for’t, he came unto my hearth;

Presented to my knife his throat: I took him;

Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way

In all his own desires; nay, let him choose 33

Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,

My best and freshest men; serv’d his designments

In mine own person; holp to reap the fame 36

Which he did end all his; and took some pride

To do myself this wrong: till, at the last,

I seem’d his follower, not partner; and

He wag’d me with his countenance, as if 40

I had been mercenary.

First Con.

So he did, my lord:

The army marvell’d at it; and, in the last,

When we had carried Rome, and that we look’d

For no less spoil than glory,—

Auf.

There was it; 44

For which my sinews shall be stretch’d upon him.

At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are

As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour

Of our great action: therefore shall he die, 48

And I’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

[Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the People.

First Con.

Your native town you enter’d like a post,

And had no welcomes home; but he returns,

Splitting the air with noise.

Sec. Con.

And patient fools, 52

Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear

With giving him glory.

Third Con.

Therefore, at your vantage,

Ere he express himself, or move the people

With what he would say, let him feel your sword, 56

Which we will second. When he lies along,

After your way his tale pronounc’d shall bury

His reasons with his body.

Auf.

Say no more:

Here come the lords. 60

Enter the Lords of the city.

Lords.

You are most welcome home.

Auf.

I have not deserv’d it.

But, worthy lords, have you with heed perus’d

What I have written to you?

Lords.

We have.

First Lord.

And grieve to hear ’t.

What faults he made before the last, I think 64

Might have found easy fines; but there to end

Where he was to begin, and give away

The benefit of our levies, answering us

With our own charge, making a treaty where 68

There was a yielding, this admits no excuse.

Auf.

He approaches: you shall hear him.

Enter Coriolanus, with drums and colours; a crowd of Citizens with him.

Cor.

Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier;

No more infected with my country’s love 72

Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting

Under your great command. You are to know,

That prosperously I have attempted and

With bloody passage led your wars even to 76

The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home

Do more than counterpoise a full third part

The charges of the action. We have made peace

With no less honour to the Antiates 80

Than shame to the Romans; and we here deliver,

Subscrib’d by the consuls and patricians,

Together with the seal o’ the senate, what

We have compounded on.

Auf.

Read it not, noble lords; 84

But tell the traitor in the highest degree

He hath abus’d your powers.

Cor.

Traitor! How now?

Auf.

Ay, traitor, Marcius.

Cor.

Marcius!

Auf.

Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius. Dost thou think 88

I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name

Coriolanus in Corioli?

You lords and heads of the state, perfidiously

He has betray’d your business, and given up, 92

For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,

I say ‘your city,’ to his wife and mother;

Breaking his oath and resolution like

A twist of rotten silk, never admitting 96

Counsel o’ the war, but at his nurse’s tears

He whin’d and roar’d away your victory,

That pages blush’d at him, and men of heart

Look’d wondering each at other.

Cor.

Hear’st thou, Mars? 100

Auf.

Name not the god, thou boy of tears.

Cor.

Ha!

Auf.

No more.

Cor.

Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart

Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!

Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever 105

I was forc’d to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords,

Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion—

Who wears my stripes impress’d upon him, that 108

Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join

To thrust the lie unto him.

First Lord.

Peace, both, and hear me speak.

Cor.

Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, 112

Stain all your edges on me. Boy! False hound!

If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there,

That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I

Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli: 116

Alone I did it. Boy!

Auf.

Why, noble lords,

Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune,

Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart,

’Fore your own eyes and ears?

Conspirators.

Let him die for ’t. 120

All the People.

Tear him to pieces.—Do it presently.—He killed my son.—My daughter.—He killed my cousin Marcus.—He killed my father. 124

Sec. Lord.

Peace, ho! no outrage: peace!

The man is noble and his fame folds in

This orb o’ the earth. His last offences to us

Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius,

And trouble not the peace.

Cor.

O! that I had him, 129

With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe,

To use my lawful sword!

Auf.

Insolent villain!

Conspirators.

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!

[Aufidius and the Conspirators draw, and kill Coriolanus, who falls: Aufidius stands on his body.

Lords.

Hold, hold, hold, hold! 132

Auf.

My noble masters, hear me speak.

First Lord.

O Tullus!

Sec. Lord.

Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

Third Lord.

Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet.

Put up your swords. 136

Auf.

My lords, when you shall know,—as in this rage,

Provok’d by him, you cannot,—the great danger

Which this man’s life did owe you, you’ll rejoice

That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours

To call me to your senate, I’ll deliver 141

Myself your loyal servant, or endure

Your heaviest censure.

First Lord.

Bear from hence his body;

And mourn you for him! Let him be regarded

As the most noble corse that ever herald 145

Did follow to his urn.

Sec. Lord.

His own impatience

Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame.

Let’s make the best of it.

Auf.

My rage is gone, 148

And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up:

Help, three o’ the chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one.

Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully;

Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he

Hath widow’d and unchilded many a one, 153

Which to this hour bewail the injury,

Yet he shall have a noble memory.

Assist.

[Exeunt, bearing the body of Coriolanus. A dead march sounded.

TITUS ANDRONICUS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Saturninus,	Son to the late Emperor of Rome, and afterwards declared Emperor.
Bassianus,	Brother to Saturninus, in love with Lavinia.
Titus Andronicus,	a Roman, General against the Goths.
Marcus Andronicus,	Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus.
Lucius, }	Sons to Titus Andronicus.
Quintus,}
Martius,}
Mutius, }
Young Lucius,	a Boy, Son to Lucius.
Publius,	Son to Marcus Andronicus.
Sempronius,}	Kinsmen to Titus.
Caius, }
Valentine, }
Æmilius,	a noble Roman.
Alarbus, }	Sons to Tamora.
Demetrius,}
Chiron, }
Aaron,	a Moor, beloved by Tamora.
A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Romans.
Goths and Romans.
Tamora,	Queen of the Goths.
Lavinia,	Daughter to Titus Andronicus.
A Nurse, and a black Child.
Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

Scene.—Rome, and the Country near it.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Rome.

The Tomb of the Andronici appearing. The Tribunes and Senators aloft; and then enter Saturninus and his Followers at one door, and Bassianus and his Followers at the other, with drum and colours.

Sat.

Noble patricians, patrons of my right,

Defend the justice of my cause with arms;

And, countrymen, my loving followers,

Plead my successive title with your swords: 4

I am his first-born son that was the last

That wore the imperial diadem of Rome;

Then let my father’s honours live in me,

Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. 8

Bas.

Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right,

If ever Bassianus, Cæsar’s son,

Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,

Keep then this passage to the Capitol, 12

And suffer not dishonour to approach

The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,

To justice, continence, and nobility;

But let desert in pure election shine, 16

And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.

Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with the crown.

Mar.

Princes, that strive by factions and by friends

Ambitiously for rule and empery,

Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand 20

A special party, have, by common voice,

In election for the Roman empery,

Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius,

For many good and great deserts to Rome: 24

A nobler man, a braver warrior,

Lives not this day within the city walls:

He by the senate is accited home

From weary wars against the barbarous Goths;

That, with his sons, a terror to our foes, 29

Hath yok’d a nation, strong, train’d up in arms.

Ten years are spent since first he undertook

This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms 32

Our enemies’ pride: five times he hath return’d

Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons

In coffins from the field;

And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, 36

Returns the good Andronicus to Rome,

Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms.

Let us entreat, by honour of his name,

Whom worthily you would have now succeed, 40

And in the Capitol and senate’s right,

Whom you pretend to honour and adore,

That you withdraw you and abate your strength;

Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should,

Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. 45

Sat.

How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts!

Bas.

Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy

In thy uprightness and integrity, 48

And so I love and honour thee and thine,

Thy noble brother Titus and his sons,

And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,

Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament, 52

That I will here dismiss my loving friends,

And to my fortunes and the people’s favour

Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d.

[Exeunt the Followers of Bassianus.

Sat.

Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, 56

I thank you all and here dismiss you all;

And to the love and favour of my country

Commit myself, my person, and the cause.

[Exeunt the Followers of Saturninus.

Rome, be as just and gracious unto me 60

As I am confident and kind to thee.

Open the gates, and let me in.

Bas.

Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.

[Flourish. They go up into the Senate-house.

Enter a Captain.

Cap.

Romans, make way! the good Andronicus, 64

Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion,

Successful in the battles that he fights,

With honour and with fortune is return’d

From where he circumscribed with his sword, 68

And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.

Drums and trumpets sounded, and then enter Martius and Mutius; after them two Men bearing a coffin covered with black; then Lucius and Quintus. After them Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, with Alarbus, Chiron, Demetrius, Aaron, and other Goths, prisoners; Soldiers and people following. The bearers set down the coffin, and Titus speaks.

Tit.

Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!

Lo! as the bark, that hath discharg’d her fraught,

Returns with precious lading to the bay 72

From whence at first she weigh’d her anchorage,

Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,

To re-salute his country with his tears,

Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. 76

Thou great defender of this Capitol,

Stand gracious to the rites that we intend!

Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons,

Half of the number that King Priam had, 80

Behold the poor remains, alive, and dead!

These that survive let Rome reward with love;

These that I bring unto their latest home.

With burial among their ancestors: 84

Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.

Titus, unkind and careless of thine own,

Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet

To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx? 88

Make way to lay them by their brethren.

[The tomb is opened.

There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,

And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars!

O sacred receptacle of my joys, 92

Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,

How many sons of mine hast thou in store,

That thou wilt never render to me more!

Luc.

Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, 96

That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile

Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,

Before this earthy prison of their bones;

That so the shadows be not unappeas’d, 100

Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth.

Tit.

I give him you, the noblest that survives

The eldest son of this distressed queen.

Tam.

Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror, 104

Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,

A mother’s tears in passion for her son:

And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,

O! think my son to be as dear to me. 108

Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome,

To beautify thy triumphs and return,

Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;

But must my sons be slaughter’d in the streets 112

For valiant doings in their country’s cause?

O! if to fight for king and commonweal

Were piety in thine, it is in these.

Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood: 116

Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?

Draw near them then in being merciful;

Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge:

Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. 120

Tit.

Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.

These are their brethren, whom your Goths beheld

Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain

Religiously they ask a sacrifice: 124

To this your son is mark’d, and die he must,

To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

Luc.

Away with him! and make a fire straight;

And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, 128

Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consum’d.

[Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, with Alarbus.

Tam.

O cruel, irreligious piety!

Chi.

Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Dem.

Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.

Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive 133

To tremble under Titus’ threatening look.

Then, madam, stand resolv’d; but hope withal

The self-same gods, that arm’d the Queen of Troy 136

With opportunity of sharp revenge

Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,

May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths—

When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was queen— 140

To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Re-enter Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, with their swords bloody.

Luc.

See, lord and father, how we have perform’d

Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d,

And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, 144

Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.

Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren,

And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit.

Let it be so; and let Andronicus 148

Make this his latest farewell to their souls.

[Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb.

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons;

Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest,

Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! 152

Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,

Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms,

No noise, but silence and eternal sleep:

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons! 156

Enter Lavinia.

Lav.

In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;

My noble lord and father, live in fame!

Lo! at this tomb my tributary tears

I render for my brethren’s obsequies; 160

And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy

Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome.

O! bless me here with thy victorious hand,

Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud.

Tit.

Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv’d 165

The cordial of mine age to glad my heart!

Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days,

And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise! 168

Enter Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes; re-enter Saturninus, Bassianus, and Others.

Mar.

Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,

Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!

Tit.

Thanks, gentle Tribune, noble brother Marcus.

Mar.

And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, 172

You that survive, and you that sleep in fame!

Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,

That in your country’s service drew your swords;

But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, 176

That hath aspir’d to Solon’s happiness,

And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed.

Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,

Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, 180

Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,

This palliament of white and spotless hue;

And name thee in election for the empire,

With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons: 184

Be candidatus then, and put it on,

And help to set a head on headless Rome.

Tit.

A better head her glorious body fits

Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. 188

What should I don this robe, and trouble you?

Be chosen with proclamations to-day,

To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,

And set abroad new business for you all? 192

Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,

And led my country’s strength successfully,

And buried one-and-twenty valiant sons,

Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, 196

In right and service of their noble country.

Give me a staff of honour for mine age,

But not a sceptre to control the world:

Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. 200

Mar.

Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.

Sat.

Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell?

Tit.

Patience, Prince Saturninus.

Sat.

Romans, do me right:

Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not 204

Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor.

Andronicus, would thou wert shipp’d to hell,

Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts!

Luc.

Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good 208

That noble-minded Titus means to thee!

Tit.

Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee

The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves.

Bas.

Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, 212

But honour thee, and will do till I die:

My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,

I will most thankful be; and thanks to men

Of noble minds is honourable meed. 216

Tit.

People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here,

I ask your voices and your suffrages:

Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?

Tribunes.

To gratify the good Andronicus,

And gratulate his safe return to Rome, 221

The people will accept whom he admits.

Tit.

Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make,

That you create your emperor’s eldest son, 224

Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope,

Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth,

And ripen justice in this commonweal:

Then, if you will elect by my advice, 228

Crown him, and say, ‘Long live our emperor!’

Mar.

With voices and applause of every sort,

Patricians and plebeians, we create

Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, 232

And say, ‘Long live our Emperor Saturnine!’

[A long flourish.

Sat.

Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done

To us in our election this day,

I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, 236

And will with deeds requite thy gentleness:

And, for an onset, Titus, to advance

Thy name and honourable family,

Lavinia will I make my empress, 240

Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart,

And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse.

Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?

Tit.

It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match 244

I hold me highly honour’d of your Grace:

And here in sight of Rome to Saturnine,

King and commander of our commonweal,

The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate 248

My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners;

Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord:

Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,

Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet. 252

Sat.

Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life!

How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts

Rome shall record, and, when I do forget

The least of these unspeakable deserts, 256

Romans, forget your fealty to me.

Tit.

[To Tamora.] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor;

To him that, for your honour and your state,

Will use you nobly and your followers. 260

Sat.

A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue

That I would choose, were I to choose anew.

Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance:

Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, 264

Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome:

Princely shall be thy usage every way.

Rest on my word, and let not discontent 267

Daunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you

Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths.

Lavinia, you are not displeas’d with this?

Lav.

Not I, my lord; sith true nobility

Warrants these words in princely courtesy. 272

Sat.

Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go;

Ransomless here we set our prisoners free:

Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.

[Flourish. Saturninus courts Tamora in dumb show.

Bas.

Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.

[Seizing Lavinia.

Tit.

How, sir! Are you in earnest then, my lord? 277

Bas.

Ay, noble Titus; and resolv’d withal

To do myself this reason and this right.

Mar.

Suum cuique is our Roman justice: 280

This prince in justice seizeth but his own.

Luc.

And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live.

Tit.

Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard?

Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surpris’d. 284

Sat.

Surpris’d! By whom?

Bas.

By him that justly may

Bear his betroth’d from all the world away.

[Exeunt Marcus and Bassianus with Lavinia.

Mut.

Brothers, help to convey her hence away,

And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe. 288

[Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius.

Tit.

Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back.

Mut.

My lord, you pass not here.

Tit.

What! villain boy;

Barr’st me my way in Rome?

[Stabs Mutius.

Mut.

Help, Lucius, help!

[Dies.

Re-enter Lucius.

Luc.

My lord, you are unjust; and, more than so, 292

In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.

Tit.

Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine;

My sons would never so dishonour me.

Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor. 296

Luc.

Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife

That is another’s lawful promis’d love.

[Exit.

Sat.

No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,

Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock: 300

I’ll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once;

Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,

Confederates all thus to dishonour me.

Was none in Rome to make a stale 304

But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus,

Agreed these deeds with that proud brag of thine,

That saidst I begg’d the empire at thy hands.

Tit.

O monstrous! what reproachful words are these! 308

Sat.

But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece

To him that flourish’d for her with his sword.

A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy;

One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, 312

To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.

Tit.

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Sat.

And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths,

That like the stately Phœbe ’mongst her nymphs, 316

Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome,

If thou be pleas’d with this my sudden choice,

Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,

And will create thee Empress of Rome. 320

Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice?

And here I swear by all the Roman gods,

Sith priest and holy water are so near,

And tapers burn so bright, and every thing 324

In readiness for Hymenæus stand,

I will not re-salute the streets of Rome,

Or climb my palace, till from forth this place

I lead espous’d my bride along with me. 328

Tam.

And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear,

If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,

She will a handmaid be to his desires,

A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. 332

Sat.

Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany

Your noble emperor, and his lovely bride,

Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine,

Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered: 336

There shall we consummate our spousal rights.

[Exeunt all but Titus.

Tit.

I am not bid to wait upon this bride.

Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, 339

Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs?

Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius.

Mar.

O! Titus, see, O! see what thou hast done;

In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Tit.

No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,

Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed 344

That hath dishonour’d all our family:

Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons!

Luc.

But let us give him burial, as becomes;

Give Mutius burial with our brethren. 348

Tit.

Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb.

This monument five hundred years hath stood,

Which I have sumptuously re-edified:

Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors 352

Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls.

Bury him where you can; he comes not here.

Mar.

My lord, this is impiety in you.

My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him; 356

He must be buried with his brethren.

Quin.

And shall, or him we will accompany.

Mart.

And shall, or him we will accompany.

Tit.

And shall! What villain was it spake that word?

Quin.

He that would vouch it in any place but here. 360

Tit.

What! would you bury him in my despite?

Mar.

No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee

To pardon Mutius, and to bury him.

Tit.

Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, 364

And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast wounded:

My foes I do repute you every one;

So, trouble me no more, but get you gone.

Mart.

He is not with himself; let us withdraw. 368

Quin.

Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried.

[Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel.

Mar.

Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,—

Quin.

Father, and in that name doth nature speak,—

Tit.

Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. 372

Mar.

Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,—

Luc.

Dear father, soul and substance of us all,—

Mar.

Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter

His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, 376

That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause.

Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous:

The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax

That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son 380

Did graciously plead for his funerals.

Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy,

Be barr’d his entrance here.

Tit.

Rise, Marcus, rise.

The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, 384

To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome!

Well, bury him, and bury me the next.

[Mutius is put into the tomb.

Luc.

There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends,

Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. 388

All.

[Kneeling.] No man shed tears for noble Mutius;

He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause.

Mar.

My lord,—to step out of these dreary dumps,—

How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths 392

Is of a sudden thus advanc’d in Rome?

Tit.

I know not, Marcus; but I know it is,

Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell.

Is she not, then, beholding to the man 396

That brought her for this high good turn so far?

Mar.

Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.

Flourish. Re-enter, on one side, Saturninus, attended; Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, and Aaron: on the other side, Bassianus, Lavinia and Others.

Sat.

So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize:

God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride. 400

Bas.

And you of yours, my lord! I say no more,

Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave.

Sat.

Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power,

Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. 404

Bas.

Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own,

My true-betrothed love and now my wife?

But let the laws of Rome determine all;

Meanwhile, I am possess’d of that is mine. 408

Sat.

’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us;

But, if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.

Bas.

My lord, what I have done, as best I may,

Answer I must and shall do with my life. 412

Only thus much I give your Grace to know:

By all the duties that I owe to Rome,

This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,

Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d; 416

That, in the rescue of Lavinia,

With his own hand did slay his youngest son,

In zeal to you and highly mov’d to wrath

To be controll’d in that he frankly gave: 420

Receive him then to favour, Saturnine,

That hath express’d himself in all his deeds

A father and a friend to thee and Rome.

Tit.

Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds: 424

’Tis thou and those that have dishonour’d me.

Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge,

How I have lov’d and honour’d Saturnine!

Tam.

My worthy lord, if ever Tamora 428

Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,

Then hear me speak indifferently for all;

And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.

Sat.

What, madam! be dishonour’d openly,

And basely put it up without revenge? 433

Tam.

Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend

I should be author to dishonour you!

But on mine honour dare I undertake 436

For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all,

Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs.

Then, at my suit, look graciously on him;

Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, 440

Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.

[Aside to Saturninus.] My lord, be rul’d by me, be won at last;

Dissemble all your griefs and discontents:

You are but newly planted in your throne; 444

Lest then, the people, and patricians too,

Upon a just survey, take Titus’ part,

And so supplant you for ingratitude,

Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, 448

Yield at entreats, and then let me alone.

I’ll find a day to massacre them all,

And raze their faction and their family,

The cruel father, and his traitorous sons, 452

To whom I sued for my dear son’s life;

And make them know what ’tis to let a queen

Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.

[Aloud.] Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus; 456

Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart

That dies in tempest of thy angry frown:

Sat.

Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail’d. 459

Tit.

I thank your majesty, and her, my lord.

These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.

Tam.

Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,

A Roman now adopted happily,

And must advise the emperor for his good. 464

This day all quarrels die, Andronicus;

And let it be mine honour, good my lord,

That I have reconcil’d your friends and you.

For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d 468

My word and promise to the emperor,

That you will be more mild and tractable.

And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia,

By my advice, all humbled on your knees, 472

You shall ask pardon of his majesty.

Luc.

We do; and vow to heaven and to his highness,

That what we did was mildly, as we might,

Tendering our sister’s honour and our own. 476

Mar.

That on mine honour here I do protest.

Sat.

Away, and talk not; trouble us no more.

Tam.

Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends:

The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; 480

I will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.

Sat.

Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here,

And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats,

I do remit these young men’s heinous faults: 484

Stand up.

Lavinia, though you left me like a churl,

I found a friend, and sure as death I swore

I would not part a bachelor from the priest. 488

Come; if the emperor’s court can feast two brides,

You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends.

This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.

Tit.

To-morrow, an it please your majesty 492

To hunt the panther and the hart with me,

With horn and hound we’ll give your Grace bon jour.

Sat.

Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.

[Trumpets. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Rome. Before the Palace. Enter Aaron.

Aar.

Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top,

Safe out of Fortune’s shot; and sits aloft,

Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning flash,

Advanc’d above pale envy’s threat’ning reach. 4

As when the golden sun salutes the morn,

And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,

Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,

And overlooks the highest-peering hills; 8

So Tamora.

Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait

And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.

Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts

To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, 13

And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long

Hast prisoner held, fetter’d in amorous chains,

And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes 16

Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.

Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!

I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold,

To wait upon this new-made empress. 20

To wait, said I? to wanton with this queen,

This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,

This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine,

And see his shipwrack and his commonweal’s. 24

Holla! what storm is this?

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, braving.

Dem.

Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge

And manners, to intrude where I am grac’d,

And may, for aught thou know’st, affected be. 28

Chi.

Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all

And so in this, to bear me down with braves.

’Tis not the difference of a year or two

Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate:

I am as able and as fit as thou 33

To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace;

And that my sword upon thee shall approve,

And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love. 36

Aar.

Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the peace.

Dem.

Why, boy, although our mother, unadvis’d,

Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side,

Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends? 40

Go to; have your lath glu’d within your sheath

Till you know better how to handle it.

Chi.

Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,

Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.

Dem.

Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?

[They draw.

Aar.

Why, how now, lords! 45

So near the emperor’s palace dare you draw,

And maintain such a quarrel openly?

Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge: 48

I would not for a million of gold

The cause were known to them it most concerns;

Nor would your noble mother for much more

Be so dishonour’d in the court of Rome. 52

For shame, put up.

Dem.

Not I, till I have sheath’d

My rapier in his bosom, and withal

Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat

That he hath breath’d in my dishonour here. 56

Chi.

For that I am prepar’d and full resolv’d,

Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy tongue,

And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform!

Aar.

Away, I say! 60

Now, by the gods that war-like Goths adore,

This petty brabble will undo us all.

Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous

It is to jet upon a prince’s right? 64

What! is Lavinia then become so loose,

Or Bassianus so degenerate,

That for her love such quarrels may be broach’d

Without controlment, justice, or revenge? 68

Young lords, beware! an should the empress know

This discord’s ground, the music would not please.

Chi.

I care not, I, knew she and all the world:

I love Lavinia more than all the world. 72

Dem.

Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:

Lavinia is thine elder brother’s hope.

Aar.

Why, are ye mad? or know ye not in Rome

How furious and impatient they be, 76

And cannot brook competitors in love?

I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths

By this device.

Chi.

Aaron, a thousand deaths

Would I propose, to achieve her whom I love. 80

Aar.

To achieve her! how?

Dem.

Why mak’st thou it so strange?

She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d;

She is a woman, therefore may be won;

She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov’d. 84

What, man! more water glideth by the mill

Than wots the miller of; and easy it is

Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:

Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, 88

Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge.

Aar.

[Aside.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.

Dem.

Then why should he despair that knows to court it

With words, fair looks, and liberality? 92

What! hast thou not full often struck a doe,

And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose?

Aar.

Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so

Would serve your turns.

Chi.

Ay, so the turn were serv’d. 96

Dem.

Aaron, thou hast hit it.

Aar.

Would you had hit it too!

Then should not we be tir’d with this ado.

Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools

To square for this? Would it offend you then 100

That both should speed?

Chi.

Faith, not me.

Dem.

Nor me, so I were one.

Aar.

For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:

’Tis policy and stratagem must do 104

That you affect; and so must you resolve,

That what you cannot as you would achieve,

You must perforce accomplish as you may.

Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste

Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. 109

A speedier course than lingering languishment

Must we pursue, and I have found the path.

My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; 112

There will the lovely Roman ladies troop:

The forest walks are wide and spacious,

And many unfrequented plots there are

Fitted by kind for rape and villany: 116

Single you thither then this dainty doe,

And strike her home by force, if not by words:

This way, or not at all, stand you in hope.

Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit

To villany and vengeance consecrate, 121

Will we acquaint with all that we intend;

And she shall file our engines with advice,

That will not suffer you to square yourselves, 124

But to your wishes’ height advance you both.

The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame,

The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears:

The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull;

There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns; 129

There serve your lusts, shadow’d from heaven’s eye,

And revel in Lavinia’s treasury.

Chi.

Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.

Dem.

Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream

To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,

Per Styga, per manes vehor.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Forest.

Horns and cry of hounds heard. Enter Titus Andronicus, with Hunters, &c.; Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius.

Tit.

The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,

The fields are fragrant and the woods are green.

Uncouple here and let us make a bay,

And wake the emperor and his lovely bride, 4

And rouse the prince and ring a hunter’s peal,

That all the court may echo with the noise.

Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,

To attend the emperor’s person carefully: 8

I have been troubled in my sleep this night,

But dawning day new comfort hath inspir’d.

[A cry of hounds, and horns winded in a peal.

Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Demetrius, Chiron, and Attendants.

Many good morrows to your majesty;

Madam, to you as many and as good; 12

I promised your Grace a hunter’s peal.

Sat.

And you have rung it lustily, my lord;

Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.

Bas.

Lavinia, how say you?

Lav.

I say, no; 16

I have been broad awake two hours and more.

Sat.

Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have,

And to our sport.—[To Tamora.] Madam, now shall ye see

Our Roman hunting.

Mar.

I have dogs, my lord, 20

Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,

And climb the highest promontory top.

Tit.

And I have horse will follow where the game

Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain.

Dem.

[Aside.] Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, 25

But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A lonely Part of the Forest.

Enter Aaron, with a bag of gold.

Aar.

He that had wit would think that I had none,

To bury so much gold under a tree,

And never after to inherit it.

Let him that thinks of me so abjectly 4

Know that this gold must coin a stratagem,

Which, cunningly effected, will beget

A very excellent piece of villany:

And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest 8

That have their alms out of the empress’ chest.

[Hides the gold.

Enter Tamora.

Tam.

My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad,

When every thing doth make a gleeful boast?

The birds chant melody on every bush, 12

The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,

The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,

And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground.

Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, 16

And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,

Replying shrilly to the well-tun’d horns,

As if a double hunt were heard at once,

Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise; 20

And after conflict, such as was suppos’d

The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy’d,

When with a happy storm they were surpris’d,

And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave, 24

We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms,

Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber;

Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds

Be unto us as is a nurse’s song 28

Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

Aar.

Madam, though Venus govern your desires,

Saturn is dominator over mine:

What signifies my deadly-standing eye, 32

My silence and my cloudy melancholy;

My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls

Even as an adder when she doth unroll

To do some fatal execution? 36

No, madam, these are no venereal signs:

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, 40

Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee,

This is the day of doom for Bassianus;

His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day,

Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, 44

And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood.

Seest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee,

And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll.

Now question me no more; we are espied; 48

Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,

Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction.

Tam.

Ah! my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life.

Aar.

No more, great empress; Bassianus comes: 52

Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons

To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be.

[Exit.

Enter Bassianus and Lavinia.

Bas.

Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress,

Unfurnish’d of her well-beseeming troop? 56

Or is it Dian, habited like her,

Who hath abandoned her holy groves,

To see the general hunting in this forest?

Tam.

Saucy controller of our private steps!

Had I the power that some say Dian had, 61

Thy temples should be planted presently

With horns, as was Actæon’s; and the hounds

Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,

Unmannerly intruder as thou art! 65

Lav.

Under your patience, gentle empress,

’Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning;

And to be doubted that your Moor and you 68

Are singled forth to try experiments.

Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day!

’Tis pity they should take him for a stag.

Bas.

Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian 72

Doth make your honour of his body’s hue,

Spotted, detested, and abominable.

Why are you sequester’d from all your train,

Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,

And wander’d hither to an obscure plot, 77

Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor,

If foul desire had not conducted you?

Lav.

And, being intercepted in your sport, 80

Great reason that my noble lord be rated

For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence,

And let her joy her raven-colour’d love;

This valley fits the purpose passing well. 84

Bas.

The king my brother shall have note of this.

Lav.

Ay, for these slips have made him noted long:

Good king, to be so mightily abus’d!

Tam.

Why have I patience to endure all this? 88

Enter Demetrius and Chiron.

Dem.

How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother!

Why doth your highness look so pale and wan?

Tam.

Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?

These two have ’tic’d me hither to this place: 92

A barren detested vale, you see, it is;

The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,

O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:

Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,

Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven: 97

And when they show’d me this abhorred pit,

They told me, here, at dead time of the night,

A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,

Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,

Would make such fearful and confused cries,

As any mortal body hearing it

Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.

No sooner had they told this hellish tale, 105

But straight they told me they would bind me here

Unto the body of a dismal yew,

And leave me to this miserable death: 108

And then they called me foul adulteress,

Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms

That ever ear did hear to such effect;

And, had you not by wondrous fortune come, 112

This vengeance on me had they executed.

Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life,

Or be ye not henceforth call’d my children.

Dem.

This is a witness that I am thy son. 116

[Stabs Bassianus.

Chi.

And this for me, struck home to show my strength.

[Also stabs Bassianus, who dies.

Lav.

Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora;

For no name fits thy nature but thy own.

Tam.

Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys, 120

Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong.

Dem.

Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her:

First thrash the corn, than after burn the straw.

This minion stood upon her chastity, 124

Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,

And with that painted hope she braves your mightiness:

And shall she carry this unto her grave?

Chi.

An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.

Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, 129

And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.

Tam.

But when ye have the honey ye desire,

Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. 132

Chi.

I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure.

Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy

That nice-preserved honesty of yours.

Lav.

O Tamora! thou bear’st a woman’s face,— 136

Tam.

I will not hear her speak; away with her!

Lav.

Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word.

Dem.

Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory

To see her tears; but be your heart to them 140

As unrelenting flint to drops of rain.

Lav.

When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam?

O! do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee;

The milk thou suck’dst from her did turn to marble; 144

Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.

Yet every mother breeds not sons alike:

[To Chiron.] Do thou entreat her show a woman pity.

Chi.

What! wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? 148

Lav.

’Tis true! the raven doth not hatch a lark:

Yet have I heard, O! could I find it now,

The lion mov’d with pity did endure

To have his princely paws par’d all away. 152

Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,

The whilst their own birds famish in their nests:

O! be to me, though thy hard heart say no,

Nothing so kind, but something pitiful. 156

Tam.

I know not what it means; away with her!

Lav.

O, let me teach thee! for my father’s sake,

That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee,

Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. 160

Tam.

Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me,

Even for his sake am I pitiless.

Remember, boys, I pour’d forth tears in vain

To save your brother from the sacrifice; 164

But fierce Andronicus would not relent:

Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will:

The worse to her, the better lov’d of me.

Lav.

O Tamora! be call’d a gentle queen, 168

And with thine own hands kill me in this place;

For ’tis not life that I have begg’d so long;

Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

Tam.

What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let me go. 172

Lav.

’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more

That womanhood denies my tongue to tell.

O! keep me from their worse than killing lust,

And tumble me into some loathsome pit, 176

Where never man’s eye may behold my body:

Do this, and be a charitable murderer.

Tam.

So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee:

No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. 180

Dem.

Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long.

Lav.

No grace! no womanhood! Ah, beastly creature,

The blot and enemy to our general name.

Confusion fall— 184

Chi.

Nay, then I’ll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband:

This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.

[Demetrius throws the body of Bassianus into the pit; then exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, dragging off Lavinia.

Tam.

Farewell, my sons: see that you make her sure.

Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed 188

Till all the Andronici be made away.

Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,

And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower.

[Exit.

Enter Aaron, with Quintus and Martius.

Aar.

Come on, my lords, the better foot before: 192

Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit

Where I espied the panther fast asleep.

Quin.

My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes.

Mart.

And mine, I promise you: were’t not for shame, 196

Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.

[Falls into the pit.

Quin.

What! art thou fall’n? What subtle hole is this,

Whose mouth is cover’d with rude-growing briers,

Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood

As fresh as morning’s dew distill’d on flowers?

A very fatal place it seems to me.

Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?

Mart.

O brother! with the dismall’st object hurt 204

That ever eye with sight made heart lament.

Aar.

[Aside.] Now will I fetch the king to find them here,

That he thereby may give a likely guess

How these were they that made away his brother.

[Exit.

Mart.

Why dost not comfort me, and help me out 209

From this unhallow’d and blood-stained hole?

Quin.

I am surprised with an uncouth fear;

A chilling sweat o’erruns my trembling joints:

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. 213

Mart.

To prove thou hast a true-divining heart,

Aaron and thou look down into this den,

And see a fearful sight of blood and death. 216

Quin.

Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart

Will not permit mine eyes once to behold

The thing whereat it trembles by surmise.

O! tell me how it is; for ne’er till now 220

Was I a child, to fear I know not what.

Mart.

Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,

All on a heap, like to a slaughter’d lamb,

In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. 224

Quin.

If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he?

Mart.

Upon his bloody finger he doth wear

A precious ring, that lightens all the hole,

Which, like a taper in some monument, 228

Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks,

And shows the ragged entrails of the pit:

So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus

When he by night lay bath’d in maiden blood.

O brother! help me with thy fainting hand, 233

If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath,

Out of this fell devouring receptacle,

As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth. 236

Quin.

Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out;

Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good

I may be pluck’d into the swallowing womb

Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. 240

I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.

Mart.

Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.

Quin.

Thy hand once more; I will not loose again,

Till thou art here aloft, or I below. 244

Thou canst not come to me: I come to thee.

[Falls in.

Re-enter Aaron with Saturninus.

Sat.

Along with me: I’ll see what hole is here,

And what he is that now is leap’d into it.

Say, who art thou that lately didst descend 248

Into this gaping hollow of the earth?

Mart.

The unhappy son of old Andronicus;

Brought hither in a most unlucky hour,

To find thy brother Bassianus dead. 252

Sat.

My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest:

He and his lady both are at the lodge,

Upon the north side of this pleasant chase;

’Tis not an hour since I left him there. 256

Mart.

We know not where you left him all alive;

But, out alas! here have we found him dead.

Enter Tamora, with Attendants; Titus Andronicus, and Lucius.

Tam.

Where is my lord, the king?

Sat.

Here, Tamora; though griev’d with killing grief. 260

Tam.

Where is thy brother Bassianus?

Sat.

Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound:

Poor Bassianus here lies murdered.

Tam.

Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,

[Giving a letter.

The complot of this timeless tragedy; 265

And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold

In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.

Sat.

And if we miss to meet him handsomely, 268

Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’tis we mean,

Do thou so much as dig the grave for him:

Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy reward

Among the nettles at the elder-tree 272

Which overshades the mouth of that same pit

Where we decreed to bury Bassianus:

Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.

O Tamora! was ever heard the like? 276

This is the pit, and this the elder-tree.

Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out

That should have murder’d Bassianus here.

Aar.

My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. 280

Sat.

[To Titus.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind,

Have here bereft my brother of his life.

Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison:

There let them bide until we have devis’d 284

Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.

Tam.

What! are they in this pit? O wondrous thing!

How easily murder is discovered!

Tit.

High emperor, upon my feeble knee 288

I beg this boon with tears not lightly shed;

That this fell fault of my accursed sons,

Accursed, if the fault be prov’d in them,—

Sat.

If it be prov’d! you see it is apparent. 292

Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you?

Tam.

Andronicus himself did take it up.

Tit.

I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail;

For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow 296

They shall be ready at your highness’ will

To answer their suspicion with their lives.

Sat.

Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me.

Some bring the murder’d body, some the murderers: 300

Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain;

For, by my soul, were there worse end than death,

That end upon them should be executed.

Tam.

Andronicus, I will entreat the king: 304

Fear not thy sons, they shall do well enough.

Tit.

Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out.

Dem.

So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,

Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee.

Chi.

Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so;

An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. 4

Dem.

See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.

Chi.

Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

Dem.

She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;

And so let’s leave her to her silent walks. 8

Chi.

An ’twere my case, I should go hang myself.

Dem.

If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.

[Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron.

Enter Marcus.

Mar.

Who’s this? my niece, that flies away so fast?

Cousin, a word; where is your husband? 12

If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!

If I do wake, some planet strike me down,

That I may slumber in eternal sleep!

Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands 16

Have lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare

Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments,

Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,

And might not gain so great a happiness 20

As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me?

Alas! a crimson river of warm blood,

Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind,

Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, 24

Coming and going with thy honey breath.

But, sure, some Tereus hath deflower’d thee,

And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.

Ah! now thou turn’st away thy face for shame;

And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, 29

As from a conduit with three issuing spouts,

Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face

Blushing to be encounter’d with a cloud. 32

Shall I speak for thee? shall I say ’tis so?

O! that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,

That I might rail at him to ease my mind.

Sorrow concealed, like to an oven stopp’d, 36

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,

And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind:

But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; 40

A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal,

And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,

That could have better sew’d than Philomel.

O! had the monster seen those lily hands 44

Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute,

And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,

He would not, then, have touch’d them for his life;

Or had he heard the heavenly harmony 48

Which that sweet tongue hath made,

He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep,

As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet.

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind; 52

For such a sight will blind a father’s eye:

One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads;

What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes?

Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee: 56

O! could our mourning ease thy misery.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Rome. A Street.

Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of Justice, with Martius and Quintus, bound, passing on to the place of execution; Titus going before, pleading.

Tit.

Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent

In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept;

For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed;

For all the frosty nights that I have watch’d; 5

And for these bitter tears, which now you see

Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;

Be pitiful to my condemned sons, 8

Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought.

For two and twenty sons I never wept,

Because they died in honour’s lofty bed.

For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write 12

[He throws himself on the ground.

My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears.

Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite;

My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush.

[Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, &c., with the Prisoners.

O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, 16

That shall distil from these two ancient urns,

Than youthful April shall with all his showers:

In summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still;

In winter with warm tears I’ll melt the snow, 20

And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,

So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood.

Enter Lucius, with his sword drawn.

O reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men!

Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death: 24

And let me say, that never wept before,

My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc.

O noble father, you lament in vain:

The tribunes hear you not, no man is by; 28

And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

Tit.

Ah! Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.

Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,—

Luc.

My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. 32

Tit.

Why, ’tis no matter, man: if they did hear,

They would not mark me, or if they did mark,

They would not pity me, yet plead I must,

All bootless unto them. 36

Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones,

Who, though they cannot answer my distress,

Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,

For that they will not intercept my tale. 40

When I do weep, they humbly at my feet

Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;

And, were they but attired in grave weeds,

Rome could afford no tribune like to these. 44

A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones;

A stone is silent, and offendeth not,

And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.

[Rises.

But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn? 48

Luc.

To rescue my two brothers from their death;

For which attempt the judges have pronounc’d

My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit.

O happy man! they have befriended thee. 52

Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive

That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?

Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey

But me and mine: how happy art thou then, 56

From these devourers to be banished!

But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus and Lavinia.

Mar.

Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep;

Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break: 60

I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.

Tit.

Will it consume me? let me see it then.

Mar.

This was thy daughter.

Tit.

Why, Marcus, so she is. 64

Luc.

Ay me! this object kills me.

Tit.

Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.

Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand

Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight?

What fool hath added water to the sea, 69

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?

My grief was at the height before thou cam’st;

And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds. 72

Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too;

For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;

And they have nurs’d this woe, in feeding life;

In bootless prayer have they been held up, 76

And they have serv’d me to effectless use:

Now all the service I require of them

Is that the one will help to cut the other.

’Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands, 80

For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.

Luc.

Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee?

Mar.

O! that delightful engine of her thoughts,

That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence, 84

Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,

Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung

Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.

Luc.

O! say thou for her, who hath done this deed? 88

Mar.

O! thus I found her straying in the park,

Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer,

That hath receiv’d some unrecuring wound.

Tit.

It was my dear; and he that wounded her 92

Hath hurt me more than had he kill’d me dead:

For now I stand as one upon a rock

Environ’d with a wilderness of sea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,

Expecting ever when some envious surge 97

Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.

This way to death my wretched sons are gone;

Here stands my other son, a banish’d man, 100

And here my brother, weeping at my woes:

But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,

Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.

Had I but seen thy picture in this plight 104

It would have madded me: what shall I do

Now I behold thy lively body so?

Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,

Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr’d thee:

Thy husband he is dead, and for his death 109

Thy brothers are condemn’d, and dead by this.

Look! Marcus; ah! son Lucius, look on her:

When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears

Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew 113

Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d.

Mar.

Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband;

Perchance because she knows them innocent.

Tit.

If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, 117

Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them.

No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;

Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. 120

Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips;

Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.

Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,

And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, 124

Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks

How they are stain’d, like meadows yet not dry,

With miry alime left on them by a flood?

And in the fountain shall we gaze so long 128

Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,

And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?

Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine?

Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows 132

Pass the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,

Plot some device of further misery,

To make us wonder’d at in time to come. 136

Luc.

Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief

See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Mar.

Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

Tit.

Ah! Marcus, Marcus, brother; well I wot 140

Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.

Luc.

Ah! my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

Tit.

Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: 144

Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say

That to her brother which I said to thee:

His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,

Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. 148

O! what a sympathy of woe is this;

As far from help as limbo is from bliss.

Enter Aaron.

Aar.

Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor

Sends thee this word: that, if thou love thy sons, 152

Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,

Or any one of you, chop off your hand,

And send it to the king: he for the same

Will send thee hither both thy sons alive; 156

And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

Tit.

O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!

Did ever raven sing so like a lark,

That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? 160

With all my heart, I’ll send the emperor my hand:

Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc.

Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,

That hath thrown down so many enemies, 164

Shall not be sent; my hand will serve the turn:

My youth can better spare my blood than you;

And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.

Mar.

Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, 168

And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe,

Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle?

O! none of both but are of high desert:

My hand hath been but idle; let it serve 172

To ransom my two nephews from their death;

Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar.

Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,

For fear they die before their pardon come. 176

Mar.

My hand shall go.

Luc.

By heaven, it shall not go!

Tit.

Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

Luc.

Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, 180

Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Mar.

And for our father’s sake, and mother’s care,

Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

Tit.

Agree between you; I will spare my hand. 184

Luc.

Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

Mar.

But I will use the axe.

[Exeunt Lucius and Marcus.

Tit.

Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both:

Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

Aar.

[Aside.] If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest, 188

And never, whilst I live, deceive men so:

But I’ll deceive you in another sort,

And that you’ll say, ere half an hour pass.

[Cuts off Titus’ hand.

Re-enter Lucius and Marcus.

Tit.

Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch’d. 192

Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand:

Tell him it was a hand that warded him

From thousand dangers; bid him bury it;

More hath it merited; that let it have. 196

As for my sons, say I account of them

As jewels purchas’d at an easy price;

And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

Aar.

I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand,

Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. 201

[Aside.] Their heads, I mean. O! how this villany

Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it.

Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,

Aaron will have his soul black like his face. 205

[Exit.

Tit.

O! here I lift this one hand up to heaven,

And how this feeble ruin to the earth:

If any power pities wretched tears, 208

To that I call! [To Lavinia.] What! wilt thou kneel with me?

Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers,

Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim, 211

And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds

When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

Mar.

O! brother, speak with possibilities,

And do not break into these deep extremes.

Tit.

Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? 216

Then be my passions bottomless with them.

Mar.

But yet let reason govern thy lament.

Tit.

If there were reason for these miseries,

Then into limits could I bind my woes. 220

When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow?

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,

Threat’ning the welkin with his big-swoln face?

And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? 224

I am the sea; hark! how her sighs do blow;

She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:

Then must my sea be moved with her sighs;

Then must my earth with her continual tears

Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d; 229

For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,

But like a drunkard must I vomit them.

Then give me leave, for losers will have leave 232

To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand.

Mess.

Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid

For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor.

Here are the heads of thy two noble sons, 236

And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back:

Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d;

That woe is me to think upon thy woes,

More than remembrance of my father’s death.

[Exit.

Mar.

Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily, 241

And be my heart an ever burning hell!

These miseries are more than may be borne.

To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, 244

But sorrow flouted at is double death.

Luc.

Ah! that this sight should make so deep a wound,

And yet detested life not shrink thereat, 247

That ever death should let life bear his name,

Where life hath no more interest but to breathe.

[Lavinia kisses Titus.

Mar.

Alas! poor heart; that kiss is comfortless

As frozen water to a starved snake.

Tit.

When will this fearful slumber have an end? 252

Mar.

Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus;

Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads,

Thy war-like hand, thy mangled daughter here;

Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight 256

Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,

Even like a stony image, cold and numb.

Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.

Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand 260

Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight

The closing up of our most wretched eyes!

Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

Tit.

Ha, ha, ha! 264

Mar.

Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.

Tit.

Why, I have not another tear to shed:

Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

And would usurp upon my watery eyes, 268

And make them blind with tributary tears:

Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave?

For these two heads do seem to speak to me,

And threat me I shall never come to bliss 272

Till all these mischiefs be return’d again

Even in their throats that have committed them.

Come, let me see what task I have to do.

You heavy people, circle me about, 276

That I may turn me to each one of you,

And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.

The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head;

And in this hand the other will I bear. 280

Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d in these things:

Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.

As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight;

Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay: 284

Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there:

And if you love me, as I think you do,

Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.

[Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia.

Luc.

Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father;

The woefull’st man that ever liv’d in Rome: 289

Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,

He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.

Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; 292

O! would thou wert as thou tofore hast been;

But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives

But in oblivion and hateful griefs.

If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs, 296

And make proud Saturnine and his empress

Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.

Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power,

To be reveng’d on Rome and Saturnine. 300

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in Titus’ House. A Banquet set out.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy.

Tit.

So, so; now sit; and look you eat no more

Than will preserve just so much strength in us

As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.

Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot: 4

Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,

And cannot passionate our ten-fold grief

With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine

Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; 8

And when my heart, all mad with misery,

Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.

[To Lavinia.] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! 12

When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating

Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.

Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;

Or get some little knife between thy teeth, 16

And just against thy heart make thou a hole;

That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall

May run into that sink, and, soaking in,

Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. 20

Mar.

Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay

Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit.

How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. 24

What violent hands can she lay on her life?

Ah! wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;

To bid Æaeas tell the tale twice o’er,

How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? 28

O! handle not the theme, to talk of hands,

Lest we remember still that we have none.

Fie, fie! how franticly I square my talk,

As if we should forget we had no hands, 32

If Marcus did not name the word of hands.

Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:

Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says;

I can interpret all her martyr’d signs: 36

She says she drinks no other drink but tears,

Brew’d with her sorrow, mash’d upon her cheeks.

Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;

In thy dumb action will I be as perfect 40

As begging hermits in their holy prayers:

Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,

Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,

But I of these will wrest an alphabet, 44

And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

Boy.

Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:

Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar.

Alas! the tender boy, in passion mov’d,

Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness. 49

Tit.

Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,

And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.

What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? 52

Mar.

At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly.

Tit.

Out on thee, murderer! thou kill’st my heart;

Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny:

A deed of death, done on the innocent, 56

Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone;

I see, thou art not for my company.

Mar.

Alas! my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.

Tit.

But how if that fly had a father and a mother? 60

How would he hang his slender gilded wings

And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That, with his pretty buzzing melody, 64

Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill’d him.

Mar.

Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour’d fly,

Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.

Tit.

O, O, O! 68

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;

Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor 72

Come hither purposely to poison me.

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora.

Ah! sirrah.

Yet I think we are not brought so low, 76

But that between us we can kill a fly

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Mar.

Alas! poor man; grief has so wrought on him,

He takes false shadows for true substances. 80

Tit.

Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me:

I’ll to thy closet; and go read with thee

Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,

And thou shalt read when mine begins to dazzle.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Rome. Titus’ Garden.

Enter Titus and Marcus. Then enter young Lucius, Lavinia ranning after him.

Boy.

Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia

Follows me everywhere, I know not why:

Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes:

Alas! sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. 4

Mar.

Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

Tit.

She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Boy.

Ay, when my father was in Rome, she did.

Mar.

What means my niece Lavinia by these signs? 8

Tit.

Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean.

See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee;

Somewhither would she have thee go with her.

Ah! boy; Cornelia never with more care 12

Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee

Sweet poetry and Tully’s Orator.

Mar.

Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy.

My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,

Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her; 17

For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,

Extremity of griefs would make men mad;

And I have read that Hecuba of Troy 20

Ran mad through sorrow; that made me to fear,

Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt

Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did,

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth; 24

Which made me down to throw my books and fly,

Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;

And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship. 28

Mar.

Lucius, I will.

[Lavinia turns over the books which Lucius had let fall.

Tit.

How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?

Some book there is that she desires to see.

Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. 32

But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d;

Come, and take choice of all my library,

And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens

Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed. 36

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Mar.

I think she means that there was more than one

Confederate in the fact: ay, more there was;

Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

Tit.

Lucius; what book is that she tosseth so?

Boy.

Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s Metamorphoses;

My mother gave it me.

Mar.

For love of her that’s gone,

Perhaps, she cull’d it from among the rest. 44

Tit.

Soft! see how busily she turns the leaves!

[Helping her.

What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?

This is the tragic tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape; 48

And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar.

See, brother, see! note how she quotes the leaves.

Tit.

Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris’d, sweet girl,

Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was, 52

Forc’d in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?

See, see!

Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt,—

O! had we never, never hunted there,— 56

Pattern’d by that the poet here describes,

By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Mar.

O! why should nature build so foul a den,

Unless the gods delight in tragedies? 60

Tit.

Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed:

Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,

That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed? 64

Mar.

Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down by me.

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me, that I may this treason find!

My lord, look here; look here, Lavinia: 68

This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,

This after me.

[He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with his feet and mouth.

I have writ my name

Without the help of any hand at all.

Curs’d be that heart that forc’d us to this shift!

Write thou, good niece, and here display at last

What God will have discover’d for revenge. 74

Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,

That we may know the traitors and the truth!

[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes.

Tit.

O! do you read, my lord, what she hath writ? 77

Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.

Mar.

What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora

Performers of this heinous, bloody deed? 80

Tit.

Magni dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Mar.

O! calm thee, gentle lord; although I know

There is enough written upon this earth 84

To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts

And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.

My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;

And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope;

And swear with me, as, with the woeful fere 89

And father of that chaste dishonour’d dame,

Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape,

That we will prosecute by good advice 92

Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,

And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Tit.

’Tis sure enough, an you knew how;

But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:

The dam will wake, an if she wind you once: 97

She’s with the lion deeply still in league,

And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,

And when he sleeps will she do what she list. 100

You’re a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;

And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,

And with a gad of steel will write these words,

And lay it by: the angry northern wind 104

Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad,

And where’s your lesson then? Boy, what say you?

Boy.

I say, my lord, that if I were a man,

Their mother’s bed-chamber should not be safe

For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. 109

Mar.

Ay, that’s my boy! thy father hath full oft

For his ungrateful country done the like.

Boy.

And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. 112

Tit.

Come, go with me into mine armoury:

Lucius, I’ll fit thee; and withal my boy

Shall carry from me to the empress’ sons

Presents that I intend to send them both: 116

Come, come; thou’lt do thy message, wilt thou not?

Boy.

Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.

Tit.

No, boy, not so; I’ll teach thee another course.

Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house; 120

Lucius and I’ll go brave it at the court:

Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on.

[Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and Boy.

Mar.

O heavens! can you hear a good man groan,

And not relent or not compassion him? 124

Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,

That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart

Than foemen’s marks upon his batter’d shield;

But yet so just that he will not revenge. 128

Revenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus!

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter, from one side, Aaron, Demetrius, and Chiron; from the other young Lucius, and an Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them.

Chi.

Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius;

He hath some message to deliver us.

Aar.

Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.

Boy.

My lords, with all the humbleness I may, 4

I greet your honours from Andronicus;

[Aside.] And pray the Roman gods, confound you both!

Dem.

Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what’s the news?

Boy.

[Aside.] That you are both decipher’d, that’s the news, 8

For villains mark’d with rape. [Aloud.] May it please you,

My grandsire, well advis’d, hath sent by me

The goodliest weapons of his armoury,

To gratify your honourable youth, 12

The hope of Rome, for so he bade me say;

And so I do, and with his gifts present

Your lordships, that whenever you have need,

You may be armed and appointed well. 16

And so I leave you both: [Aside.] like bloody villains.

[Exeunt Boy and Attendant.

Dem.

What’s here? A scroll; and written round about?

Let’s see:—

[Reads.] ‘Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus, 20

Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.

Chi.

O! ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well:

I read it in the grammar long ago.

Aar.

Ay just, a verse in Horace; right, you have it. 24

[Aside.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!

Here’s no sound jest! the old man hath found their guilt

And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with lines,

That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick;

But were our witty empress well afoot, 29

She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit:

But let her rest in her unrest awhile.

[To them.] And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star 32

Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,

Captives, to be advanced to this height?

It did me good before the palace gate

To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing. 36

Dem.

But me more good, to see so great a lord

Basely insinuate and send us gifts.

Aar.

Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?

Did you not use his daughter very friendly? 40

Dem.

I would we had a thousand Roman dames

At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.

Chi.

A charitable wish and full of love.

Aar.

Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. 44

Chi.

And that would she for twenty thousand more.

Dem.

Come, let us go and pray to all the gods

For our beloved mother in her pains.

Aar.

[Aside.] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.

[Trumpets sound.

Dem.

Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus? 49

Chi.

Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.

Dem.

Soft! who comes here?

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child.

Nur.

Good morrow, lords. O! tell me, did you see 52

Aaron the Moor?

Aar.

Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all,

Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

Nur.

O gentle Aaron! we are all undone. 56

Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!

Aar.

Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!

What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?

Nur.

O! that which I would hide from heaven’s eye, 60

Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s disgrace!

She is deliver’d, lords, she is deliver’d.

Aar.

To whom?

Nur.

I mean, she’s brought a-bed.

Aar.

Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her? 64

Nur.

A devil.

Aar.

Why, then she’s the devil’s dam: a joyful issue.

Nur.

A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue.

Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad 68

Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime.

The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,

And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point.

Aar.

’Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue? 72

Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.

Dem.

Villain, what hast thou done?

Aar.

That which thou canst not undo.

Chi.

Thou hast undone our mother. 76

Aar

Villain, I have done thy mother.

Dem.

And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone.

Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed choice!

Accurs’d the offspring of so foul a fiend! 80

Chi.

It shall not live.

Aar.

It shall not die.

Nur.

Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.

Aar.

What! must it, nurse? then let no man but I 84

Do execution on my flesh and blood.

Dem.

I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point:

Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.

Aar.

Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. 88

[Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws.

Stay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother?

Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,

That shone so brightly when this boy was got,

He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point 92

That touches this my first-born son and heir.

I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,

With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood,

Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, 96

Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands.

What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!

Ye white-lim’d walls! ye alehouse painted signs!

Coal-black is better than another hue, 100

In that it scorns to bear another hue;

For all the water in the ocean

Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white,

Although she lave them hourly in the flood. 104

Tell the empress from me, I am of age

To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.

Dem.

Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?

Aar.

My mistress is my mistress; this myself; 108

The vigour, and the picture of my youth:

This before all the world do I prefer;

This maugre all the world will I keep safe,

Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. 112

Dem.

By this our mother is for ever sham’d.

Chi.

Rome will despise her for this foul escape.

Nur.

The emperor in his rage will doom her death.

Chi.

I blush to think upon this ignomy. 116

Aar.

Why, there’s the privilege your beauty bears.

Fie, treacherous hue! that will betray with blushing

The close enacts and counsels of the heart:

Here’s a young lad fram’d of another leer: 120

Look how the black slavesmiles upon the father,

As who should say, ‘Old lad, I am thine own.’

He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed

Of that self blood that first gave life to you; 124

And from that womb where you imprison’d were

He is enfranchised and come to light:

Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,

Although my seal be stamped in his face. 128

Nur.

Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?

Dem.

Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,

And we will all subscribe to thy advice:

Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. 132

Aar.

Then sit we down, and let us all consult,

My son and I will have the wind of you:

Keep there; now talk at pleasure of your safety.

[They sit.

Dem.

How many women saw this child of his?

Aar.

Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league, 137

I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor,

The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,

The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. 140

But say, again, how many saw the child?

Nur.

Cornelia the midwife, and myself,

And no one else but the deliver’d empress.

Aar.

The empress, the midwife, and yourself: 144

Two may keep counsel when the third’s away.

Go to the empress; tell her this I said:

[Stabbing her.

‘Weke, weke!’

So cries a pig prepared to the spit. 148

Dem.

What mean’st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this?

Aar.

O lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy:

Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours,

A long-tongu’d babbling gossip? no, lords, no.

And now be it known to you my full intent. 153

Not far, one Muli lives, my countryman;

His wife but yesternight was brought to bed.

His child is like to her, fair as you are: 156

Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,

And tell them both the circumstance of all,

And how by this their child shall be advanc’d,

And be received for the emperor’s heir, 160

And substituted in the place of mine,

To calm this tempest whirling in the court;

And let the emperor dandle him for his own.

Hark ye, lords; you see, I have given her physic,

[Pointing to the Nurse.

And you must needs bestow her funeral; 165

The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.

This done, see that you take no longer days,

But send the midwife presently to me. 168

The midwife and the nurse well made away,

Then let the ladies tattle what they please.

Chi.

Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air

With secrets.

Dem.

For this care of Tamora, 172

Herself and hers are highly hound to thee.

[Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, bearing off the Nurse’s body.

Aar.

Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies:

There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,

And secretly to greet the empress’ friends. 176

Come on, you thick-lipp’d slave, I’ll bear you hence;

For it is you that puts us to our shifts:

I’ll make you feed on berries and on roots,

And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,

And cabin in a cave, and bring you up 181

To be a warrior, and command a camp.

[Exit with the Child.

Scene III.— The Same. A Public Place.

Enter Titus, bearing arrows, with letters on the ends of them; with him Marcus, young Lucius, Publius, Sempronius, Caius, and other Gentlemen, with bows.

Tit.

Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.

Sir boy, now let me see your archery:

Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there straight.

Terras Astræa reliquit: 4

Be you remember’d, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled.

Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall

Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets;

Happily you may find her in the sea; 8

Yet there’s as little justice as at land.

No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;

’Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,

And pierce the inmost centre of the earth: 12

Then, when you come to Pluto’s region,

I pray you, deliver him this petition;

Tell him, it is for justice and for aid,

And that it comes from old Andronicus, 16

Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.

Ah! Rome. Well, well; I made thee miserable

What time I threw the people’s suffrages

On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. 20

Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all,

And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch’d:

This wicked emperor may have shipp’d her hence;

And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.

Mar.

O Publius! is not this a heavy case, 25

To see thy noble uncle thus distract?

Pub.

Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns

By day and night to attend him carefully, 28

And feed his humour kindly as we may,

Till time beget some careful remedy.

Mar.

Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.

Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war 32

Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,

And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

Tit.

Publius, how now! how now, my masters!

What! have you met with her? 36

Pub.

No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,

If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall:

Marry, for Justice, she is so employ’d,

He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, 40

So that perforce you must needs stay a time.

Tit.

He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.

I’ll dive into the burning lake below,

And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. 44

Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we;

No big-bon’d men fram’d of the Cyclops’ size;

But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,

Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear: 48

And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell,

We will solicit heaven and move the gods

To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.

Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.

[He gives them the arrows.

Ad Javem, that’s for you: here, ad Apollinem:

Ad Martem, that’s for myself:

Here, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury:

To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine; 56

You were as good to shoot against the wind.

To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.

Of my word, I have written to effect;

There’s not a god left unsolicited. 60

Mar.

Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court:

We will afflict the emperor in his pride.

Tit.

Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.] O! well said, Lucius!

Good boy, in Virgo’s lap: give it Pallas. 64

Mar.

My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;

Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

Tit.

Ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?

See, see! thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.

Mar.

This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot, 69

The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock

That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court;

And who should find them but the empress’ villain? 72

She laugh’d, and told the Moor, he should not choose

But give them to his master for a present.

Tit.

Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!

Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in it.

News! news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. 76

Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?

Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter?

Clo.

O! tho gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. 81

Tit.

But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clo.

Alas! sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life. 84

Tit.

Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

Clo.

Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

Tit.

Why, didst thou not come from heaven?

Clo.

From heaven! alas! sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial’s men. 93

Mar.

Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. 96

Tit.

Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace?

Clo.

Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. 100

Tit.

Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado,

But give your pigeons to the emperor:

By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.

Hold, hold; meanwhile, here’s money for thy charges. 104

Give me pen and ink.

Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clo.

Ay, sir.

Tit.

Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I’ll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.

Clo.

I warrant you, sir; let me alone. 113

Tit.

Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come, let me see it.

Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;

For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant:

And when thou hast given it to the emperor, 117

Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.

Clo.

God be with you, sir; I will.

Tit.

Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Lords, and Others: Saturninus with the arrows in his hand that Titus shot.

Sat.

Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen

An emperor of Rome thus overborne,

Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent

Of egal justice, us’d in such contempt? 4

My lords, you know, as do the mightful gods,—

However these disturbers of our peace

Buzz in the people’s ears,—there nought hath pass’d,

But even with law, against the wilful sons 8

Of old Andronicus. And what an if

His sorrows have so overwhelm’d his wits,

Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,

His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness? 12

And now he writes to heaven for his redress:

See, here’s to Jove, and this to Mercury;

This to Apollo; this to the god of war;

Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! 16

What’s this but libelling against the senate,

And blazoning our injustice every where?

A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?

As who would say, in Rome no justice were. 20

But if I live, his feigned ecstasies

Shall be no shelter to these outrages;

But he and his shall know that justice lives

In Saturninus’ health; whom, if she sleep, 24

He’ll so awake, as she in fury shall

Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives.

Tam.

My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,

Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, 28

Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age,

The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons,

Whose loss hath pierc’d him deep and scarr’d his heart;

And rather comfort his distressed plight 32

Than prosecute the meanest or the best

For these contempts.—[Aside.] Why, thus it shall become

High-witted Tamora to gloze with all:

But, Titus, I have touch’d thee to the quick, 36

Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,

Then is all safe, the anchor’s in the port.

Enter Clown.

How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us?

Clo.

Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial. 40

Tam.

Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.

Clo.

’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good den.

I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.

[Saturninus reads the letter.

Sat.

Go, take him away, and hang him presently. 44

Clo.

How much money must I have?

Tam.

Come, sirrah, you must be hanged.

Clo.

Hanged! By ’r, lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end.

[Exit, guarded.

Sat.

Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! 49

Shall I endure this monstrous villany?

I know from whence this same device proceeds:

May this be borne? As if his traitorous sons, 52

That died by law for murder of our brother,

Have by my means been butcher’d wrongfully!

Go, drag the villain hither by the hair;

Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. 56

For this proud mock I’ll be thy slaughterman;

Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me great,

In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.

Enter Æmilius.

What news with thee, Æmilius? 60

Æmil.

Arm, arm, my lord! Rome never had more cause.

The Goths have gather’d head, and with a power

Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil,

They hither march amain, under conduct 64

Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;

Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do

As much as ever Coriolanus did.

Sat.

Is war-like Lucius general of the Goths?

These tidings nip me, and I hang the head 69

As flowers with frost or grass beat down with storms.

Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach:

’Tis he the common people love so much; 72

Myself hath often heard them say,

When I have walked like a private man,

That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully,

And they have wish’d that Lucius were their emperor. 76

Tam.

Why should you fear? is not your city strong?

Sat.

Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,

And will revolt from me to succour him.

Tam.

King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name. 80

Is the sun dimm’d, that gnats do fly in it?

The eagle suffers little birds to sing,

And is not careful what they mean thereby,

Knowing that with the shadow of his wings 84

He can at pleasure stint their melody;

Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome.

Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor,

I will enchant the old Andronicus 88

With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,

Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep,

Whenas the one is wounded with the bait,

The other rotted with delicious feed. 92

Sat.

But he will not entreat his son for us.

Tam.

If Tamora entreat him, then he will:

For I can smooth and fill his aged ear

With golden promises, that, were his heart 96

Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,

Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.

[To Æmilius.] Go thou before, be our ambassador:

Say that the emperor requests a parley 100

Of war-like Lucius, and appoint the meeting,

Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus.

Sat.

Æmilius, do this message honourably:

And if he stand on hostage for his safety, 104

Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.

Æmil.

Your bidding shall I do effectually.

[Exit.

Tam.

Now will I to that old Andronicus,

And temper him with all the art I have, 108

To pluck proud Lucius from the war-like Goths.

And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,

And bury all thy fear in my devices.

Sat.

Then go successantly, and plead to him.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Plains near Rome.

Flourish. Enter Lucius, and an army of Goths, with drums and colours.

Luc.

Approved warriors, and my faithful friends,

I have received letters from great Rome,

Which signify what hate they bear their emperor,

And how desirous of our sight they are. 4

Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,

Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;

And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,

Let him make treble satisfaction. 8

First Goth.

Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,

Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort;

Whose high exploits and honourable deeds

Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, 12

Be bold in us: we’ll follow where thou lead’st,

Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day

Led by their master to the flower’d fields,

And be aveng’d on cursed Tamora. 16

Goths.

And, as he saith, so say we all with him.

Luc.

I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.

But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?

Enter a Goth, leading Aaron, with his Child in his arms.

Sec. Goth.

Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray’d, 20

To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;

And as I earnestly did fix mine eye

Upon the wasted building, suddenly

I heard a child cry underneath a wall. 24

I made unto the noise; when soon I heard

The crying babe controll’d with this discourse:

‘Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!

Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, 28

Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look,

Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor:

But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,

They never do beget a coal-black calf. 32

Peace, villain, peace!’—even thus he rates the babe,—

‘For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth;

Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe,

Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.’ 36

With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon him,

Surpris’d him suddenly, and brought him hither,

To use as you think needful of the man.

Luc.

O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil 40

That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand:

This is the pearl that pleas’d your empress’ eye,

And here’s the base fruit of his burning lust.

Say, wall-ey’d slave, whither wouldst thou convey 44

This growing image of thy fiend-like face?

Why dost not speak? What! deaf? not a word?

A halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree,

And by his side his fruit of bastardy. 48

Aar.

Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood.

Luc.

Too like the sire for ever being good.

First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl;

A sight to vex the father’s soul withal. 52

Get me a ladder.

[A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend.

Aar.

Lucius, save the child;

And bear it from me to the empress.

If thou do this, I’ll show thee wondrous things,

That highly may advantage thee to hear: 56

If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,

I’ll speak no more but ‘Vengeance rot you all!’

Luc.

Say on; and if it please me which thou speak’st,

Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d.

Aar.

An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius, 61

’Twill vex’thy soul to hear what I shall speak;

For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,

Acts of black night, abominable deeds, 64

Complots of mischief, treason, villanies

Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d:

And this shall all be buried by my death,

Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. 68

Luc.

Tell on thy mind: I say, thy child shall live.

Aar.

Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.

Luc.

Who should I swear by? thou believ’st no god:

That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?

Aar.

What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not;

Yet, for I know thou art religious,

And hast a thing within thee called conscience,

With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies, 76

Which I have seen thee careful to observe,

Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know

An idiot holds his bauble for a god,

And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,

To that I’ll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow

By that same god, what god soe’er it be,

That thou ador’st and hast in reverence,

To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up:

Or else I will discover nought to thee. 85

Luc.

Even by my god I swear to thee I will.

Aar.

First, know thou, I begot him on the empress.

Luc.

O most insatiate and luxurious woman!

Aar.

Tut! Lucius, this was but a deed of charity 89

To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.

’Twas her two sons that murder’d Bassianus;

They cut thy sister’s tongue and ravish’d her, 92

And cut her hands and trimm’d her as thou saw’st.

Luc.

O detestable villain! call’st thou that trimming?

Aar.

Why, she was wash’d, and cut, and trimm’d, and ’twas

Trim sport for them that had the doing of it. 96

Luc.

O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself!

Aar.

Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.

That codding spirit had they from their mother,

As sure a card as ever won the set; 100

That bloody mind, I think, they learn’d of me

As true a dog as ever fought at head.

Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.

I train’d thy brethren to that guileful hole 104

Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;

I wrote the letter that thy father found,

And hid the gold within the letter mention’d,

Confederate with the queen and her two sons:

And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,

Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?

I play’d the cheater for thy father’s hand,

And, when I had it, drew myself apart, 112

And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.

I pry’d me through the crevice of a wall

When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads;

Beheld his tears, and laugh’d so heartily, 116

That both mine eyes were rainy like to his:

And when I told the empress of this sport,

She swounded almost at my pleasing tale,

And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. 120

First Goth.

What! canst thou say all this, and never blush?

Aar.

Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.

Luc.

Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

Aar.

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. 124

Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think,

Few come within the compass of my curse,

Wherein I did not some notorious ill:

As kill a man, or else devise his death; 128

Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;

Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;

Set deadly enmity between two friends;

Make poor men’s cattle break their necks; 132

Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,

And bid the owners quench them with their tears,

Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves,

And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors, 136

Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;

And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,

Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,

‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.’ 140

Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things

As willingly as one would kill a fly,

And nothing grieves me heartily indeed

But that I cannot do ten thousand more. 144

Luc.

Bring down the devil, for he must not die

So sweet a death as hanging presently.

Aar.

If there be devils, would I were a devil,

To live and burn in everlasting fire, 148

So I might have your company in hell,

But to torment you with my bitter tongue!

Luc.

Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.

Enter a Goth.

Goth.

My lord, there is a messenger from Rome 152

Desires to be admitted to your presence.

Luc.

Let him come near.

Enter Æmilius.

Welcome, Æmilius! what’s the news from Rome?

Æmil.

Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, 156

The Roman emperor greets you all by me;

And, for he understands you are in arms,

He craves a parley at your father’s house,

Willing you to demand your hostages, 160

And they shall be immediately deliver’d.

First Goth.

What says our general?

Luc.

Æmilius, let the emperor give his pledges

Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, 164

And we will come. March away.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rome. Before Titus’ House.

Enter Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron, disguised.

Tam.

Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,

I will encounter with Andronicus,

And say I am Revenge, sent from below

To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.

Knock at his study, where, they say, he keeps, 5

To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;

Tell him, Revenge is come to join with him,

And work confusion on his enemies. 8

[They knock.

Enter Titus, above.

Tit.

Who doth molest my contemplation?

Is it your trick to make me ope the door,

That so my sad decrees may fly away,

And all my study be to no effect? 12

You are deceiv’d; for what I mean to do,

See here, in bloody lines I have set down;

And what is written shall be executed.

Tam.

Titus, I am come to talk with thee. 16

Tit.

No, not a word; how can I grace my talk,

Wanting a hand to give it action?

Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.

Tam.

If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. 20

Tit.

I am not mad; I know thee well enough:

Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;

Witness these trenches made by grief and care;

Witness the tiring day and heavy night; 24

Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well

For our proud empress, mighty Tamora.

Is not thy coming for my other hand?

Tam.

Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora; 28

She is thy enemy, and I thy friend:

I am Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom,

To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,

By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. 32

Come down, and welcome me to this world’s light;

Confer with me of murder and of death.

There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place,

No vast obscurity or misty vale, 36

Where bloody murder or detested rape

Can couch for fear, but I will find them out;

And in their ears tell them my dreadful name,

Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.

Tit.

Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me, 41

To be a torment to mine enemies?

Tam.

I am; therefore come down, and welcome me.

Tit.

Do me some service ere I come to thee.

Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;

Now give some surance that thou art Revenge:

Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels,

And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner, 48

And whirl along with thee about the globe.

Provide two proper palfreys, black as jet,

To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,

And find out murderers in their guilty caves: 52

And when thy car is loaden with their heads,

I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel

Trot like a servile footman all day long,

Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east 56

Until his very downfall in the sea:

And day by day I’ll do this heavy task,

So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.

Tam.

These are my ministers, and come with me. 60

Tit.

Are these thy ministers? what are they call’d?

Tam.

Rapine and Murder; therefore called so,

Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.

Tit.

Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they are, 64

And you the empress! but we worldly men

Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.

O sweet Revenge! now do I come to thee;

And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee, 68

I will embrace thee in it by and by.

[Exit above.

Tam.

This closing with him fits his lunacy.

Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,

Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, 72

For now he firmly takes me for Revenge;

And, being credulous in this mad thought,

I’ll make him send for Lucius his son;

And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, 76

I’ll find some cunning practice out of hand

To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,

Or, at the least, make them his enemies.

See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 80

Enter Titus.

Tit.

Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee:

Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house:

Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.

How like the empress and her sons you are! 84

Well are you fitted had you but a Moor:

Could not all hell afford you such a devil?

For well I wot the empress never wags

But in her company there is a Moor; 88

And would you represent our queen aright,

It were convenient you had such a devil.

But welcome as you are. What shall we do?

Tam.

What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? 92

Dem.

Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him.

Chi.

Show me a villain that hath done a rape,

And I am sent to be reveng’d on him.

Tam.

Show me a thousand that have done thee wrong, 96

And I will be revenged on them all.

Tit.

Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,

And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself,

Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer. 100

Go thou with him; and when it is thy hap

To find another that is like to thee,

Good Rapine, stab him; he’s a ravisher.

Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court 104

There is a queen attended by a Moor;

Well mayst thou know her by thy own proportion,

For up and down she doth resemble thee:

I pray thee, do on them some violent death; 108

They have been violent to me and mine.

Tam.

Well hast thou lesson’d us; this shall we do.

But would it please thee, good Andronicus,

To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, 112

Who leads towards Rome a band of war-like Goths,

And bid him come and banquet at thy house:

When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,

I will bring in the empress and her sons, 116

The emperor himself, and all thy foes,

And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,

And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.

What says Andronicus to this device? 120

Tit.

Marcus, my brother! ’tis sad Titus calls.

Enter Marcus.

Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;

Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths:

Bid him repair to me, and bring with him 124

Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;

Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are:

Tell him, the emperor and the empress too

Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.

This do thou for my love; and so let him, 129

As he regards his aged father’s life.

Mar.

This will I do, and soon return again.

[Exit.

Tam.

Now will I hence about thy business, 132

And take my ministers along with me.

Tit.

Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me;

Or else I’ll call my brother back again,

And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. 136

Tam.

[Aside to her sons.] What say you, boys? will you abide with him,

Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor

How I have govern’d our determin’d jest?

Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, 140

And tarry with him till I turn again.

Tit.

[Aside.] I know them all, though they suppose me mad;

And will o’er-reach them in their own devices;

A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam. 144

Dem.

[Aside to Tamora.] Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.

Tam.

Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes

To lay a complot to betray thy foes.

[Exit Tamora.

Tit.

I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. 148

Chi.

Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ’d?

Tit.

Tut! I have work enough for you to do.

Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine!

Enter Publius and Others.

Pub.

What is your will? 152

Tit.

Know you these two?

Pub.

The empress’ sons,

I take them, Chiron and Demetrius.

Tit.

Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv’d; 156

The one is Murder, Rape is the other’s name;

And therefore bind them, gentle Publius;

Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them;

Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour,

And now I find it: therefore bind them sure, 161

And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry.

[Exit. Publius, &c., seize Chiron and Demetrius.

Chi.

Villains, forbear! we are the empress’ sons.

Pub.

And therefore do we what we are commanded. 164

Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.

Is he sure bound? look that you bind them fast.

Re-enter Titus, with Lavinia; she bearing a basin, and he a knife.

Tit.

Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.

Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me, 168

But let them hear what fearful words I utter.

O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!

Here stands the spring whom you have stain’d with mud,

This goodly summer with your winter mix’d. 172

You kill’d her husband, and for that vile fault

Two of her brothers were condemn’d to death,

My hand cut off and made a merry jest:

Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear 176

Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,

Inhuman traitors, you constrain’d and forc’d.

What would you say if I should let you speak?

Villains! for shame you could not beg for grace.

Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. 181

This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,

Whilst that Levinia ’tween her stumps doth hold

The basin that receives your guilty blood. 184

You know your mother means to feast with me,

And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.

Hark! villains, I will grind your bones to dust,

And with your blood and it I’ll make a paste;

And of the paste a coffin I will rear, 189

And make two pasties of your shameful heads;

And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam,

Like to the earth swallow her own increase. 192

This is the feast that I have bid her to,

And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;

For worse than Philomel you us’d my daughter,

And worse than Procne I will be reveng’d. 196

And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come.

[He cuts their throats.

Receive the blood: and when that they are dead,

Let me go grind their bones to powder small,

And with this hateful liquor temper it; 200

And in that paste let their vile heads be bak’d.

Come, come, be every one officious

To make this banquet, which I wish may prove

More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast.

So, now bring them in, for I will play the cook,

And see them ready ’gainst their mother comes.

[Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies.

Scene III.— The Same. Court of Titus’ House. A banquet set out.

Enter Lucius, Marcus and Goths, with Aaron prisoner.

Luc.

Uncle Marcus, since it is my father’s mind

That I repair to Rome, I am content.

First Goth.

And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.

Luc.

Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, 4

This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;

Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him,

Till he be brought unto the empress’ face,

For testimony of her foul proceedings: 8

And see the ambush of our friends be strong;

I fear the emperor means no good to us.

Aar.

Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,

And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth 12

The venomous malice of my swelling heart!

Luc.

Away, inhuman dog! unhallow’d slave!

Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.

[Exeunt Goths, with Aaron. Trumpets sound.

The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. 16

Enter Saturninus and Tamora, with Æmilius, Senators, Tribunes, and Others.

Sat.

What! hath the firmament more suns than one?

Luc.

What boots it thee, to call thyself a sun?

Mar.

Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle;

These quarrels must be quietly debated. 20

The feast is ready which the careful Titus

Hath ordain’d to an honourable end,

For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome:

Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places. 24

Sat.

Marcus, we will.

[Hautboys sound.

Enter Titus, dressed like a cook, Lavinia, veiled, young Lucius, and Others. Titus places the dishes on the table.

Tit.

Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen;

Welcome, ye war-like Goths; welcome, Lucius;

And welcome, all. Although the cheer be poor,

’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it. 29

Sat.

Why art thou thus attir’d, Andronicus?

Tit.

Because I would be sure to have all well

To entertain your highness, and your empress.

Tam.

We are beholding to you, good Andronicus. 33

Tit.

An if your highness knew my heart, you were.

My lord the emperor, resolve me this:

Was it well done of rash Virginius 36

To slay his daughter with his own right hand,

Because she was enforced, stain’d, and deflower’d?

Sat.

It was, Andronicus.

Tit.

Your reason, mighty lord? 40

Sat.

Because the girl should not survive her shame,

And by her presence still renew his sorrows.

Tit.

A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;

A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant, 44

For me most wretched, to perform the like.

Die, die. Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;

And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die!

[Kills Lavinia.

Sat.

What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind? 48

Tit.

Kill’d her, for whom my tears have made me blind.

I am as woeful as Virginius was,

And have a thousand times more cause than he

To do this outrage: and it is now done. 52

Sat.

What! was she ravish’d? tell who did the deed.

Tit.

Will ’t please you eat? will ’t please your highness feed?

Tam.

Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?

Tit.

Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius: 56

They ravish’d her, and cut away her tongue:

And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong.

Sat.

Go fetch them hither to us presently.

Tit.

Why, there they are both, baked in that pie; 60

Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,

Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.

’Tis true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point.

[Kills Tamora.

Sat.

Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!

[Kills Titus.

Luc.

Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed? 65

There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!

[Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. The people in confusion disperse. Marcus, Lucius, and their partisans, go up into the balcony.

Mar.

You sad-fac’d men, people and sons of Rome,

By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl 68

Scatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts,

O! let me teach you how to knit again

This scatter’d corn into one mutual sheaf,

These broken limbs again into one body, 72

Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,

And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,

Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,

Do shameful execution on herself. 76

But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,

Grave witnesses of true experience,

Cannot induce you to attend my words,

[To Lucius.] Speak, Rome’s dear friend, as erst our ancestor, 80

When with his solemn tongue he did discourse

To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear

The story of that baleful burning night

When subtle Greeks surpris’d King Priam’s Troy; 84

Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch’d our ears,

Or who hath brought the fatal engine in

That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.

My heart is not compact of flint nor steel, 88

Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,

But floods of tears will drown my oratory,

And break my very utterance, even in the time

When it should move you to attend me most, 92

Lending your kind commiseration.

Here is a captain, let him tell the tale;

Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.

Luc.

Then, noble auditory, be it known to you, 96

That cursed Chiron and Demetrius

Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother;

And they it was that ravished our sister. 99

For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,

Our father’s tears despis’d, and basely cozen’d

Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel out,

And sent her enemies unto the grave:

Lastly, myself unkindly banished, 104

The gates shut on me, and turn’d weeping out,

To beg relief among Rome’s enemies;

Who drown’d their enmity in my true tears,

And op’d their arms to embrace me as a friend: 108

And I am the turn’d forth, be it known to you,

That have preserv’d her welfare in my blood,

And from her bosom took the enemy’s point,

Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body. 112

Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;

My scars can witness, dumb although they are,

That my report is just and full of truth.

But, soft! methinks I do digress too much, 116

Citing my worthless praise: O! pardon me;

For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.

Mar.

Now is my turn to speak. Behold this child;

Of this was Tamora delivered, 120

The issue of an irreligious Moor,

Chief architect and plotter of these woes.

The villain is alive in Titus’ house,

Damn’d as he is, to witness this is true. 124

Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge

These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience,

Or more than any living man could bear.

Now you have heard the truth, what say you Romans? 128

Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,

And, from the place where you behold us now,

The poor remainder of Andronici

Will, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down,

And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,

And make a mutual closure of our house.

Speak, Romans, speak! and if you say we shall,

Lo! hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. 136

Æmil.

Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,

And bring our emperor gently in thy hand,

Lucius, our emperor; for well I know

The common voice do cry it shall be so. 140

Romans.

Lucius, all hail! Rome’s royal emperor!

Mar.

[To Attendants.] Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house,

And hither, hale that misbelieving Moor,

To be adjudg’d some direful slaughtering death,

As punishment for his most wicked life. 145

[Exeunt Attendants.

Lucius, Marcus, and the Others descend.

Romans.

Lucius, all hail! Rome’s gracious governor!

Luc.

Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,

To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her woe!

But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, 149

For nature puts me to a heavy task.

Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near,

To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. 152

O! take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,

[Kisses Titus.

These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d face,

The last true duties of thy noble son!

Mar.

Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,

Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips: 157

O! were the sum of these that I should pay

Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them.

Luc.

Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us 160

To melt in showers: thy grandsire lov’d thee well:

Many a time he danc’d thee on his knee,

Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;

Many a matter hath he told to thee, 164

Meet and agreeing with thine infancy;

In that respect, then, like a loving child,

Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,

Because kind nature doth require it so: 168

Friends should associate friends in grief and woe.

Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;

Do him that kindness, and take leave of him.

Boy.

O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart 172

Would I were dead, so you did live again.

O Lord! I cannot speak to him for weeping;

My tears will choke me if I ope my mouth.

Re-enter Attendants, with Aaron.

First Rom.

You sad Andronici, have done with woes: 176

Give sentence on this execrable wretch,

That hath been breeder of these dire events.

Luc.

Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;

There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food: 180

If any one relieves or pities him,

For the offence he dies. This is our doom:

Some stay to see him fasten’d in the earth.

Aar.

O! why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb? 184

I am no baby, I, that with base prayers

I should repent the evils I have done.

Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did

Would I perform, if I might have my will: 188

If one good deed in all my life I did,

I do repent it from my very soul.

Luc.

Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave. 192

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith

Be closed in our household’s monument.

As for that heinous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weeds, 196

No mournful bell shall ring her burial;

But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.

Her life was beast-like, and devoid of pity;

And, being so, shall have like want of pity. 200

See justice done on Aaron, that damn’d Moor,

By whom our heavy haps had their beginning:

Then, afterwards, to order well the state,

That like events may ne’er it ruinate.

[Exeunt.

ROMEO AND JULIET

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Escalus,	Prince of Verona.
Paris,	a young Nobleman, Kinsman to the Prince.
Montague, }	Heads of two Houses at variance with each other.
Capulet, }	Heads of two Houses at variance with each other.
Uncle to Capulet.
Romeo,	son to Montague.
Mercutio, Kinsman to the Prince, }	Friends to Romeo.
Benvolio, Nephew to Montague, }	Friends to Romeo.
Tybalt,	Nephew to Lady Capulet.
Friar Laurence,	a Franciscan.
Friar John,	of the same Order.
Balthasar,	Servant to Romeo.
Sampson, }	Servants to Capulet.
Gregory, }	Servants to Capulet.
Peter,	Servant to Juliet’s Nurse.
Abraham,	Servant to Montague.
An Apothecary.
Three Musicians.
Page to Mercutio; Page to Paris; another Page; an Officer.
Lady Montague,	Wife to Montague.
Lady Capulet,	Wife to Capulet.
Juliet,	Daughter to Capulet.
Nurse to Juliet.
Citizens of Verona; male and female Kinsfolk to both Houses; Masquers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.

Chorus.

Scene.—Verona: Once (in the Fifth Act), at Mantua.

PROLOGUE.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes 5

A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,

And the continuance of their parents’ rage,

Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,

Is now the two hours’ traffick of our stage; 12

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

[Exit.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Verona. A Public Place.

Enter Sampson and Gregory, armed with swords and bucklers.

Sam.

Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.

Gre.

No. for then we should be colliers.

Sam.

I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.

Gre.

Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar. 6

Sam.

I strike quickly, being moved.

Gre.

But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

Sam.

A dog of the house of Montague moves me. 10

Gre.

To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runnest away.

Sam.

A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s. 16

Gre.

That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.

Sam.

’Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gre.

The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. 24

Sam.

’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off their heads.

Gre.

The heads of the maids? 28

Sam.

Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gre.

They must take it in sense that feel it.

Sam.

Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. 34

Gre.

’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of the Montagues. 37

Enter Abraham and Balthasar.

Sam.

My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee.

Gre.

How! turn thy back and run? 40

Sam.

Fear me not.

Gre.

No, marry; I fear thee!

Sam.

Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. 44

Gre.

I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

Sam.

Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it. 49

Abr.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sam.

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abr.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? 52

Sam.

[Aside to Gregory.] Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Gre.

[Aside to Sampson.] No.

Sam.

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. 57

Gre.

Do you quarrel, sir?

Abr.

Quarrel, sir! no, sir.

Sam.

If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you. 61

Abr.

No better.

Sam.

Well, sir.

Gre.

[Aside to Sampson.] Say, ‘better;’ here comes one of my master’s kinsmen. 65

Sam.

Yes, better, sir.

Abr.

You lie.

Sam.

Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.

[They fight.

Enter Benvolio.

Ben.

Part, fools!

Put up your swords; you know not what you do.

[Beats down their swords.

Enter Tybalt.

Tyb.

What! art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? 72

Turn-thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Ben.

I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,

Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tyb.

What! drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word, 76

As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.

Have at thee, coward!

[They fight.

Enter several persons of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs and partisans.

Citizens.

Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues! 80

Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.

Cap.

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Cap.

A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

Cap.

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,

And flourishes his blade in spite of me. 84

Enter Montague and Lady Montague.

Mon.

Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not; let me go.

Lady Mon.

Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Enter Prince with his Train.

Prin.

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,— 88

Will they not hear? What ho! you men, you beasts,

That quench the fire of your pernicious rage

With purple fountains issuing from your veins,

On pain of torture, from those bloody hands 92

Throw your mis-temper’d weapons to the ground,

And hear the sentence of your moved prince.

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 96

Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,

And made Verona’s ancient citizens

Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,

To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 100

Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.

If ever you disturb our streets again

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

For this time, all the rest depart away: 104

You, Capulet, shall go along with me;

And, Montague, come you this afternoon

To know our further pleasure in this case,

To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.

Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. 109

[Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio.

Mon.

Who set this ancient quarrel new a-broach?

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Ben.

Here were the servants of your adversary

And yours close fighting ere I did approach: 113

I drew to part them; in the instant came

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,

Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears, 116

He swung about his head, and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal hiss’d him in scorn.

While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,

Came more and more, and fought on part and part, 120

Till the prince came, who parted either part.

Lady Mon.

O! where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?

Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Ben.

Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun 124

Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;

Where, underneath the grove of sycamore

That westward rooteth from the city’s side, 128

So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,

And stole into the covert of the wood:

I, measuring his affections by my own, 132

That most are busied when they’re most alone,

Pursu’d my humour not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

Mon.

Many a morning hath he there been seen, 136

With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,

Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the furthest east begin to draw 140

The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself,

Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,

And makes himself an artificial night. 145

Black and portentous must this humour prove

Unless good-counsel may the cause remove.

Ben.

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Mon.

I neither know it nor can learn of him.

Ben.

Have you importun’d him by any means?

Mon.

Both by myself and many other friends:

But he, his own affections’ counsellor, 152

Is to himself, I will not say how true,

But to himself so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud bit with an envious worm, 156

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure as know. 160

Ben.

See where he comes: so please you, step aside;

I’ll know his grievance, or be much denied.

Mon.

I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,

To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away.

[Exeunt Montague and Lady.

Enter Romeo.

Ben.

Good morrow, cousin.

Rom.

Is the day so young? 165

Ben.

But new struck nine.

Rom.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Ben.

It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? 168

Rom.

Not having that, which having, makes them short.

Ben.

In love?

Rom.

Out—

Ben.

Of love? 172

Rom.

Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben.

Alas! that love, so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.

Rom.

Alas! that love, whose view is muffled still, 176

Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will.

Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?

Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.

Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love: 180

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!

O any thing! of nothing first create.

O heavy lightness! serious vanity!

Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms! 184

Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!

Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Dost thou not laugh?

Ben.

No, coz, I rather weep. 188

Rom.

Good heart, at what?

Ben.

At thy good heart’s oppression.

Rom.

Why, such is love’s transgression.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, 192

Which thou wilt propagate to have it press’d

With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs;

Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; 197

Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

What is it else? a madness most discreet,

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. 200

Farewell, my coz.

[Going.

Ben.

Soft, I will go along;

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom.

Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here;

This is not Romeo, he’s some other where. 204

Ben.

Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.

Rom.

What! shall I groan and tell thee?

Ben.

Groan! why, no;

But sadly tell me who.

Rom.

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will; 208

Ah! word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Ben.

I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

Rom.

A right good mark-man! And she’s fair I love. 212

Ben.

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Rom.

Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit

With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit;

And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, 216

From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: 220

O! she is rich in beauty; only poor

That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Ben.

Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Rom.

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; 224

For beauty, starv’d with her severity,

Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,

To merit bliss by making me despair: 228

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow

Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Ben.

Be rul’d by me; forget to think of her.

Rom.

O! teach me how I should forget to think. 232

Ben.

By giving liberty unto thine eyes:

Examine other beauties.

Rom.

’Tis the way

To call hers exquisite, in question more.

These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows

Being black put us in mind they hide the fair; 237

He, that is strucken blind cannot forget

The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, 240

What doth her beauty serve but as a note

Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair?

Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.

Ben.

I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant.

Cap.

But Montague is bound as well as I,

In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,

For men so old as we to keep the peace.

Par.

Of honourable reckoning are you both;

And pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long. 5

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Cap.

But saying o’er what I have said before:

My child is yet a stranger in the world, 8

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;

Let two more summers wither in their pride

Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Par.

Younger than she are happy mothers made. 12

Cap.

And too soon marr’d are those so early made.

Earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she,

She is the hopeful lady of my earth:

But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, 16

My will to her consent is but a part;

An she agree, within her scope of choice

Lies my consent and fair according voice.

This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, 20

Whereto I have invited many a guest

Such as I love; and you, among the store,

One more, most welcome, makes my number more.

At my poor house look to behold this night 24

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel

When well-apparel’d April on the heel

Of limping winter treads, even such delight 28

Among fresh female buds shall you this night

Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,

And like her most whose merit most shall be:

Which on more view, of many mine being one 32

May stand in number, though in reckoning none.

Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper.] Go, sirrah, trudge about

Through fair Verona; find those persons out

Whose names are written there, and to them say, 36

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[Exeunt Capulet and Paris.

Serv.

Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time.

Enter Benvolio and Romeo.

Ben.

Tut! man, one fire burns out another’s burning,

One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish; 48

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;

One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,

And the rank poison of the old will die. 52

Rom.

Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

Ben.

For what, I pray thee?

Rom.

For your broken shin.

Ben.

Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom.

Not mad, but bound more than a madman is; 56

Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipp’d and tormented, and—Good den, good fellow.

Serv.

God gi’ good den. I pray, sir, can you read?

Rom.

Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. 60

Serv.

Perhaps you have learn’d it without book: but, I pray, can you read any thing you see?

Rom.

Ay, if I know the letters and the language. 64

Serv.

Ye say honestly; rest you merry!

[Offering to go.

Rom.

Stay, fellow; I can read.

Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.

A fair assembly: whither should they come?

Serv.

Up. 76

Rom.

Whither?

Serv.

To supper; to our house.

Rom.

Whose house?

Serv.

My master’s. 80

Rom.

Indeed, I should have asked you that before.

Serv.

Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!

[Exit.

Ben.

At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s,

Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov’st, 88

With all the admired beauties of Verona:

Go thither; and, with unattainted eye

Compare her face with some that I shall show,

And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. 92

Rom.

When the devout religion of mine eye

Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires!

And these, who often drown’d could never die,

Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! 96

One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun

Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

Ben.

Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,

Herself pois’d with herself in either eye; 100

But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d

Your lady’s love against some other maid

That I will show you shining at this feast,

And she shall scant show well that now shows best. 104

Rom.

I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,

But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in Capulet’s House.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.

Lady Cap.

Nurse, where’s my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurse.

Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,—

I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird!

God forbid! where’s this girl? what, Juliet! 4

Enter Juliet.

Jul.

How now! who calls?

Nurse.

Your mother.

Jul.

Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

Lady Cap.

This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile.

We must talk in secret: nurse, come back again; 8

I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.

Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age.

Nurse.

Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

Lady Cap.

She’s not fourteen.

Nurse.

I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth— 12

And yet to my teen be it spoken I have but four—

She is not fourteen. How long is it now

To Lammas-tide?

Lady Cap.

A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.

Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen. 17

Susan and she—God rest all Christian souls!—

Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;

She was too good for me. But, as I said, 20

On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;

That shall she, marry; I remember it well.

’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;

And she was wean’d, I never shall forget it, 24

Of all the days of the year, upon that day;

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,

Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;

My lord and you were then at Mantua. 28

Nay, I do bear a brain:—but, as I said,

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple

Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool!

To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug. 32

‘Shake,’ quoth the dove-house: ’twas no need, I trow,

To bid me trudge:

And since that time it is eleven years;

For then she could stand high lone; nay, by the rood, 36

She could have run and waddled all about;

For even the day before she broke her brow:

And then my husband—God be with his soul!

A’ was a merry man—took up the child: 40

‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my halidom,

The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay.’ 44

To see now how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,

I never should forget it: ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it stinted and said ‘Ay.’ 48

Lady Cap.

Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse.

Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay.’

And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow 52

A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;

A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:

‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou com’st to age; 56

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘Ay.’

Jul.

And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

Nurse.

Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed:

An I might live to see thee married once, 61

I have my wish.

Lady Cap.

Marry, that ‘marry’ is the very theme

I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, 64

How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.

It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.

An honour! were not I thine only nurse,

I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat. 68

Lady Cap.

Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,

Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,

Are made already mothers: by my count,

I was your mother much upon these years 72

That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief,

The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.

A man, young lady! lady, such a man

As all the world—why, he’s a man of wax. 76

Lady Cap.

Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.

Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower.

Lady Cap.

What say you? can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall behold him at our feast; 80

Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face

And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen;

Examine every married lineament,

And see how one another lends content; 84

And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies

Find written in the margent of his eyes.

This precious book of love, this unbound lover,

To beautify him, only lacks a cover: 88

The fish lives in the sea, and ’tis much pride

For fair without the fair within to hide:

That book in many eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story: 92

So shall you share all that he doth possess,

By having him making yourself no less.

Nurse.

No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.

Lady Cap.

Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love? 96

Jul.

I’ll look to like, if looking liking move;

But no more deep will I endart mine eye

Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight. 104

Lady Cap.

We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse.

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Masquers, Torch-Bearers, and Others.

Rom.

What! shall this speech be spoke for our excuse,

Or shall we on without apology?

Ben.

The date is out of such prolixity:

We’ll have no Cupid hood-wink’d with a scarf, 4

Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,

Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;

Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke

After the prompter, for our entrance: 8

But, let them measure us by what they will,

We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Rom.

Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy, I will bear the light. 12

Mer.

Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Rom.

Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes

With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. 16

Mer.

You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,

And soar with them above a common bound.

Rom.

I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

To soar with his light feathers; and so bound 20

I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:

Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

Mer.

And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing. 24

Rom.

Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

Mer.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. 28

Give me a case to put my visage in:

[Putting on a masque.

A visor for a visor! what care I,

What curious eye doth quote deformities?

Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. 32

Ben.

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,

But every man betake him to his legs.

Rom.

A torch for me; let wantons, light of heart,

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, 36

For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;

I’ll be a candle holder, and look on.

The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

Mer.

Tut! dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word. 40

If thou art Dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire,

Of—save your reverence—love, wherein thou stick’st

Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!

Rom.

Nay, that’s not so.

Mer.

I mean, sir, in delay 44

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

Rom.

And we mean well in going to this masque; 48

But ’tis no wit to go.

Mer.

Why, may one ask?

Rom.

I dream’d a dream to-night.

Mer.

And so did I.

Rom.

Well, what was yours?

Mer.

That dreamers often lie.

Rom.

In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. 52

Mer.

O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.

Ben.

Queen Mab! What’s she?

Mer.

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 56

On the fore-finger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep:

Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; 61

The traces, of the smallest spider’s web;

The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;

Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film; 64

Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,

Not half so big as a round little worm

Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid;

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 68

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coach-makers.

And in this state she gallops night by night

Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; 72

O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;

O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;

O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream;

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. 77

Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig’s tail,

Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep, 81

Then dreams he of another benefice;

Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish bladed, 85

Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon

Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 88

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plats the manes of horses in the night;

And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,

Which once untangled much misfortune bodes;

This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,

That presses them and learns them first to bear,

Making them women of good carriage:

This is she—

Rom.

Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace! 96

Thou talk’st of nothing.

Mer.

True, I talk of dreams,

Which are the children of an idle brain,

Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;

Which is as thin of substance as the air, 100

And more inconstant than the wind, who woos

Even now the frozen bosom of the north,

And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,

Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. 104

Ben.

This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Rom.

I fear too early; for my mind misgives

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars 108

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night’s revels, and expire the term

Of a despised life clos’d in my breast

By some vile forfeit of untimely death. 112

But he, that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail!, On, lusty gentlemen.

Ben.

Strike, drum.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. A Hall in Capulet’s House.

Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen.

First Serv.

Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!

Sec. Serv.

When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing. 6

First Serv.

Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony! and Potpan!

Sec. Serv.

Ay, boy; ready. 12

First Serv.

You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber.

Third Serv.

We cannot be here and there too. 17

Sec. Serv.

Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.

[They retire behind.

Enter Capulet and Juliet and Others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers.

Cap.

Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes 20

Unplagu’d with corns will walk a bout with you.

Ah ha! my mistresses, which of you all

Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,

I’ll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now? 24

Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day

That I have worn a visor, and could tell

A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear

Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone. 28

You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.

A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.

[Music plays, and they dance.

More light, ye knaves! and turn the tables up,

And quench the fire, the room has grown too hot. 32

Ah! sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.

Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,

For you and I are past our dancing days;

How long is ’t now since last yourself and I 36

Were in a mask?

Sec. Cap.

By’r Lady, thirty years.

Cap.

What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:

’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,

Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, 40

Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.

Sec. Cap.

’Tis more, ’tis more; his son is older, sir.

His son is thirty.

Cap.

Will you tell me that?

His son was but a ward two years ago. 44

Rom.

What lady is that which doth enrich the hand

Of yonder knight?

Serv.

I know not, sir.

Rom.

O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright. 48

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 52

As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.

The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,

And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!

For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. 57

Tyb.

This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What! dares the slave

Come hither, cover’d with an antick face, 60

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,

To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Cap.

Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so? 64

Tyb.

Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;

A villain that is hither come in spite,

To scorn at our solemnity this night.

Cap.

Young Romeo, is it?

Tyb.

’Tis he, that villain Romeo. 68

Cap.

Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone:

He bears him like a portly gentleman;

And, to say truth, Verona brags of him

To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth. 72

I would not for the wealth of all this town

Here in my house do him disparagement;

Therefore be patient, take no note of him:

It is my will; the which if thou respect, 76

Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,

An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tyb.

It fits, when such a villain is a guest:

I’ll not endure him.

Cap.

He shall be endur’d: 80

What! goodman boy; I say, he shall, go to;

Am I the master here, or you? go to.

You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!

You’ll make a mutiny among my guests! 84

You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man!

Tyb.

Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.

Cap.

Go to, go to;

You are a saucy boy—is’t so indeed?—

This trick may chance to scathe you.—I know what: 88

You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time.

Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go:

Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!

I’ll make you quiet. What! cheerly, my hearts!

Tyb.

Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting 93

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.

I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall

Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.

[Exit.

Rom.

[To Juliet.] If I profane with my unworthiest hand 97

This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this;

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tenderkiss.

Jul.

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, 101

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. 104

Rom.

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Jul.

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Rom.

O! then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;

They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. 108

Jul.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

Rom.

Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take.

Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.

[Kissing her.

Jul.

Then have my lips the sin that they have took. 112

Rom.

Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!

Give me my sin again.

Jul.

You kiss by the book.

Nurse.

Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Rom.

What is her mother?

Nurse.

Marry, bachelor,

Her mother is the lady of the house, 117

And a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous:

I nurs’d her daughter, that you talk’d withal;

I tell you he that can lay hold of her 120

Shall have the chinks.

Rom.

Is she a Capulet?

O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.

Ben.

Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.

Rom.

Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

Cap.

Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; 125

We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.

Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;

I thank you, honest gentlemen; good-night. 128

More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.

Ah! sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;

I’ll to my rest.

[Exeunt all except Juliet and Nurse.

Jul.

Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman? 132

Nurse.

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Jul.

What’s he that now is going out of door?

Nurse.

Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

Jul.

What’s he, that follows there, that would not dance? 136

Nurse.

I know not.

Jul.

Go, ask his name.—If he be married,

My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

Nurse.

His name is Romeo, and a Montague;

The only son of your great enemy. 141

Jul.

My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 144

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse.

What’s this, what’s this?

Jul.

A rime I learn’d even now

Of one I danc’d withal.

[One calls within, ‘Juliet!’

Nurse.

Anon, anon!—

Come, let’s away; the strangers are all gone. 148

[Exeunt.

PROLOGUE.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir;

That fair for which love groan’d for and would die,

With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.

Now Romeo is belov’d and loves again,  5

Alike bewitched by the charm of looks,

But to his foe suppos’d he must complain,

And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:  8

Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers us’d to swear;

And she as much in love, her means much less

To meet her new-beloved any where:  12

But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,

Tempering extremity with extreme sweet.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Verona. A Lane by the wall of Capulet’s Orchard.

Enter Romeo.

Rom.

Can I go forward when my heart is here?

Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.

[He climbs the wall, and leaps down within it.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

Ben.

Romeo! my cousin Romeo!

Mer.

He is wise;

And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed. 4

Ben.

He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:

Call, good Mercutio.

Mer.

Nay, I’ll conjure too.

Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh: 8

Speak but one rime and I am satisfied;

Cry but ‘Ay me!’ couple but ‘love’ and ‘dove;’

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word.

One nickname for her purblind son and heir, 12

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim

When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.

He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. 16

I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,

By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,

By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,

And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, 20

That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.

An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer.

This cannot anger him: ’twould anger him

To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle 24

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand

Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;

That were some spite: my invocation

Is fair and honest, and in his mistress’ name 28

I conjure only but to raise up him.

Ben.

Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,

To be consorted with the humorous night:

Blind is his love and best befits the dark. 32

Mer.

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

O Romeo! that she were, O! that she were 37

An open et cætera, thou a poperin pear.

Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed;

This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep: 40

Come, shall we go?

Ben.

Go, then; for ’tis in vain

To seek him here that means not to be found.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Capulet’s Orchard.

Enter Romeo.

Rom.

He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.

[Juliet appears above at a window.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 4

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green, 8

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

It is my lady; O! it is my love:

O! that she knew she were.

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?

Her eye discourses; I will answer it. 13

I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes 16

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars

As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven 20

Would through the airy region stream so bright

That birds would sing and think it were not night.

See! how she leans her cheek upon her hand:

O! that I were a glove upon that hand, 24

That I might touch that cheek.

Jul.

Ay me!

Rom.

She speaks:

O! speak again, bright angel; for thou art

As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,

As is a winged messenger of heaven 28

Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes

Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,

And sails upon the bosom of the air. 32

Jul.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. 36

Rom.

[Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Jul.

’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.

What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, 40

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O! be some other name:

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet; 44

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;

And for that name, which is no part of thee, 48

Take all myself.

Rom.

I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Jul.

What man art thou, that, thus bescreen’d in night, 52

So stumblest on my counsel?

Rom.

By a name

I know not how to tall thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

Because it is an enemy to thee: 56

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Jul.

My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words

Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound:

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? 60

Rom.

Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

Jul.

How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?

The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,

And the place death, considering who thou art,

If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 65

Rom.

With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do that dares love attempt;

Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 69

Jul.

If they do see thee they will murder thee.

Rom.

Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye

Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, 72

And I am proof against their enmity.

Jul.

I would not for the world they saw thee here.

Rom.

I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes;

And but thou love me, let them find me here;

My life were better ended by their hate, 77

Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Jul.

By whose direction found’st thou out this place?

Rom.

By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire; 80

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore wash’d with the furthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise. 84

Jul.

Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face,

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.

Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 88

What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!

Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay;’

And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear’st,

Thou mayst prove false; at lovers’ perjuries, 92

They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo!

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:

Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won,

I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, 96

So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,

And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light:

But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true

Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 101

I should have been more strange, I must confess,

But that thou over-heard’st, ere I was ’ware,

My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me,

And not impute this yielding to light love, 105

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear

That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—

Jul.

O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, 109

That monthly changes in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Rom.

What shall I swear by?

Jul.

Do not swear at all;

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 113

Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I’ll believe thee.

Rom.

If my heart’s dear love—

Jul.

Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, 116

I have no joy of this contract to-night:

It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be

Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good-night!

This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

Good-night, good-night! as sweet repose and rest

Come to thy heart as that within my breast! 124

Rom.

O! wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul.

What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Rom.

The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

Jul.

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; 128

And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom.

Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

Jul.

But to be frank, and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have: 132

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.

[Nurse calls within.

I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! 136

Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

[Exit above.

Rom.

O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream, 140

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet, above.

Jul.

Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 144

By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,

Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;

And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,

And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Nurse.

[Within.] Madam! 149

Jul.

I come, anon.—But if thou mean’st not well,

I do beseech thee,—

Nurse.

[Within.] Madam!

Jul.

By and by; I come:—

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief: 152

To-morrow will I send.

Rom.

So thrive my soul,—

Jul.

A thousand times good-night!

[Exit above.

Rom.

A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books; 156

But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

[Retiring.

Re-enter Juliet, above.

Jul.

Hist! Romeo, hist! O! for a falconer’s voice,

To lure this tassel-gentle back again.

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud, 160

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,

With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

Rom.

It is my soul that calls upon my name:

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, 165

Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul.

Romeo!

Rom.

My dear!

Jul.

At what o’clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Rom.

At the hour of nine. 168

Jul.

I will not fail; ’tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom.

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Jul.

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 172

Remembering how I love thy company.

Rom.

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul.

’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone; 176

And yet no further than a wanton’s bird,

Who lets it hop a little from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,

And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 180

So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom.

I would I were thy bird.

Jul.

Sweet, so would I:

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good-night, good-night! parting is such sweet sorrow 184

That I shall say good-night till it be morrow.

[Exit.

Rom.

Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell, 188

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. Friar Laurence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket.

Fri. L.

The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,

Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels:

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye 5

The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb; 9

What is her burying grave that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find, 12

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all different.

O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities: 16

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give,

Nor aught so good but strain’d from that fair use

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse: 20

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime’s by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence and medicine power: 24

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed foes encamp them still

In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; 28

And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Enter Romeo.

Rom.

Good morrow, father!

Fri. L.

Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? 32

Young son, it argues a distemper’d head

So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:

Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,

And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; 36

But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:

Therefore thy earliness doth me assure

Thou art up-rous’d by some distemperature; 40

Or if not so, then here I hit it right,

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Rom.

That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

Fri. L.

God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline? 44

Rom.

With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;

I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.

Fri. L

That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then?

Rom.

I’ll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.

I have been feasting with mine enemy, 49

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,

That’s by me wounded: both our remedies

Within thy help and holy physic lies: 52

I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo!

My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri. L.

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 56

Rom.

Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:

As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;

And all combin’d, save what thou must combine 60

By holy marriage: when and where and how

We met we woo’d and made exchange of vow,

I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us to-day. 64

Fri. L.

Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here;

Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,

So soon forsaken? young men’s love then lies

Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 68

Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine

Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline;

How much salt water thrown away in waste,

To season love, that of it doth not taste! 72

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,

Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;

Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit

Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. 76

If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,

Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:

And art thou chang’d? pronounce this sentence then:

Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men. 80

Rom.

Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Fri. L.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Rom.

And bad’st me bury love.

Fri. L.

Not in a grave,

To lay one in, another out to have. 84

Rom.

I pray thee, chide not; she, whom I love now

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;

The other did not so.

Fri. L.

O! she knew well

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. 88

But come, young waverer, come, go with me,

In one respect I’ll thy assistant be;

For this alliance may so happy prove,

To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

Rom.

O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. 93

Fri. L.

Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

Mer.

Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home to-night?

Ben.

Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.

Mer.

Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, 4

Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.

Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,

Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

Mer.

A challenge, on my life. 8

Ben.

Romeo will answer it.

Mer.

Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Ben.

Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. 12

Mer.

Alas! poor Romeo, he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Ben.

Why, what is Tybalt? 19

Mer.

More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O! he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah! the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay! 28

Ben.

The what?

Mer.

The pox of such antick, lisping, affecting fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents!—‘By Jesu, a very good blade!—a very tall man! a very good whore.’—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons! 38

Enter Romeo.

Ben.

Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.

Mer.

Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rime her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom.

Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? 52

Mer.

The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

Rom

Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. 57

Mer.

That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Rom.

Meaning—to curtsy. 60

Mer.

Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom.

A most courteous exposition.

Mer.

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Rom.

Pink for flower. 64

Mer.

Right.

Rom.

Why, then, is my pump well flowered.

Mer.

Well said; follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out the pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular.

Rom.

O single-soled jest! solely singular for the singleness. 72

Mer.

Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit faints.

Rom.

Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. 76

Mer.

Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? 81

Rom.

Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not here for the goose.

Mer.

I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Rom.

Nay, good goose, bite not. 85

Mer.

Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.

Rom.

And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose? 89

Mer.

O! here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad.

Rom.

I stretch it out for that word ‘broad;’ which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. 94

Mer.

Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. 100

Ben.

Stop there, stop there.

Mer.

Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Ben.

Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. 105

Mer.

O! thou art deceived; I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. 109

Rom.

Here’s goodly gear!

Enter Nurse and Peter.

Mer.

A sail, a sail!

Ben.

Two, two; a shirt and a smock. 112

Nurse.

Peter!

Peter.

Anon!

Nurse.

My fan, Peter.

Mer.

Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face. 117

Nurse.

God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mer.

God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.

Is it good den? 120

Mer.

’Tis no less, I tell you; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse.

Out upon you! what a man are you!

Rom.

One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. 125

Nurse.

By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself to mar,’ quoth a’?—Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?

Rom.

I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. 132

Nurse.

You say well.

Mer.

Yea! is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith; wisely, wisely.

Nurse.

If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. 137

Ben.

She will indite him to some supper.

Mer.

A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!

Rom.

What hast thou found? 140

Mer.

No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.

[Sings.

An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar, 144

Is very good meat in Lent:

But a hare that is hoar, is too much for a score,

When it hoars ere it be spent.

Romeo, will you come to your father’s? we’ll to dinner thither. 149

Rom.

I will follow you.

Mer.

Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, Lady, lady, lady. 152

[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio.

Nurse.

Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?

Rom.

A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. 158

Nurse.

An a’ speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skeins-mates. [To Peter.] And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! 165

Pet.

I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. 170

Nurse.

Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out; what she bid me say I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. 182

Rom.

Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee,—

Nurse.

Good heart! and i’ faith, I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman. 187

Rom.

What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.

Nurse.

I will tell her, sir, that you do protest; which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. 192

Rom

Bid her devise

Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;

And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell,

Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse.

No, truly, sir; not a penny. 197

Rom.

Go to; I say, you shall.

Nurse.

This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there. 200

Rom.

And stay, good nurse; behind the abbey wall:

Within this hour my man shall be with thee,

And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;

Which to the high top-gallant of my joy 204

Must be my convoy in the secret night.

Farewell! Be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains.

Farewell! Commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse.

Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir. 208

Rom.

What sayst thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse.

Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,

Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Rom.

I warrant thee my man’s as true as steel. 212

Nurse.

Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady—Lord, Lord!—when ’twas a little prating thing,—O! there’s a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but, I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Rom.

Ay, nurse: what of that? both with an R. 224

Nurse.

Ah! mocker; that’s the dog’s name. R is for the—No; I know it begins with some other letter: and she had the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. 229

Rom.

Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse.

Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.] Peter! 232

Pet.

Anon!

Nurse.

Before, and apace.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Capulet’s Garden.

Enter Juliet.

Jul.

The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;

In half an hour she promis’d to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so.

O! she is lame: love’s heralds should be thoughts, 4

Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,

Driving back shadows over lowering hills:

Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw Love,

And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.

Now is the sun upon the highmost hill 9

Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve

Is three long hours, yet she is not come.

Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, 12

She’d be as swift in motion as a ball;

My words would bandy her to my sweet love,

And his to me:

But old folks, many feign as they were dead; 16

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

Enter Nurse and Peter.

O God! she comes. O honey nurse! what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse.

Peter, stay at the gate.

[Exit Peter.

Jul.

Now, good sweet nurse; O Lord! why look’st thou sad? 21

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;

If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news

By playing it to me with so sour a face. 24

Nurse.

I am aweary, give me leave awhile:

Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!

Jul.

I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak. 28

Nurse.

Jesu! what haste? can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Jul.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath

To say to me that thou art out of breath? 32

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay

Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;

Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance: 36

Let me be satisfied, is ’t good or bad?

Nurse.

Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What! have you dined at home?

Jul.

No, no: but all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse.

Lord! how my head aches; what a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o’ t’other side; O! my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart for sending me about, 52

To catch my death with jauncing up and down.

Jul.

I’ faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.

Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Nurse.

Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, I warrant, a virtuous,—Where is your mother?

Jul.

Where is my mother! why, she is within; 60

Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest:

‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,

Where is your mother?’

Nurse.

O! God’s lady dear,

Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow; 64

Is this the poultice for my aching bones?

Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Jul.

Here’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo?

Nurse.

Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? 68

Jul.

I have.

Nurse.

Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ cell,

There stays a husband to make you a wife:

Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,

They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news. 73

Hie you to church; I must another way,

To fetch a ladder, by the which your love

Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark;

I am the drudge and toil in your delight, 77

But you shall bear the burden soon at night.

Go; I’ll to dinner: hie you to the cell.

Jul.

Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same. Friar Laurence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo.

Fri. L.

So smile the heaven upon this holy act,

That after hours with sorrow chide us not!

Rom.

Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy 4

That one short minute gives me in her sight:

Do thou but close our hands with holy words,

Then love-devouring death do what he dare;

It is enough I may but call her mine. 8

Fri. L.

These violent delights have violent ends,

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which, as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness 12

And in the taste confounds the appetite:

Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Enter Juliet.

Here comes the lady: O! so light a foot 16

Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint:

A lover may bestride the gossamer

That idles in the wanton summer air,

And yet not fall; so light is vanity. 20

Jul.

Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Fri. L.

Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

Jul.

As much to him, else are his thanks too much.

Rom.

Ah! Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more 25

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue

Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both 28

Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Jul.

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,

Brags of his substance, not of ornament:

They are but beggars that can count their worth; 32

But my true love is grown to such excess

I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.

Fri. L.

Come, come with me, and we will make short work;

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone 36

Till holy church incorporate two in one.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Verona. A Public Place.

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants.

Ben.

I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:

The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,

And, if we meet, we shall not ’scape a brawl;

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. 4

Mer.

Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says, ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when, indeed, there is no need.

Ben.

Am I like such a fellow? 11

Mer.

Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.

Ben.

And what to? 15

Mer.

Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye, but such an eye, would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! 33

Ben.

An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. 36

Mer.

The fee-simple! O simple!

Ben.

By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mer.

By my heel, I care not.

Enter Tybalt, and Others.

Tyb.

Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den! a word with one of you.

Mer.

And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. 44

Tyb.

You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.

Mer.

Could you not take some occasion without giving? 48

Tyb.

Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,—

Mer.

Consort! What! dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that shall make you dance. ’Zounds! consort!

Ben.

We talk here in the public haunt of men:

Either withdraw unto some private place, 56

Or reason coldly of your grievances,

Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

Mer.

Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;

I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. 60

Enter Romeo.

Tyb.

Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.

Mer.

But I’ll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your livery:

Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;

Your worship in that sense may call him ‘man.’

Tyb.

Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford

No better term than this,—thou art a villain.

Rom.

Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee

Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 68

To such a greeting; villain am I none,

Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.

Tyb.

Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries

That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. 72

Rom.

I do protest I never injur’d thee,

But love thee better than thou canst devise,

Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:

And so, good Capulet, which name I tender 76

As dearly as my own, be satisfied.

Mer.

O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!

Alla stoccata carries it away.

[Draws.

Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? 80

Tyb.

What wouldst thou have with me?

Mer.

Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.

Tyb.

[Drawing.] I am for you. 88

Rom.

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mer.

Come, sir, your passado.

[They fight.

Rom.

Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.

Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! 92

Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath

Forbidden bandying in Verona streets.

Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!

[Exeunt Tybalt and his Partisans.

Mer.

I am hurt.

A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped. 96

Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Ben.

What! art thou hurt?

Mer.

Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.

Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.

[Exit Page.

Rom.

Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. 100

Mer.

No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! ’Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. 109

Rom.

I thought all for the best.

Mer.

Help me into some house, Benvolio,

Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!

They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it, 113

And soundly too:—your houses!

[Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio.

Rom.

This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 116

In my behalf; my reputation stain’d

With Tybalt’s slander, Tybalt, that an hour

Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet!

Thy beauty hath made me effeminate, 120

And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel!

Re-enter Benvolio.

Ben.

O Romeo, Romeo! brave Mercutio’s dead;

That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,

Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Rom.

This day’s black fate on more days doth depend; 125

This but begins the woe others must end.

Re-enter Tybalt.

Ben.

Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Rom.

Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain!

Away to heaven, respective lenity, 129

And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!

Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again

That late thou gav’st me; for Mercutio’s soul

Is but a little way above our heads, 133

Staying for thine to keep him company:

Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Tyb.

Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here, 136

Shalt with him hence.

Rom.

This shall determine that.

[They fight: Tybalt falls.

Ben.

Romeo, away! be gone!

The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.

Stand not amaz’d: the prince will doom thee death 140

If thou art taken: hence! be gone! away!

Rom.

O! I am Fortune’s fool.

Ben.

Why dost thou stay?

[Exit Romeo.

Enter Citizens, &c.

First Cit.

Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?

Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? 144

Ben.

There lies that Tybalt.

First Cit.

Up, sir, go with me.

I charge thee in the prince’s name, obey.

Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and Others.

Prin.

Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

Ben.

O noble prince! I can discover all 148

The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:

There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,

That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

Lady Cap.

Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! 152

O prince! O cousin! husband! O! the blood is spill’d

Of my dear kinsman. Prince, as thou art true,

For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.

O cousin, cousin! 156

Prin.

Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Ben.

Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay:

Romeo, that spoke him fair, bade him bethink

How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal 160

Your high displeasure: all this, uttered

With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d,

Could not take truce with the unruly spleen

Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts 164

With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,

Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,

And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats

Cold death aside, and with the other sends 168

It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity

Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,

‘Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and, swifter than his tongue,

His agile arm beats down their fatal points, 172

And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm

An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life

Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;

But by and by comes back to Romeo, 176

Who had but newly entertain’d revenge,

And to ’t they go like lightning, for, ere I.

Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain,

And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. 180

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

Lady Cap.

He is a kinsman to the Montague;

Affection makes him false, he speaks not true:

Some twenty of them fought in this black strife

And all those twenty could but kill one life. 185

I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;

Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Prin.

Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio;

Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Mon.

Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend,

His fault concludes but what the law should end,

The life of Tybalt.

Prin.

And for that offence 192

Immediately we do exile him hence:

I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,

My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;

But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine 196

That you shall all repent the loss of mine.

I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;

Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses;

Therefore use none; let Romeo hence in haste,

Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last. 201

Bear hence this body and attend our will:

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Capulet’s Orchard.

Enter Juliet.

Jul.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phœbus’ lodging; such a waggoner

As Phæthon would whip you to the west,

And bring in cloudy night immediately. 4

Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!

That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo

Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen!

Lovers can see to do their amorous rites 8

By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,

Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match, 12

Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:

Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,

Think true love acted simple modesty. 16

Come, night! come, Romeo! come, thou day in night!

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night,

Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.

Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow’d night, 20

Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night, 24

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

O! I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day 28

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes

And may not wear them. O! here comes my nurse,

Enter Nurse with cords.

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks 32

But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Now nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords

That Romeo bade thee fetch?

Nurse.

Ay, ay, the cords.

[Throws them down.

Jul.

Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands? 36

Nurse.

Ah well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s killed, he’s dead!

Jul.

Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse.

Romeo can, 40

Though heaven cannot. O! Romeo, Romeo;

Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

Jul.

What devil art thou that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. 44

Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I,’

And that bare vowel, ‘I,’ shall poison more

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:

I am not I, if there be such an ‘I;’ 48

Or those eyes shut that make thee answer ‘I.’

If he be slain, say ‘I;’ or if not ‘no:’

Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

Nurse.

I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, 52

God save the mark! here on his manly breast:

A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;

Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,

All in gore blood; I swounded at the sight. 56

Jul.

O break, my heart!—poor bankrupt, break at once!

To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty!

Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;

And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! 60

Nurse.

O Tybalt, Tybalt! the best friend I had:

O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!

That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Jul.

What storm is this that blows so contrary?

Is Romeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead?

My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?

Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!

For who is living if those two are gone? 68

Nurse.

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;

Romeo, that kill’d him, he is banished.

Jul.

O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

Nurse.

It did, it did; alas the day! it did. 72

Jul.

O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!

Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?

Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!

Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!

Despised substance of divinest show! 77

Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st;

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

O, nature! what hadst thou to do in hell 80

When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend

In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?

Was ever book containing such vile matter

So fairly bound? O! that deceit should dwell

In such a gorgeous palace.

Nurse.

There’s no trust, 85

No faith, no honesty in men; all naught,

All perjur’d, all dissemblers, all forsworn.

Ah! where’s my man? give me some aqua vitæ: 88

These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.

Shame come to Romeo!

Jul.

Blister’d be thy tongue

For such a wish! he was not born to shame:

Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit; 92

For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d

Sole monarch of the universal earth.

O! what a beast was I to chide at him.

Nurse.

Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin? 96

Jul.

Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

Ah! poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,

When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?

But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? 100

That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband:

Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;

Your tributary drops belong to woe,

Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. 104

My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;

And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband:

All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?

Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, 108

That murder’d me: I would forget it fain;

But O! it presses to my memory,

Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.

‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!’ 112

That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’

Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death

Was woe enough, if it had ended there:

Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship, 116

And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,

Why follow’d not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead,’

Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, 119

Which modern lamentation might have mov’d?

But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,

‘Romeo is banished!’ to speak that word

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead: ‘Romeo is banished!’ 124

There is no end, no limit, measure, bound

In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound.—

Where is my father and my mother, nurse?

Nurse.

Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse: 128

Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Jul.

Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,

When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.

Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d, 132

Both you and I, for Romeo is exil’d:

He made you for a highway to my bed,

But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

Come, cords; come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding bed; 136

And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Nurse.

Hie to your chamber; I’ll find Romeo

To comfort you: I wot well where he is.

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here to-night: 140

I’ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell.

Jul.

O! find him; give this ring to my true knight,

And bid him come to take his last farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Friar Laurence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Laurence.

Fri. L.

Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man:

Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Enter Romeo.

Rom.

Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom? 4

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

That I yet know not?

Fri. L.

Too familiar

Is my dear son with such sour company:

I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom. 8

Rom.

What less than doomsday is the prince’s doom?

Fri. L.

A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,

Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

Rom.

Ha! banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’ 12

For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’

Fri. L.

Hence from Verona art thou banished.

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. 16

Rom.

There is no world without Verona walls,

But purgatory, torture, hell itself.

Hence banished is banish’d from the world,

And world’s exile is death; then ‘banished,’ 20

Is death mis-term’d. Calling death ‘banished,’

Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,

And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

Fri. L.

O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!

Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince, 25

Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law,

And turn’d that black word death to banishment:

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. 28

Rom.

’Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,

Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog

And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

Live here in heaven and may look on her; 32

But Romeo may not: more validity,

More honourable state, more courtship lives

In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize

On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, 36

And steal immortal blessing from her lips,

Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,

Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;

Flies may do this, but I from this must fly: 40

They are free men, but I am banished.

And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?

Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,

No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, 44

But ‘banished’ to kill me? ‘Banished!’

O friar! the damned use that word in hell;

Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,

Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, 48

A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,

To mangle me with that word ‘banished?’

Fri. L.

Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.

Rom.

O! thou wilt speak again of banishment. 52

Fri. L.

I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word;

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,

To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Rom.

Yet ‘banished!’ Hang up philosophy!

Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, 57

Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,

It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.

Fri. L.

O! then I see that madmen have no ears. 60

Rom.

How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

Fri. L.

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Rom.

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, 64

An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,

Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground, as I do now, 68

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

[Knocking within.

Fri. L.

Arise; one knocks: good Romeo, hide thyself.

Rom.

Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans,

Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. 72

[Knocking.

Fri. L.

Hark! how they knock. Who’s there? Romeo arise;

Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile! Stand up;

[Knocking.

Run to my study. By and by! God’s will!

What wilfulness is this! I come, I come! 76

[Knocking.

Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s your will?

Nurse.

[Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand:

I come from Lady Juliet.

Fri. L.

Welcome, then.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.

O holy friar! O! tell me, holy friar,

Where is my lady’s lord? where’s Romeo? 81

Fri. L.

There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse.

O! he is even in my mistress’ case,

Just in her case!

Fri. L.

O woeful sympathy! 84

Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,

Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:

For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand;

Why should you fall into so deep an O? 89

Rom.

Nurse!

Nurse.

Ah, sir! ah, sir! Well, death’s the end of all.

Rom.

Spak’st thou of Juliet? how is it with her? 92

Doth she not think me an old murderer,

Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy.

With blood remov’d but little from her own?

Where is she? and how doth she? and what says 96

My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?

Nurse.

O! she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;

And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,

And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, 100

And then down falls again.

Rom.

As if that name,

Shot from the deadly level of a gun,

Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand

Murder’d her kinsman. O! tell me, friar, tell me, 104

In what vile part of this anatomy

Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack

The hateful mansion.

[Drawing his sword.

Fri. L.

Hold thy desperate hand:

Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art:

Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote

The unreasonable fury of a beast:

Unseemly woman in a seeming man;

Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! 112

Thou hast amaz’d me: by my holy order,

I thought thy disposition better temper’d.

Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?

And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, 116

By doing damned hate upon thyself?

Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?

Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet

In thes at once, which thou at once wouldst lose. 120

Fie, fie! thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,

Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all,

And usest none in that true use indeed

Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. 124

Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,

Digressing from the valour of a man;

Thy dear love, sworn, but hollow perjury,

Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish; 128

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,

Misshapen in the conduct of them both,

Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,

To set a-fire by thine own ignorance, 132

And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.

What! rouse thee, man; thy Juliet is alive,

For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;

There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,

But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy too: 137

The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend,

And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:

A pack of blessings light upon thy back; 140

Happiness courts thee in her best array;

But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench,

Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love.

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 144

Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,

Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her;

But look thou stay not till the watch be set,

For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; 148

Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time

To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,

Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back

With twenty hundred thousand times more joy

Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. 153

Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;

And bid her hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto: 156

Romeo is coming.

Nurse.

O Lord! I could have stay’d here all the night

To hear good counsel: O! what learning is.

My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come. 160

Rom.

Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

Nurse.

Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.

Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

[Exit.

Rom.

How well my comfort is reviv’d by this! 164

Fri. L.

Go hence; good-night; and here stands all your state:

Either be gone before the watch be set,

Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence:

Sojourn in Mantua; I’ll find out your man, 168

And he shall signify from time to time

Every good hap to you that chances here.

Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; goodnight.

Rom.

But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

It were a grief so brief to part with thee: 173

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room in Capulet’s House.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.

Cap.

Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,

That we have had no time to move our daughter:

Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,

And so did I: well, we were born to die. 4

’Tis very late, she’ll not come down to night:

I promise you, but for your company,

I would have been a-bed an hour ago.

Par.

These times of woe afford no time to woo. 8

Madam, good-night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Cap.

I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;

To-night she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.

Cap.

Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender 12

Of my child’s love: I think she will be rul’d

In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.

Wife go you to her ere you go to bed;

Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love; 16

And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next—

But, soft! what day is this?

Par.

Monday, my lord.

Cap.

Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon;

O’ Thursday let it be: o’ Thursday, tell her, 20

She shall be married to this noble earl.

Will you be ready? do you like this haste?

We’ll keep no great ado; a friend or two;

For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, 24

It may be thought we held him carelessly,

Being our kinsman, if we revel much.

Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,

And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? 28

Par.

My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Cap.

Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it then.

Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,

Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. 32

Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!

Afore me! it is so very very late,

That we may call it early by and by.

Good-night.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Juliet’s Chamber.

Enter Romeo and Juliet.

Jul.

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on you pomegranate tree: 4

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: 8

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul.

Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:

It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 13

To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,

And light thee on thy way to Mantua:

Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.

Rom.

Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death; 17

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,

’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow; 20

Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat

The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:

I have more care to stay than will to go:

Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. 24

How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.

Jul.

It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

Some say the lark makes sweet division; 29

This doth not so, for she divideth us:

Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;

O! now I would they had chang’d voices too, 32

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.

O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Rom.

More light and light; more dark and dark our woes. 36

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.

Madam!

Jul.

Nurse!

Nurse.

Your lady mother is coming to your chamber: 39

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

[Exit.

Jul.

Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Rom.

Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend.

[Descends.

Jul.

Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!

I must hear from thee every day in the hour, 44

For in a minute there are many days:

O! by this count I shall be much in years

Ere I again behold my Romeo.

Rom.

Farewell! 48

I will omit no opportunity

That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Jul.

O! think’st thou we shall ever meet again?

Rom.

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve 52

For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Jul.

O God! I have an ill-divining soul:

Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb: 56

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.

Rom.

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu!

[Exit.

Jul

O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle: 60

If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him

That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune;

For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,

But send him back. 64

Lady Cap.

[Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?

Jul.

Who is’t that calls? is it my lady mother?

Is she not down so late, or up so early?

What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?

Enter Lady Capulet.

Lady Cap.

Why, how now, Juliet!

Jul.

Madam, I am not well. 69

Lady Cap.

Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?

What! wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live; 72

Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love;

But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Jul.

Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Lady Cap.

So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend 76

Which you weep for.

Jul.

Feeling so the loss,

I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady Cap.

Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death,

As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

Jul.

What villain, madam?

Lady Cap.

That same villain, Romeo.

Jul.

[Aside.] Villain and he be many miles asunder. 82

God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;

And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady Cap.

That is because the traitor murderer lives. 85

Jul.

Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.

Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!

Lady Cap.

We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not: 88

Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,

Where that same banish’d runsgate doth live;

Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram

That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: 92

And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.

Jul.

Indeed, I never shall be satisfied

With Romeo, till I behold him—dead—

Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d: 96

Madam, if you could find out but a man

To bear a poison, I would temper it,

That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,

Soon sleep in quiet. O! how my heart abhors

To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,

To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt

Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him.

Lady Cap.

Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. 104

But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

Jul.

And joy comes well in such a needy time:

What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Cap.

Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; 108

One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy

That thou expect’st not, nor I look’d not for.

Jul.

Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Lady Cap.

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn 113

The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,

The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s church,

Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. 116

Jul.

Now, by Saint Peter’s church, and Peter too,

He shall not make me there a joyful bride.

I wonder at this haste; that I must wed

Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.

I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, 121

I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear,

It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,

Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! 124

Lady Cap.

Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,

And see how he will take it at your hands.

Enter Capulet and Nurse.

Cap.

When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;

But for the sunset of my brother’s son 128

It rains downright.

How now! a conduit, girl? what! still in tears?

Evermore showering? In one little body

Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind; 132

For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,

Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,

Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;

Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, 136

Without a sudden calm, will overset

Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife!

Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

Lady Cap.

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. 140

I would the fool were married to her grave!

Cap.

Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.

How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?

Is she not proud? doth she not count her bless’d,

Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought 145

So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Jul.

Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have:

Proud can I never be of what I hate; 148

But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.

Cap.

How now! how now, chop-logic! What is this?

‘Proud,’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not;’

And yet ‘not proud;’ mistress minion, you, 152

Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,

But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next,

To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s church,

Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. 156

Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!

You tallow face!

Lady Cap.

Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Jul.

Good father, I beseech you on my knees,

Hear me with patience but to speak a word. 160

Cap.

Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!

I tell thee what, get thee to church o’ Thursday,

Or never after look me in the face.

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; 164

My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us bless’d

That God had lent us but this only child;

But now I see this one is one too much,

And that we have a curse in having her. 168

Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.

God in heaven bless her!

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Cap.

And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue, 171

Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.

I speak no treason.

Cap.

O! God ye good den.

Nurse.

May not one speak?

Cap.

Peace, you mumbling fool;

Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl;

For here we need it not.

Lady Cap.

You are too hot. 176

Cap.

God’s bread! it makes me mad.

Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,

Alone, in company, still my care hath been

To have her match’d; and having now provided

A gentleman of noble parentage, 181

Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,

Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,

Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man; 184

And then to have a wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,

To answer ‘I’ll not wed,’ ‘I cannot love,’

‘I am too young,’ ‘I pray you, pardon me;’ 188

But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:

Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:

Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.

Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. 192

An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;

An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,

For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,

Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. 196

Trust to’t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn.

[Exit.

Jul.

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O! sweet my mother, cast me not away: 200

Delay this marriage for a month, a week;

Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed

In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Lady Cap.

Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. 204

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

[Exit.

Jul.

O God! O nurse! how shall this be prevented?

My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;

How shall that faith return again to earth, 208

Unless that husband send it me from heaven

By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me.

Alack, alack! that heaven should practise stratagems

Upon so soft a subject as myself! 212

What sayst thou? hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse?

Nurse.

Faith, here it is. Romeo

Is banished; and all the world to nothing

That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you;

Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. 217

Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,

I think it best you married with the county.

O! he’s a lovely gentleman; 220

Romeo’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam,

Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye

As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy in this second match, 224

For it excels your first: or if it did not,

Your first is dead; or ’twere as good he were,

As living here and you no use of him.

Jul.

Speakest thou from thy heart?

Nurse.

And from my soul too; 228

Or else beshrew them both.

Jul.

Amen!

Nurse.

What!

Jul.

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeas’d my father, to Laurence’ cell,

To make confession and to be absolv’d. 233

Nurse.

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

[Exit.

Jul.

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, 236

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue

Which she hath prais’d him with above compare

So many thousand times? Go, counsellor;

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

I’ll to the friar, to know his remedy: 241

If all else fail, myself have power to die.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Verona. Friar Laurence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Laurence and Paris.

Fri. L.

On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Par.

My father Capulet will have it so;

And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Fri. L.

You say you do not know the lady’s mind: 4

Uneven is the course, I like it not.

Par.

Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,

And therefore have I little talk’d of love;

For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. 8

Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous

That she doth give her sorrow so much sway,

And in his wisdom hastes our marriage

To stop the inundation of her tears; 12

Which, too much minded by herself alone,

May be put from her by society.

Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Fri. L.

[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d. 16

Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

Enter Juliet.

Par.

Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Jul.

That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Par.

That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. 20

Jul.

What must be shall be.

Fri. L.

That’s a certain text.

Par.

Come you to make confession to this father?

Jul.

To answer that, I should confess to you.

Par.

Do not deny to him that you love me.

Jul.

I will confess to you that I love him. 25

Par.

So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Jul.

If I do so, it will be of more price,

Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. 28

Par.

Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.

Jul.

The tears have got small victory by that;

For it was bad enough before their spite.

Par.

Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that report. 32

Jul.

That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;

And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Par.

Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.

Jul.

It may be so, for it is not mine own. 36

Are you at leisure, holy father, now;

Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

Fri. L.

My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now:

My lord, we must entreat the time alone. 40

Par.

God shield, I should disturb devotion!

Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:

Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

[Exit.

Jul.

O! shut the door! and when thou hast done so, 44

Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Fri. L.

Ah! Juliet, I already know thy grief;

It strains me past the compass of my wits:

I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,

On Thursday next be married to this county. 49

Jul.

Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,

Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:

If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, 52

Do thou but call my resolution wise,

And with this knife I’ll help it presently,

God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;

And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d, 56

Shall be the label to another deed,

Or my true heart with treacherous revolt

Turn to another, this shall slay them both.

Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time, 60

Give me some present counsel; or behold,

’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife

Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that

Which the commission of thy years and art 64

Could to no issue of true honour bring.

Be not so long to speak; I long to die,

If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.

Fri. L.

Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope, 68

Which craves as desperate an execution

As that is desperate which we would prevent.

If, rather than to marry County Paris,

Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, 72

Then is it likely thou wilt undertake

A thing like death to chide away this shame,

That cop’st with death himself to ’scape from it;

And, if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy. 76

Jul.

O! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,

From off the battlements of yonder tower;

Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk

Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears; 80

Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,

O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,

With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls;

Or bid me go into a new-made grave 84

And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;

Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;

And I will do it without fear or doubt,

To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. 88

Fri. L.

Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent

To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow!

To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,

Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:

Take thou this vial, being then in bed, 93

And this distilled liquor drink thou off;

When presently through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse 96

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv’st;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, 100

Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, depriv’d of supple government,

Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death;

And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, 105

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes

To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:

Then—as the manner of our country is— 109

In thy best robes uncover’d on the bier,

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault

Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. 112

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,

Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,

And hither shall he come; and he and I

Will watch thy waking, and that very night 116

Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.

And this shall free thee from this present shame;

If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear,

Abate thy valour in the acting it. 120

Jul.

Give me, give me! O! tell me not of fear!

Fri. L.

Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous

In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed

To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. 124

Jul.

Love, give me strength! and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Hall in Capulet’s House.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and Servingmen.

Cap.

So many guests invite as here are writ.

[Exit Servant.

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

Sec. Serv.

You shall have none ill, sir; for

I’ll try if they can lick their fingers. 4

Cap.

How canst thou try them so?

Sec. Serv.

Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. 8

Cap.

Go, be gone.

[Exit Second Servant.

We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.

What! is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Nurse.

Ay, forsooth. 12

Cap.

Well, he may chance to do some good on her:

A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.

Nurse.

See where she comes from shrift with merry look. 16

Enter Juliet.

Cap.

How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?

Jul.

Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin

Of disobedient opposition

To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d 20

By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here,

And beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you!

Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you.

Cap.

Send for the county; go tell him of this: 24

I’ll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.

Jul.

I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell;

And gave him what becomed love I might,

Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. 28

Cap.

Why, I’m glad on’t; this is well: stand up:

This is as’t should be. Let me see the county;

Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.

Now, afore God! this reverend holy friar, 32

All our whole city is much bound to him.

Jul.

Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,

To help me sort such needful ornaments

As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? 36

Lady Cap.

No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.

Cap.

Go, nurse, go with her. We’ll to church to-morrow.

[Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.

Lady Cap.

We shall be short in our provision:

’Tis now near night.

Cap.

Tush! I will stir about, 40

And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:

Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her;

I’ll not to bed to-night; let me alone;

I’ll play the housewife for this once. What, ho!

They are all forth: well, I will walk myself 45

To County Paris; to prepare him up

Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light,

Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. 48

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Juliet’s Chamber.

Enter Juliet and Nurse.

Jul.

Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse,

I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;

For I have need of many orisons

To move the heavens to smile upon my state, 4

Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.

Enter Lady Capulet.

Lady Cap.

What! are you busy, ho? need you my help?

Jul.

No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries

As are behoveful for our state to-morrow: 8

So please you, let me now be left alone,

And let the nurse this night sit up with you;

For, I am sure, you have your hands full all

In this so sudden business.

Lady Cap.

Good-night: 12

Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.

[Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.

Jul.

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,

That almost freezes up the heat of life: 16

I’ll call them back again to comfort me:

Nurse! What should she do here?

My dismal scene I needs must act alone.

Come, vial. 20

What if this mixture do not work at all?

Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?

No, no; this shall forbid it: lie thou there.

[Laying down a dagger.

What if it be a poison, which the friar 24

Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead,

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d

Because he married me before to Romeo?

I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not, 28

For he hath still been tried a holy man.

I will not entertain so bad a thought.

How if, when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that Romeo 32

Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point!

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?

Or, if I live, is it not very like, 37

The horrible conceit of death and night,

Together with the terror of the place,

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 40

Where, for these many hundred years, the bones

Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d;

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,

Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, 44

At some hours in the night spirits resort:

Alack, alack! is it not like that I,

So early waking, what with loathsome smells,

And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth, 48

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad:

O! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears,

And madly play with my forefathers’ joints, 52

And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?

And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,

As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?

O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost 56

Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body

Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!

Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.

[She falls upon her bed within the curtains.

Scene IV.— The Same. Hall in Capulet’s House.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.

Lady Cap.

Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.

Nurse.

They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter Capulet.

Cap.

Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow’d,

The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock: 4

Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica:

Spare not for cost.

Nurse.

Go, go, you cot-quean, go;

Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick to-morrow

For this night’s watching. 8

Cap.

No, not a whit; what! I have watch’d ere now

All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.

Lady Cap.

Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;

But I will watch you from such watching now.

[Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.

Cap.

A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!

Enter three or four Serving-men, with spits, logs, and baskets.

Now, fellow, 13

What’s there?

First Serv.

Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Cap.

Make haste, make haste. [Exit first Serving-man.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs: 16

Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.

Sec. Serv.

I have a head, sir, that will find out logs,

And never trouble Peter for the matter.

[Exit.

Cap.

Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! 20

Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith! ’tis day:

The county will be here with music straight,

For so he said he would. [Music within.] I hear him near.

Nurse! Wife! what, ho! What, nurse, I say!

Re-enter Nurse.

Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up; 25

I’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,

Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already:

Make haste, I say.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Juliet’s Chamber.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.

Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:

Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!

Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!

What! not a word? you take your pennyworths now: 4

Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,

The County Paris hath set up his rest,

That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,

Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep! 8

I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!

Ay, let the county take you in your bed;

He’ll fright you up, i’ faith. Will it not be?

What, dress’d! and in your clothes! and down again! 12

I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady!

Alas! alas! Help! help! my lady’s dead!

O! well-a-day, that ever I was born.

Some aqua-vitæ, ho! My lord! my lady! 16

Enter Lady Capulet.

Lady Cap.

What noise is here?

Nurse.

O lamentable day!

Lady Cap.

What is the matter?

Nurse.

Look, look! O heavy day!

Lady Cap.

O me, O me! my child, my only life,

Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! 20

Help, help! Call help.

Enter Capulet.

Cap.

For shame! bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

Nurse.

She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!

Lady Cap.

Alack the day! she’s dead, she’s dead! she’s dead! 24

Cap.

Ha! let me see her. Out, alas! she’s cold;

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;

Life and these lips have long been separated:

Death lies on her like an untimely frost 28

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Nurse.

O lamentable day!

Lady Cap.

O woeful time!

Cap.

Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,

Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. 32

Enter Friar Laurence, and Paris, with Musicians.

Fri. L.

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Cap.

Ready to go, but never to return.

O son! the night before thy wedding-day

Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies, 36

Flower as she was, deflowered by him.

Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;

My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,

And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s! 40

Par.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,

And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Lady Cap.

Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful-day!

Most miserable hour, that e’er time saw 44

In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!

But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,

But one thing to rejoice and solace in,

And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight! 48

Nurse.

O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!

Most lamentable day, most woeful day,

That ever, ever, I did yet behold!

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! 52

Never was seen so black a day as this:

O woeful day, O woeful day!

Par.

Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!

Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, 56

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!

O love! O life! not life, but love in death!

Cap.

Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!

Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now 60

To murder, murder our solemnity?

O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!

Dead art thou! dead! alack, my child is dead;

And with my child my joys are buried! 64

Fri. L.

Peace, ho! for shame! confusion’s cure lives not

In these confusions. Heaven and yourself

Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,

And all the better is it for the maid: 68

Your part in her you could not keep from death,

But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.

The most you sought was her promotion,

For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d;

And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d 73

Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?

O! in this love, you love your child so ill,

That you run mad, seeing that she is well: 76

She’s not well married that lives married long;

But she’s best married that dies married young.

Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary

On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, 80

In all her best array bear her to church;

For though fond nature bids us all lament,

Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.

Cap.

All things that we ordained festival, 84

Turn from their office to black funeral;

Our instruments to melancholy bells,

Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,

Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change, 88

Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,

And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. L.

Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;

And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare 92

To follow this fair corse unto her grave.

The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;

Move them no more by crossing their high will.

[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.

First Mus.

Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone. 97

Nurse.

Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up, for, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

[Exit.

First Mus.

Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. 101

Enter Peter.

Pet.

Musicians! O! musicians, ‘Heart’s ease, Heart’s ease:’ O! an ye will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’ 104

First Mus.

Why ‘Heart’s ease?’

Pet.

O! musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full of woe;’ O! play me some merry dump, to comfort me. 108

Sec. Mus.

Not a dump we; ’tis no time to play now.

Pet.

You will not then?

Musicians.

No. 112

Pet.

I will then give it you soundly.

First Mus.

What will you give us?

Pet.

No money, on my faith! but the gleek;

I will give you the minstrel. 116

First Mus.

Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Pet.

Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate, I will carry no crotchets:

I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me? 121

First Mus.

An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

Sec. Mus.

Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. 125

Pet.

Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men: 128

When griping grief the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound—

Why ‘silver sound?’ why ‘music with her silver sound?’ What say you, Simon Catling? 133

First Mus.

Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Pet.

Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

Sec. Mus.

I say ‘silver sound,’ because musicians sound for silver.

Pet.

Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 140

Third Mus.

Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet.

O! I cry you mercy; you are the singer;

I will say for you. It is, ‘music with her silver sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sounding: 145

Then music with her silver sound

With speedy help doth lend redress.

[Exit.

First Mus.

What a pestilent knave is this same! 149

Sec. Mus.

Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Mantua. A Street.

Enter Romeo.

Rom.

If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:

My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;

And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit 4

Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead;—

Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think,—

And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips, 8

That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.

Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d,

When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter Balthasar, booted.

News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? 12

Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?

How doth my lady? Is my father well?

How fares my Juliet? That I ask again;

For nothing can be ill if she be well. 16

Bal.

Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;

Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument,

And her immortal part with angels lives.

I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, 20

And presently took post to tell it you.

O! pardon me for bringing these ill news,

Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Rom.

Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!

Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper, 25

And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Bal.

I do beseech you, sir, have patience:

Your looks are pale and wild, and do import 28

Some misadventure.

Rom.

Tush, thou art deceiv’d;

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Bal.

No, my good lord.

Rom.

No matter; get thee gone, 32

And hire those horses: I’ll be with thee straight.

[Exit Balthasar.

Well, Juliet, I will he with thee to-night.

Let’s see for means: O mischief! thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men. 36

I do remember an apothecary,

And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted

In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,

Culling of simples; meagre were his looks, 40

Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:

And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,

An alligator stuff’d, and other skins

Of ill-shap’d fishes; and about his shelves 44

A beggarly account of empty boxes,

Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,

Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,

Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. 48

Noting this penury, to myself I said

An if a man did need a poison now,

Whose sale is present death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. 52

O! this same thought did but fore-run my need,

And this same needy man must sell it me.

As I remember, this should be the house:

Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. 56

What, ho! apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

Ap.

Who calls so loud?

Rom.

Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor;

Hold, there is forty ducats; let me have

A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear 60

As will disperse itself through all the veins

That the life-weary taker may fall dead,

And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath

As violently as hasty powder fir’d 64

Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.

Ap.

Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law

Is death to any he that utters them.

Rom.

Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness, 68

And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,

Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,

Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back;

The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law:

The world affords no law to make thee rich; 73

Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

Ap.

My poverty, but not my will, consents.

Rom.

I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. 76

Ap.

Put this in any liquid thing you will,

And drink it off; and, if you had the strength

Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

Rom.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, 80

Doing more murders in this loathsome world

Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:

I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.

Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh. 84

Come, cordial and not poison, go with me

To Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Verona. Friar Laurence’s Cell.

Enter Friar John.

Fri. J.

Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

Enter Friar Laurence.

Fri. L.

This same should be the voice of Friar John.

Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?

Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. 4

Fri. J.

Going to find a bare-foot brother out,

One of our order, to associate me,

Here in this city visiting the sick,

And finding him, the searchers of the town, 8

Suspecting that we both were in a house

Where the infectious pestilence did reign,

Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth;

So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. 12

Fri. L.

Who bare my letter then to Romeo?

Fri. J.

I could not send it, here it is again,

Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,

So fearful were they of infection. 16

Fri. L.

Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,

The letter was not nice, but full of charge

Of dear import; and the neglecting it

May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;

Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight 21

Unto my cell.

Fri. J.

Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee.

[Exit.

Fri. L

Now must I to the monument alone;

Within these three hours will fair Juliet wake: 24

She will beshrew me much that Romeo

Hath had no notice of these accidents;

But I will write again to Mantus,

And keep her at my cell till Romeo come: 28

Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb!

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. A Churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.

Enter Paris, and his Page, bearing flowers and a torch.

Par.

Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof;

Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.

Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,

Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground: 4

So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,

Being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves,

But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,

As signal that thou hear’st something approach.

Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee; go. 9

Page.

[Aside.] I am almost afraid to stand alone

Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.

[Retires.

Par.

Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew, 12

O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;

Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,

Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans:

The obsequies that I for thee will keep 16

Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.

[The Page whistles.

The boy gives warning something doth approach.

What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,

To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite? 20

What! with a torch?—muffle me, night, awhile.

[Retires.

Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mattock, &c.

Rom.

Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron.

Hold, take this letter; early in the morning

See thou deliver it to my lord and father. 24

Give me the light: upon thy life I charge thee,

Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof,

And do not interrupt me in my course.

Why I descend into this bed of death, 28

Is partly, to behold my lady’s face;

But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger

A precious ring, a ring that I must use

In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:

But, if thou, jealous, dost return to pry 33

In what I further shall intend to do,

By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,

And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. 36

The time and my intents are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far

Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Bal.

I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 40

Rom.

So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:

Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow.

Bal.

[Aside.] For all this same, I’ll hide me here about:

His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. 44

[Retires.

Rom.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,

Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,

Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,

[Opens the tomb.

And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!

Par.

This is that banish’d haughty Montague, 49

That murder’d my love’s cousin, with which grief

It is supposed the fair creature died;

And here is come to do some villanous shame 52

To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.—

[Comes forward.

Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague,

Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death?

Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee: 56

Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.

Rom.

I must, indeed; and therefore came I hither.

Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;

Fly hence and leave me: think upon these gone;

Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,

Put not another sin upon my head

By urging me to fury: O! be gone:

By heaven, I love thee better than myself. 64

For I come hither arm’d against myself:

Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say

A madman’s mercy bade thee run away.

Par.

I do defy thy conjurations, 68

And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Rom.

Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!

[They fight.

Page.

O Lord! they fight: I will go call the watch.

[Exit.

Par.

[Falls.] O, I am slain!—If thou be merciful, 72

Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

[Dies.

Rom.

In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face:

Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!

What said my man when my betossed soul 76

Did not attend him as we rode? I think

He told me Paris should have married Juliet:

Said he not so? or did I dream it so?

Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 80

To think it was so? O! give me thy hand,

One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book:

I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave;

A grave? O, no! a lanthorn, slaughter’d youth,

For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes 85

This vault a feasting presence full of light.

Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d,

[Laying Paris in the tomb.

How oft when men are at the point of death 88

Have they been merry! which their keepers call

A lightning before death: O! how may I

Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!

Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: 93

Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,

And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. 96

Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?

O! what more favour can I do to thee,

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain

To sunder his that was thine enemy? 100

Forgive me, cousin! Ah! dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

That unsubstantial Death is amorous,

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 104

Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

For fear of that I still will stay with thee,

And never from this palace of dim night

Depart again: here, here will I remain 108

With worms that are thy chambermaids; O! here

Will I set up my everlasting rest,

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! 112

Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you

The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on 117

The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!

Here’s to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary!

Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. 120

[Dies.

Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Laurence, with a lanthorn, crow, and spade.

Fri. L.

Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night

Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who’s there?

Bal.

Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

Fri. L.

Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend, 124

What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light

To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,

It burneth in the Capel’s monument.

Bal.

It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my master, 128

One that you love.

Fri. L.

Who is it?

Bal.

Romeo.

Fri. L.

How long hath he been there?

Bal.

Full half an hour.

Fri. L.

Go with me to the vault.

Bal.

I dare not, sir.

My master knows not but I am gone hence; 132

And fearfully did menace me with death

If I did stay to look on his intents.

Fri. L.

Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me;

O! much I fear some ill unlucky thing. 136

Bal.

As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,

I dreamt my master and another fought,

And that my master slew him.

Fri. L.

[Advances.] Romeo!

Alack, alack! what blood is this which stains 140

The stony entrance of this sepulchre?

What mean these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?

[Enter the tomb.

Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what! Paris too?

And steep’d in blood? Ah! what an unkind hour 145

Is guilty of this lamentable chance.

The lady stirs.

[Juliet wakes.

Jul.

O, comfortable friar! where is my lord?

I do remember well where I should be, 149

And there I am. Where is my Romeo?

[Noise within.

Fri. L.

I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest

Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep: 152

A greater power than we can contradict

Hath thwarted our intents: come, come away.

Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;

And Paris too: come, I’ll dispose of thee 156

Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.

Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;

Come, go, good Juliet.—[Noise again.] I dare no longer stay.

Jul.

Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

[Exit Friar Laurence.

What’s here? a cup, clos’d in my true love’s hand? 161

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.

O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop

To help me after! I will kiss thy lips; 164

Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,

To make me die with a restorative.

[Kisses him.

Thy lips are warm!

First Watch.

[Within.] Lead, boy: which way?

Jul.

Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger!

[Snatching Romeo’s dagger.

This is thy sheath; [Stabs herself.] there rest, and let me die. 170

[Falls on Romeo’s body and dies.

Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris.

Page.

This is the place; there where the torch doth burn.

First Watch.

The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard. 172

Go, some of you; whoe’er you find, attach.

[Exeunt some of the Watch.

Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,

And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,

Who here hath lain these two days buried. 176

Go, tell the prince, run to the Capulets,

Raise up the Montagues, some others search:

[Exeunt others of the Watch.

We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;

But the true ground of all these piteous woes

We cannot without circumstance descry. 181

Re-enter some of the Watch, with Balthasar.

Sec. Watch.

Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard.

First Watch.

Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.

Re-enter other of the Watch, with Friar Laurence.

Third Watch.

Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps; 184

We took this mattock and this spade from him,

As he was coming from this churchyard side.

First Watch.

A great suspicion: stay the friar too. 187

Enter the Prince and Attendants.

Prince.

What misadventure is so early up,

That calls our person from our morning’s rest?

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Others.

Cap

What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?

Lady Cap

The people in the street cry Romeo,

Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run 192

With open outcry toward our monument.

Prince.

What fear is this which startles in our ears?

First Watch.

Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;

And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, 196

Warm and new kill’d.

Prince.

Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.

First Watch.

Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man;

With instruments upon them, fit to open 200

These dead men’s tombs.

Cap.

O, heaven!—O wife! look how our daughter bleeds!

This dagger hath mista’en!—for, lo, his house

Is empty on the back of Montague— 204

And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.

Lady Cap.

O me! this sight of death is as a bell,

That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Enter Montague and Others.

Prince.

Come, Montague: for thou art early up, 208

To see thy son and heir more early down.

Mon.

Alas! my liege, my wife is dead to-night;

Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.

What further woe conspires against mine age? 212

Prince.

Look, and thou shalt see.

Mon.

O thou untaught! what manners is in this,

To press before thy father to a grave?

Prince.

Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, 216

Till we can clear these ambiguities,

And know their spring, their head, their true descent;

And then will I be general of your woes,

And lead you even to death: meantime forbear, 220

And let mischance be slave to patience.

Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

Fri. L.

I am the greatest, able to do least,

Yet most suspected, as the time and place 224

Doth make against me, of this direful murder;

And here I stand, both to impeach and purge

Myself condemned and myself excus’d.

Prince.

Then say at once what thou dost know in this. 228

Fri. L.

I will be brief, for my short date of breath

Is not so long as is a tedious tale.

Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;

And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife:

I married them; and their stolen marriage-day

Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death

Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;

For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d. 236

You, to remove that siege of grief from her,

Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce,

To County Paris: then comes she to me,

And, with wild looks bid me devise some mean

To rid her from this second marriage, 241

Or in my cell there would she kill herself.

Then gave I her,—so tutor’d by my art,—

A sleeping potion; which so took effect 244

As I intended, for it wrought on her

The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo

That he should hither come as this dire night,

To help to take her from her borrow’d grave, 248

Being the time the potion’s force should cease.

But he which bore my letter, Friar John,

Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight

Return’d my letter back. Then, all alone, 252

At the prefixed hour of her waking,

Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault,

Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,

Till I conveniently could send to Romeo: 256

But, when I came,—some minute ere the time

Of her awakening,—here untimely lay

The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.

She wakes; and I entreated her come forth, 260

And bear this work of heaven with patience;

But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,

And she, too desperate, would not go with me,

But, as it seems, did violence on herself. 264

All this I know; and to the marriage

Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this

Miscarried by my fault, let my old life

Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time, 268

Unto the rigour of severest law.

Prince.

We still have known thee for a holy man.

Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this?

Bal.

I brought my master news of Juliet’s death; 272

And then in post he came from Mantua

To this same place, to this same monument.

This letter he early bid me give his father,

And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault, 276

If I departed not and left him there.

Prince.

Give me the letter; I will look on it.

Where is the county’s page that rais’d the watch?

Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

Page.

He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave, 281

And bid me stand aloof, and so I did;

Anon, comes one with light to ope the tomb;

And by and by my master drew on him; 284

And then I ran away to call the watch.

Prince.

This letter doth make good the friar’s words,

Their course of love, the tidings of her death:

And here he writes that he did buy a poison 288

Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal

Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.

Where be these enemies?—Capulet! Montague!

See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, 292

That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love;

And I, for winking at your discords too,

Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish’d.

Cap.

O brother Montague! give me thy hand: 296

This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more

Can I demand.

Mon.

But I can give thee more;

For I will raise her statue in pure gold;

That while Verona by that name is known. 300

There shall no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Juliet.

Cap.

As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie;

Poor sacrifices of our enmity! 304

Prince.

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things:

Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:

For never was a story of more woe 309

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

[Exeunt.

TIMON OF ATHENS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Timon,	a noble Athenian.
Lucius, }	flattering Lords.
Lucullus, }
Sempronius, }
Ventidius,	one of Timon’s false Friends.
Apemantus,	a churlish Philosopher.
Alcibiades,	an Athenian Captain.
Flavius,	Steward to Timon.
Flaminius, }	Servants to Timon.
Lucilius, }
Servilius, }
Caphis, }	Servants to Timon’s Creditors.
Philotus, }
Titus, }
Lucius, }
Hortensius, }
Servants of Ventidius, and of Varro and Isidore (two of Timon’s Creditors).
Three Strangers.
An Old Athenian.
A Page.
A Fool.
Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.
Phrynia, }	Mistresses to Alcibiades.
Timandra, }	Mistresses to Alcibiades.
Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and Attendants.
Cupid and Amazons in the Masque.

Scene.—Athens, and the neighbouring Woods.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Athens. A Hall in Timon’s House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and Others, at several doors.

Poet.

Good day, sir.

Pain.

I am glad you’re well.

Poet.

I have not seen you long. How goes the world?

Pain.

It wears, sir, as it grows.

Poet.

Ay, that’s well known;

But what particular rarity? what strange, 4

Which manifold record not matches? See,

Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power

Hath conjur’d to attend. I know the merchant.

Pain.

I know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller. 8

Mer.

O! ’tis a worthy lord.

Jew.

Nay, that’s most fix’d.

Mer.

A most incomparable man, breath’d, as it were,

To an untirable and continuate goodness:

He passes.

Jew.

I have a jewel here— 12

Mer.

O! pray, let’s see ’t: for the Lord Timon, sir?

Jew.

If he will touch the estimate: but, for that—

Poet.

When we for recompense have prais’d the vile,

It stains the glory in that happy verse 16

Which aptly sings the good.

Mer.

[Looking at the jewel.] ’Tis a good form.

Jew.

And rich: here is a water, look ye.

Pain.

You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication

To the great lord.

Poet.

A thing slipp’d idly from me.

Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes 21

From whence ’tis nourish’d: the fire i’ the flint

Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame

Provokes itself, and, like the current flies 24

Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain.

A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

Poet.

Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.

Let’s see your piece. 28

Pain.

’Tis a good piece.

Poet.

So ’tis: this comes off well and excellent.

Pain.

Indifferent.

Poet.

Admirable! How this grace

Speaks his own standing! what a mental power

This eye shoots forth! how big imagination 33

Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture

One might interpret.

Pain.

It is a pretty mocking of the life. 36

Here is a touch; is ’t good?

Poet.

I’ll say of it,

It tutors nature: artificial strife

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage.

Pain.

How this lord is follow’d! 40

Poet.

The senators of Athens: happy man!

Pain.

Look, more!

Poet.

You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough work, shap’d out a man, 44

Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug

With amplest entertainment: my free drift

Halts not particularly, but moves itself

In a wide sea of wax: no levell’d malice 48

Infects one comma in the course I hold;

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,

Leaving no tract behind.

Pain.

How shall I understand you?

Poet.

I will unbolt to you. 52

You see how all conditions, how all minds—

As well of glib and slippery creatures as

Of grave and austere quality—tender down

Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune,

Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, 57

Subdues and properties to his love and tendance

All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac’d flatterer

To Apemantus, that few things loves better 60

Than to abhor himself: even he drops down

The knee before him and returns in peace

Most rich in Timon’s nod.

Pain.

I saw them speak together.

Poet.

Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill 64

Feign’d Fortune to be thron’d: the base o’ the mount

Is rank’d with all deserts, all kind of natures,

That labour on the bosom of this sphere

To propagate their states: amongst them all, 68

Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d,

One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame,

Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;

Whose present grace to present slaves and servants 72

Translates his rivals.

Pain.

’Tis conceiv’d to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,

With one man beckon’d from the rest below,

Bowing his head against the steepy mount 76

To climb his happiness, would be well express’d

In our condition.

Poet.

Nay, sir, but hear me on.

All those which were his fellows but of late,

Some better than his value, on the moment 80

Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,

Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,

Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him

Drink the free air.

Pain.

Ay, marry, what of these? 84

Poet.

When Fortune in her shift and change of mood

Spurns down her late belov’d, all his dependants

Which labour’d after him to the mountain’s top

Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, 88

Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Pain.

’Tis common:

A thousand moral paintings I can show

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s 92

More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well

To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen

The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor; a Messenger from Ventidius talking with him, Lucilius and other servants following.

Tim.

Imprison’d is he, say you?

Mess.

Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt, 96

His means most short, his creditors most strait:

Your honourable letter he desires

To those have shut him up; which, failing,

Periods his comfort.

Tim.

Noble Ventidius! Well; 100

I am not of that feather to shake off

My friend when he must need me. I do know him

A gentleman that well deserves a help,

Which he shall have: I’ll pay the debt and free him. 104

Mess.

Your lordship ever binds him.

Tim.

Commend me to him. I will send his ransom;

And being enfranchis’d, bid him come to me.

’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, 108

But to support him after. Fare you well.

Mess.

All happiness to your honour.

[Exit.

Enter an Old Athenian.

Old Ath.

Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Tim.

Freely, good father.

Old Ath.

Thou hast a servant nam’d Lucilius.

Tim.

I have so: what of him? 113

Old Ath.

Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

Tim.

Attends be here or no? Lucilius!

Luc.

Here, at your lordship’s service. 116

Old Ath.

This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,

By night frequents my house. I am a man

That from my first have been inclin’d to thrift,

And my estate deserves an heir more rais’d 120

Than one which holds a trencher.

Tim.

Well; what further?

Old Ath.

One only daughter have I, no kin else,

On whom I may confer what I have got:

The maid is fair, o’ the youngest for a bride, 124

And I have bred her at my dearest cost

In qualities of the best. This man of thine

Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,

Join with me to forbid him her resort; 128

Myself have spoke in vain.

Tim.

The man is honest.

Old Ath.

Therefore he will be, Timon:

His honesty rewards him in itself;

It must not bear my daughter.

Tim.

Does she love him? 132

Old Ath.

She is young and apt:

Our own precedent passions do instruct us

What levity’s in youth.

Tim.

[To Lucilius.] Love you the maid?

Luc.

Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.

Old Ath.

If in her marriage my consent be missing, 137

I call the gods to witness, I will choose

Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,

And dispossess her all.

Tim.

How shall she be endow’d,

If she be mated with an equal husband? 141

Old Ath.

Three talents on the present; in future, all.

Tim.

This gentleman of mine hath serv’d me long:

To build his fortune I will strain a little, 144

For ’tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter;

What you bestow, in him I’ll counterpoise,

And make him weigh with her.

Old Ath.

Most noble lord,

Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. 148

Tim.

My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.

Luc.

Humbly I thank your lordship: never may

That state or fortune fall into my keeping

Which is not ow’d to you! 152

[Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian.

Poet.

Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship!

Tim.

I thank you; you shall hear from me anon:

Go not away. What have you there, my friend?

Pain.

A piece of painting, which I do beseech 156

Your lordship to accept.

Tim.

Painting is welcome.

The painting is almost the natural man;

For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature,

He is but outside: these pencil’d figures are 160

Even such as they give out. I like your work;

And you shall find I like it: wait attendance

Till you hear further from me.

Pain.

The gods preserve you!

Tim.

Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand; 164

We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel

Hath suffer’d under praise.

Jew.

What, my lord! dispraise?

Tim.

A mere satiety of commendations.

If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extoll’d, 168

It would unclew me quite.

Jew.

My lord, ’tis rated

As those which sell would give: but you well know,

Things of like value, differing in the owners,

Are prized by their masters. Believe ’t, dear lord, 172

You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Tim.

Well mock’d.

Mer.

No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue,

Which all men speak with him. 176

Tim.

Look, who comes here. Will you be chid?

Enter Apemantus.

Jew.

We’ll bear, with your lordship.

Mer.

He’ll spare none.

Tim.

Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!

Apem.

Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow; 180

When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest.

Tim.

Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know’st them not.

Apem.

Are they not Athenians?

Tim.

Yes. 184

Apem.

Then I repent not.

Jew.

You know me, Apemantus?

Apem.

Thou know’st I do; I call’d thee by thy name. 188

Tim.

Thou art proud, Apemantus.

Apem.

Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.

Tim.

Whither art going? 192

Apem.

To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains.

Tim.

That’s a deed thou’lt die for.

Apem.

Right, if doing nothing be death by the law. 197

Tim.

How likest thou this picture, Apemantus?

Apem.

The best, for the innocence. 200

Tim.

Wrought he not well that painted it?

Apem.

He wrought better that made the painter; and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work.

Pain.

You’re a dog. 204

Apem.

Thy mother’s of my generation: what’s she, if I be a dog?

Tim.

Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

Apem.

No; I eat not lords. 208

Tim.

An thou shouldst, thou’dst anger ladies.

Apem.

O! they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.

Tim.

That’s a lascivious apprehension. 212

Apem.

So thou apprehendest it, take it for thy labour.

Tim.

How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? 216

Apem.

Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit.

Tim.

What dost thou think ’tis worth?

Apem.

Not worth my thinking. How now, poet! 221

Poet.

How now, philosopher!

Apem.

Thou liest.

Poet.

Art not one? 224

Apem.

Yes.

Poet.

Then I lie not.

Apem.

Art not a poet?

Poet.

Yes. 228

Apem.

Then thou liest: look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow.

Poet.

That’s not feigned; he is so. 231

Apem.

Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour: he that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! 235

Tim.

What wouldst do then, Apemantus?

Apem.

Even as Apemantus does now; hate a lord with my heart. 238

Tim.

What, thyself?

Apem.

Ay.

Tim.

Wherefore? 241

Apem.

That I had no angry wit to be a lord.

Art not thou a merchant?

Mer.

Ay, Apemantus. 244

Apem.

Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not!

Mer.

If traffic do it, the gods do it.

Apem.

Traffic’s thy god, and thy god confound thee! 249

Trumpet sounds. Enter a Servant.

Tim.

What trumpet’s that?

Serv.

’Tis Alcihiades, and some twenty horse,

All of companionship. 252

Tim.

Pray, entertain them; give them guide to us.

[Exeunt some Attendants.

You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence

Till I have thanked you; when dinner’s done,

Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.

Enter Alciblades, with his Company.

Most welcome, sir!

Apem.

So, so, there! 257

Aches contract and starve your supple joints!

That there should be small love ’mongst these sweet knaves,

And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out 260

Into baboon and monkey.

Alcib.

Sir, you have sav’d my longing, and I feed

Most hungerly on your sight.

Tim.

Right welcome, sir!

Ere we depart, we’ll share a bounteous time 264

In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.

[Exeunt all except Apemantus.

Enter two Lords.

First Lord.

What time o’day is’t, Apemantus?

Apem.

Time to be honest.

First Lord.

That time serves still. 268

Apem.

The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st it.

Sec. Lord.

Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast?

Apem.

Ay; to see meat fill khaves and wine heat fools. 272

Sec. Lord.

Fare thee well, fare thee well.

Apem.

Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.

Sec. Lord.

Why, Apemantus?

Apem.

Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none. 277

First Lord.

Hang thyself!

Apem.

No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: make thy requests to thy friend. 280

Sec. Lord.

Away, unpeaceable dog! or I’ll spurn thee hence.

Apem.

I will fly, like a dog, the heels of an ass.

[Exit.

First Lord.

He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in, 285

And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? he outgoes

The very heart of kindness.

Sec. Lord.

He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold, 288

Is but his steward: no meed but he repays

Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him

But breeds the giver a return exceeding 291

All use of quittance.

First Lord.

The noblest mind he carries

That ever govern’d man.

Sec. Lord.

Long may he live in fortunes!

Shall we in? 295

First Lord.

I’ll keep you company.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in Timon’s House.

Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in; Flavius and Others attending: then enter Lord Timon, Alcibiades, Lords, and Senators, Ventidius and Attendants. Then comes, dropping after all, Apemantus discontentedly, like himself.

Ven.

Most honour’d Timon,

It hath pleas’d the gods to remember my father’s age,

And call him to long peace.

He is gone happy, and has left me rich: 4

Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound

To your free heart, I do return those talents,

Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help

I deriv’d liberty.

Tim.

O! by no means, 8

Honest Ventidius; you mistake my love;

I gave it freely ever; and there’s none

Can truly say he gives, if he receives:

If our betters play at that game, we must not dare 12

To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair.

Ven.

A noble spirit.

[They all stand ceremoniously looking on Timon.

Tim.

Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devis’d at first

To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,

Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; 17

But where there is true friendship, there needs none.

Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes

Than my fortunes to me.

[They sit.

First Lord.

My lord, we always have confess’d it. 21

Apem.

Ho, ho! confess’d it; hang’d it, have you not?

Tim.

O! Apemantus, you are welcome.

Apem.

No,

You shall not make me welcome: 24

I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.

Tim.

Fie! thou’rt a churl; ye’ve got a humour there

Does not become a man; ’tis much to blame.

They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est; 28

But yond man is ever angry.

Go, let him have a table by himself,

For he does neither affect company,

Nor is he fit for it, indeed. 32

Apem.

Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon:

I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t.

Tim.

I take no heed of thee; thou’rt an Athenian, therefore, welcome. I myself would have no power; prithee, let my meat make thee silent. 38

Apem.

I scorn thy meat; ’twould choke me, for I should

Ne’er flatter thee. O you gods! what a number

Of men eat Timon, and he sees them not. 41

It grieves me to see so many dip their meat

In one man’s blood; and all the madness is,

He cheers them up too. 44

I wonder men dare trust themselves with men:

Methinks they should invite them without knives;

Good for their meat, and safer for their lives.

There’s much example for’t; the fellow that 48

Sits next him now, parts bread with him, and pledges

The breath of him in a divided draught,

Is the readiest man to kill him: ’t has been prov’d.

If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals; 52

Lest they should spy my wind-pipe’s dangerous notes:

Great men should drink with harness on their throats.

Tim.

My lord, in heart; and let the health go round.

Sec. Lord.

Let it flow this way, my good lord.

Apem.

Flow this way! A brave fellow! he keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon.

Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner, 60

Honest water, which ne’er left man i’ the mire:

This and my food are equals, there’s no odds:

Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.

Immortal gods, I crave no pelf;  64

I pray for no man but myself:

Grant I may never prove so fond,

To trust man on his oath or bond;

Or a harlot for her weeping;  68

Or a dog that seems a-sleeping;

Or a keeper with my freedom;

Or my friends, if I should need ’em.

Amen. So fall to’t:  72

Rich men sin, and I eat root.

[Eats and drinks.

Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus!

Tim.

Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field now. 76

Alcib.

My heart is ever at your service, my lord.

Tim.

You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends. 80

Alcib.

So they were bleeding-new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em: I could wish my best friend at such a feast.

Apem.

’Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em and bid me to ’em. 86

First Lord.

Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect. 91

Tim.

O! no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you: how had you been my friends else? why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you. O you gods! think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne’er have need of ’em? they were the most needless creatures living should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits; and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends? O! what a precious comfort ’tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes. O joy! e’en made away ere it can be born. Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks: to forget their faults, I drink to you.

Apem.

Thou weepest to make them drink, Timon. 116

Sec. Lord.

Joy had the like conception in our eyes,

And, at that instant, like a babe, sprung up.

Apem.

Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard.

Third Lord.

I promise you, my lord, you mov’d me much. 120

Apem.

Much!

[Tucket sounded.

Tim.

What means that trump?

Enter a Servant.

How now!

Serv.

Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance. 124

Tim.

Ladies? What are their wills?

Serv.

There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures. 128

Tim.

I pray, let them be admitted.

Enter Cupid.

Cup.

Hail to thee, worthy Timon; and to all

That of his bounties taste! The five best senses

Acknowledge thee their patron; and come freely 132

To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. Th’ ear,

Taste, touch, smell, pleas’d from thy table rise;

They only now come but to feast thine eyes.

Tim.

They are welcome all; let ’em have kind admittance: 136

Music, make their welcome!

[Exit Cupid.

First Lord.

You see, my lord, how ample you’re belov’d.

Music. Re-enter Cupid, with a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing.

Apem.

Hoy-day! what a sweep of vanity comes this way:

They dance! they are mad women. 140

Like madness is the glory of this life,

As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.

We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves;

And spend our flatteries to drink those men 144

Upon whose age we void it up again,

With poisonous spite and envy.

Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves?

Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves 148

Of their friend’s gift?

I should fear those that dance before me now

Would one day stamp upon me: it has been done;

Men shut their doors against a setting sun. 152

The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon; and to show their loves each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease.

Tim.

You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies,

Set a fair fashion on our entertainment,

Which was not half so beautiful and kind;

You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, 156

And entertain’d me with mine own device;

I am to thank you for ’t.

First Lady.

My lord, you take us even at the best.

Apem.

Faith, for the worst is filthy; and would not hold taking, I doubt me. 161

Tim.

Ladies, there is an idle banquet

Attends you: please you to dispose yourselves.

All Lad.

Most thankfully, my lord. 164

[Exeunt Cupid and Ladies.

Tim.

Flavius!

Flav.

My lord!

Tim.

The little casket bring me hither.

Flav.

Yes, my lord. [Aside.] More jewels yet!

There is no crossing him in ’s humour; 168

Else I should tell him well, i’ faith, I should,

When all’s spent, he’d be cross’d then, an he could.

’Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind,

That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind.

[Exit.

First Lord.

Where be our men? 173

Serv.

Here, my lord, in readiness.

Sec. Lord.

Our horses!

Re-enter Flavius with the Casket.

Tim.

O, my friends! I have one word to say to you; 176

Look you, my good lord,

I must entreat you, honour me so much

As to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it,

Kind my lord. 180

First Lord.

I am so far already in your gifts—

All.

So are we all.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

My lord, there are certain nobles of the senate

Newly alighted, and come to visit you. 184

Tim.

They are fairly welcome.

Flav.

I beseech your honour,

Vouchsafe me a word; it does concern you near.

Tim.

Near! why then another time I’ll hear thee.

I prithee, let’s be provided to show them entertainment. 188

Flav.

[Aside.] I scarce know how.

Enter another Servant.

Sec. Serv.

May it please your honour, Lord Lucius,

Out of his free love, hath presented to you

Four milk-white horses, trapp’d in silver. 192

Tim.

I shall accept them fairly; let the presents

Be worthily entertain’d.

Enter a third Servant.

How now! what news?

Third Serv.

Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company to-morrow to hunt with him, and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds. 198

Tim.

I’ll hunt with him; and let them be receiv’d,

Not without fair reward.

Flav.

[Aside.] What will this come to?

He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, 201

And all out of an empty coffer:

Nor will he know his purse, or yield me this,

To show him what a beggar his heart is, 204

Being of no power to make his wishes good.

His promises fly so beyond his state

That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes

For every word: he is so kind that he now 208

Pays interest for’t; his land’s put to their books.

Well, would I were gently put out of office

Before I were forc’d out!

Happier he that has no friend to feed 212

Than such as do e’en enemies exceed.

I bleed inwardly for my lord.

[Exit.

Tim.

You do yourselves

Much wrong, you bate too much of your own merits:

Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. 216

Sec. Lord.

With more than common thanks I will receive it.

Third Lord.

O! he’s the very soul of bounty.

Tim.

And now I remember, my lord, you gave

Good words the other day of a bay courser 220

I rode on: it is yours, because you lik’d it.

Third Lord.

O! I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that.

Tim.

You may take my word, my lord; I know no man

Can justly praise but what he does affect: 224

I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own;

I’ll tell you true. I’ll call to you.

All Lords.

O! none so welcome.

Tim.

I take all and your several visitations

So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give; 228

Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends,

And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades,

Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich;

It comes in charity to thee; for all thy living

Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast

Lie in a pitch’d field.

Alcib.

Ay, defil’d land, my lord.

First Lord.

We are so virtuously bound,—

Tim.

And so

Am I to you.

Sec. Lord.

So infinitely endear’d,— 236

Tim.

All to you. Lights, more lights!

First Lord.

The best of happiness,

Honour, and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon!

Tim.

Ready for his friends.

[Exeunt Alcibiades, Lords, &c.

Apem.

What a coil’s here!

Serving of becks and jutting out of bums! 240

I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums

That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs:

Methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs.

Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies. 244

Tim.

Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen,

I would be good to thee.

Apem.

No, I’ll nothing; for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou givest so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps, and vain-glories? 252

Tim.

Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; and come with better music.

[Exit.

Apem.

So: 256

Thou wilt not hear me now; thou shalt not then;

I’ll lock thy heaven from thee.

O! that men’s ears should be

To counsel deaf, but not to flattery.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Athens. A Room in a Senator’s House.

Enter a Senator, with papers in his hand.

Sen.

And late, five thousand: to Varro and to Isidore

He owes nine thousand; besides my former sum,

Which makes it five-and-twenty. Still in motion

Of raging waste! It cannot hold; it will not. 4

If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog

And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold;

If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more

Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, 8

Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight,

And able horses. No porter at his gate,

But rather one that smiles and still invites

All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason 12

Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho!

Caphis, I say!

Enter Caphis.

Caph.

Here, sir; what is your pleasure?

Sen.

Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon;

Importune him for my moneys; be not ceas’d 16

With slight denial, nor then silenc’d when—

‘Commend me to your master’—and the cap

Plays in the right hand, thus;—but tell him,

My uses cry to me; I must serve my turn 20

Out of mine own; his days and times are past,

And my reliances on his fracted dates

Have smit my credit: I love and honour him,

But must not break my back to heal his finger;

Immediate are my needs, and my relief 25

Must not be toss’d and turn’d to me in words,

But find supply immediate. Get you gone:

Put on a most importunate aspect, 28

A visage of demand; for, I do fear,

When every feather sticks in his own wing,

Lord Timon will be left a naked gull,

Which flashes now a phœnix. Get you gone. 32

Caph.

I go, sir.

Sen.

‘I go, sir!’ Take the bonds along with you,

And have the dates in compt.

Caph.

I will, sir.

Sen.

Go.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Hall in Timon’s House.

Enter Flavius, with many bills in his hand.

Flav.

No care, no stop! so senseless of expense,

That he will neither know how to maintain it,

Nor cease his flow of riot: takes no account

How things go from him, nor resumes no care 4

Of what is to continue: never mind

Was to be so unwise, to be so kind.

What shall be done? He will not hear, till feel:

I must be round with him, now he comes from hunting. 8

Fie, fie, fie, fie!

Enter Caphis, and the Servants of Isidore and Varro.

Caph.

Good even, Varro. What!

You come for money?

Var. Serv.

Is’t not your business too?

Caph.

It is: and yours too, Isidore?

Isid. Serv.

It is so.

Caph.

Would we were all discharg’d!

Var. Serv.

I fear it. 12

Caph.

Here comes the lord!

Enter Timon, Alcibiades, and Lords, &c.

Tim.

So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again,

My Alcibiades. With me? what is your will?

Caph.

My lord, here is a note of certain dues.

Tim.

Dues! Whence are you?

Caph.

Of Athens here, my lord. 17

Tim.

Go to my steward.

Caph.

Please it your lordship, he hath put me off

To the succession of new days this month: 20

My master is awak’d by great occasion

To call upon his own; and humbly prays you

That with your other noble parts you’ll suit

In giving him his right.

Tim.

Mine honest friend, 24

I prithee, but repair to me next morning.

Caph.

Nay, good my lord,—

Tim.

Contain thyself, good friend.

Var. Serv.

One Varro’s servant, my good lord,—

Isid. Serv.

From Isidore;

He humbly prays your speedy payment. 28

Caph.

If you did know, my lord, my master’s wants,—

Var. Serv.

’Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks

And past.

Isid. Serv.

Your steward puts me off, my lord; 32

And I am sent expressly to your lordship.

Tim.

Give me breath.

I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on;

I’ll wait upon you instantly.

[Exeunt Alcibiades and Lords.

[To Flavius.] Come hither: pray you, 36

How goes the world, that I am thus encounter’d

With clamorous demands of date-broke bonds,

And the detention of long-since-due debts,

Against my honour?

Flav.

Please you, gentlemen, 40

The time is unagreeable to this business:

Your importunacy cease till after dinner,

That I may make his lordship understand

Wherefore you are not paid.

Tim.

Do so, my friends. 44

See them well entertained.

[Exit.

Flav.

Pray, draw near.

[Exit.

Enter Apemantus and Fool.

Caph.

Stay, stay; here comes the fool with

Apemantus: let’s ha’ some sport with ’em.

Var. Serv.

Hang him, he’ll abuse us. 48

Isid. Serv.

A plague upon him, dog!

Var. Serv.

How dost, fool?

Apem.

Dost dialogue with thy shadow?

Var. Serv.

I speak not to thee. 52

Apem.

No; ’tis to thyself. [To the Fool.] Come away.

Isid. Serv.

[To Var. Serv.] There’s the fool hangs on your back already. 56

Apem.

No, thou stand’st single; thou’rt not on him yet.

Caph.

Where’s the fool now?

Apem.

He last asked the question. Poor rogues, and usurers’ men! bawds between gold and want! 61

All Serv.

What are we, Apemantus?

Apem.

Asses.

All Serv.

Why? 64

Apem.

That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool.

Fool.

How do you, gentlemen?

All Serv.

Gramercies, good fool. How does your mistress? 69

Fool.

She’s e’en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth! 72

Apem.

Good! gramercy.

Enter Page.

Fool.

Look you, here comes my mistress’ page.

Page.

[To the Fool.] Why, how now, captain! what do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus?

Apem.

Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably. 80

Page

Prithee, Apemantus, read me the superscription of these letters: I know not which is which.

Apem.

Canst not read? 84

Page.

No.

Apem.

There will little learning die then that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon; this to Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and thou’lt die a bawd. 89

Page.

Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone.

[Exit Page.

Apem.

E’en so thou outrunn’st grace.—

Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon’s.

Fool.

Will you leave me there?

Apem.

If Timon stay at home. You three serve three usurers? 97

All Serv.

Ay; would they served us!

Apem.

So would I, as good a trick as ever hangman served thief. 100

Fool.

Are you three usurers’ men?

All Serv.

Ay, fool.

Fool.

I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant: my mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly, and go away merry; but they enter my mistress’ house merrily, and go away sadly: the reason of this? 108

Var. Serv.

I could render one.

Apem.

Do it, then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and a knave; which, notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. 112

Var. Serv.

What is a whoremaster, fool?

Fool.

A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit: sometime ’t appears like a lord; sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher, with two stones more than ’s artificial one. He is very often like a knight; and generally in all shapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in. 121

Var. Serv.

Thou art not altogether a fool.

Fool.

Nor thou altogether a wise man: as much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lackest. 125

Apem.

That answer might have become Apemantus.

All Serv.

Aside, aside; here comes Lord Timon. 129

Re-enter Timon and Flavius.

Apem.

Come with me, fool, come.

Fool.

I do not always follow lover, elder brother and woman; sometime the philosopher.

[Exeunt Apemantus and Fool.

Flav.

Pray you, walk near: I’ll speak with you anon.

[Exeunt Servants.

Tim.

You make me marvel: wherefore, ere this time,

Had you not fully laid my state before me,

That I might so have rated my expense 136

As I had leave of means?

Flav.

You would not hear me,

At many leisures I propos’d.

Tim.

Go to:

Perchance some single vantages you took,

When my indisposition put you back; 140

And that unaptness made your minister,

Thus to excuse yourself.

Flav.

O my good lord!

At many times I brought in my accounts,

Laid them before you; you would throw them off, 144

And say you found them in mine honesty.

When for some trifling present you have bid me

Return so much, I have shook my head, and wept;

Yea, ’gainst the authority of manners, pray’d you 148

To hold your hand more close: I did endure

Not seldom, nor no slight checks, when I have

Prompted you in the ebb of your estate

And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, 152

Though you hear now, too late, yet now’s a time,

The greatest of your having lacks a half

To pay your present debts.

Tim.

Let all my land be sold.

Flav.

’Tis all engag’d, some forfeited and gone; 156

And what remains will hardly stop the mouth

Of present dues; the future comes apace:

What shall defend the interim? and at length

How goes our reckoning? 160

Tim.

To Lacedæmon did my land extend.

Flav.

O my good lord! the world is but a word;

Were it all yours to give it in a breath,

How quickly were it gone!

Tim.

You tell me true. 164

Flav.

If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood,

Call me before the exactest auditors,

And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me,

When all our offices have been oppress’d 168

With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept

With drunken spilth of wine, when every room

Hath blaz’d with lights and bray’d with minstrelsy,

I have retir’d me to a wasteful cock, 172

And set mine eyes at flow.

Tim.

Prithee, no more.

Flav.

Heavens! have I said, the bounty of this lord!

How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants

This night englutted! Who is not Timon’s? 176

What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon’s?

Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon!

Ah! when the means are gone that buy this praise, 179

The breath is gone whereof this praise is made:

Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers,

These flies are couch’d.

Tim.

Come, sermon me no further;

No villanous bounty yet hath pass’d my heart;

Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. 184

Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack,

To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart;

If I would broach the vessels of my love,

And try the argument of hearts by borrowing,

Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use 189

As I can bid thee speak.

Flav.

Assurance bless your thoughts!

Tim.

And, in some sort, these wants of mine are crown’d,

That I account them blessings; for by these 192

Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you

Mistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my friends.

Within there! Flaminius! Servilius!

Enter Flaminius, Servilius, and other Servants.

Serv.

My lord! my lord! 196

Tim.

I will dispatch you severally: you, to Lord Lucius; to Lord Lucullus you: I hunted with his honour to-day; you, to Sempronius. Commend me to their loves; and I am proud, say, that my occasions have found time to use them toward a supply of money: let the request be fifty talents.

Flam.

As you have said, my lord. 204

Flav.

[Aside.] Lord Lucius, and Lucullus? hum!

Tim.

[To another Servant.] Go you, sir, to the senators,—

Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have

Deserv’d this hearing,—bid ’em send o’ the instant 208

A thousand talents to me.

Flav.

I have been bold,—

For that I knew it the most general way,—

To them to use your signet and your name;

But they do shake their heads, and I am here

No richer in return.

Tim.

Is’t true? can’t be? 213

Flav

They answer, in a joint and corporate voice,

That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot

Do what they would; are sorry; you are honourable; 216

But yet they could have wish’d; they know not;

Something hath been amiss; a noble nature

May catch a wrench; would all were well; ’tis pity;

And so, intending other serious matters, 220

After distasteful looks and these hard fractions,

With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods

They froze me into silence.

Tim.

You gods, reward them!

Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows

Have their ingratitude in them hereditary; 225

Their blood is cak’d, ’tis cold, it seldom flows;

’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind;

And nature, as it grows again toward earth, 228

Is fashion’d for the journey, dull and heavy.

[To a Servant.] Go to Ventidius.—[To Flavius.] Prithee, be not sad,

Thou art true and honest; ingenuously I speak,

No blame belongs to thee.—[To Servant.] Ventidius lately 232

Buried his father; by whose death he’s stepp’d

Into a great estate; when he was poor,

Imprison’d and in scarcity of friends,

I clear’d him with five talents; greet him from me; 236

Bid him suppose some good necessity

Touches his friend, which craves to be remember’d

With those five talents. [Exit Servant.] [To Flavius.] That had, give’t these fellows

To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think

That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink.

Flav.

I would I could not think it: that thought is bounty’s foe; 242

Being free itself, it thinks all others so.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Athens. A Room in Lucullus’ House.

Flaminius waiting. Enter a Servant to him.

Serv.

I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to you.

Flam.

I thank you, sir.

Enter Lucullus.

Serv.

Here’s my lord. 4

Lucul.

[Aside.] One of Lord Timon’s men! a gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right; I dreamt of a silver bason and ewer to-night. Flaminius, honest Flaminius, you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. [Exit Servant.] And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master? 12

Flam.

His health is well, sir.

Lucul.

I am right glad that his health is well, sir. And what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius? 16

Flam.

Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir; which, in my lord’s behalf, I come to entreat your honour to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein. 22

Lucul.

La, la, la, la! ‘nothing doubting,’ says he? Alas! good lord; a noble gentleman ’tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha’ dined with him, and told him on’t; and come again to supper to him, of purpose to have him spend less; and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is his; I ha’ told him on’t, but I could ne’er get him from it. 32

Re-enter Servant with wine.

Serv.

Please your lordship, here is the wine.

Lucul.

Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here’s to thee.

Flam.

Your lordship speaks your pleasure. 36

Lucul.

I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt spirit, give thee thy due, and one that knows what belongs to reason; and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well: good parts in thee. [To the Servant.]—Get you gone, sirrah.—[Exit Servant.] Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord’s a bountiful gentleman; but thou art wise, and thou knowest well enough, although thou comest to me, that this is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship, without security. Here’s three solidares for thee: good boy, wink at me, and say thou sawest me not. Fare thee well. 49

Flam.

Is’t possible the world should so much differ,

And we alive that liv’d? Fly, damned baseness,

To him that worships thee. 52

[Throwing the money away.

Lucul.

Ha! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for thy master.

[Exit.

Flam.

May these add to the number that may scald thee!

Let molten coin be thy damnation, 56

Thou disease of a friend, and not himself!

Has friendship such a faint and milky heart

It turns in less than two nights? O you gods!

I feel my master’s passion. This slave unto his honour 60

Has my lord’s meat in him:

Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment

When he is turn’d to poison?

O! may diseases only work upon ’t, 64

And, when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature

Which my lord paid for, be of any power

To expel sickness, but prolong his hour.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Public Place.

Enter Lucius, with three Strangers.

Luc.

Who, the Lord Timon? he is my very good friend, and an honourable gentleman.

First Stran.

We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him. 8

Luc.

Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money.

Sec. Stran.

But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago, one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus, to borrow so many talents, nay, urged extremely for ’t, and showed what necessity belonged to ’t, and yet was denied.

Luc.

How! 16

Sec. Stran.

I tell you, denied, my lord.

Luc.

What a strange case was that! now, before the gods, I am ashamed on ’t. Denied that honourable man! there was very little honour showed in ’t. For my own part, I must needs confess, I have received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet, had he mistook him, and sent to me, I should ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents. 26

Enter Servilius.

Servil.

See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have sweat to see his honour. [To Lucius.] My honoured lord!

Luc.

Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well: commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. 32

Servil.

May it please your honour, my lord hath sent—

Luc.

Ha! what has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he’s ever sending: how shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now? 38

Servil.

He has only sent his present occasion now, my lord; requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. 41

Luc.

I know his lordship is but merry with me;

He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents.

Servil.

But in the mean time he wants less, my lord. 44

If his occasion were not virtuous,

I should not urge it half so faithfully.

Luc.

Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius?

Servil.

Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir. 48

Luc.

What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might ha’ shown myself honourable! how unluckily it happened, that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius, now, before the gods, I am not able to do; the more beast, I say; I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not, for the wealth of Athens, I had done it now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship; and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind: and tell him this from me, I count it one of my greatest afflictions say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far as to use mine own words to him? 66

Servil.

Yes, sir, I shall.

Luc.

I’ll look you out a good turn, Servilius.

[Exit Servilius.

True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed;

And he that’s once denied will hardly speed.

[Exit.

First Stran.

Do you observe this, Hostilius?

Sec. Stran.

Ay, too well.

First Stran.

Why this is the world’s soul; and just of the same piece 72

Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him

His friend that dips in the same dish? for, in

My knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father,

And kept his credit with his purse, 76

Supported his estate; nay, Timon’s money

Has paid his men their wages: he ne’er drinks

But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip;

And yet, O! see the monstrousness of man, 80

When he looks out in an ungrateful shape,

He does deny him, in respect of his,

What charitable men afford to beggars.

Third Stran.

Religion groans at it.

First Stran.

For mine own part, 84

I never tasted Timon in my life,

Nor came any of his bounties over me,

To mark me for his friend; yet, I protest,

For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, 88

And honourable carriage,

Had his necessity made use of me,

I would have put my wealth into donation,

And the best half should have return’d to him, 92

So much I love his heart. But, I perceive,

Men must learn now with pity to dispense;

For policy sits above conscience.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in Sempronius’s House.

Enter Sempronius and a Servant of Timon’s.

Sem.

Must he needs trouble me in ’t. Hum! ’bove all others?

He might have tried Lord Lucius, or Lucullus;

And now Ventidius is wealthy too,

Whom he redeem’d from prison: all these 4

Owe their estates unto him.

Serv.

My lord,

They have all been touch’d and found base metal, for

They have all denied him.

Sem.

How! have they denied him?

Have Ventidius and Lucullus denied him? 8

And does he send to me? Three? hum!

It shows but little love or judgment in him:

Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physicians,

Thrice give him over; must I take the cure upon me? 12

He has much disgrac’d me in ’t; I’m angry at him,

That might have known my place. I see no sense for ’t,

But his occasions might have woo’d me first;

For, in my conscience, I was the first man 16

That e’er received gift from him:

And does he think so backwardly of me now,

That I’ll requite it last? No:

So it may prove an argument of laughter 20

To the rest, and I ’mongst lords be thought a fool.

I had rather than the worth of thrice the sum,

He had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake;

I’d such a courage to do him good. But now return, 24

And with their faint reply this answer join;

Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin.

[Exit.

Serv.

Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic; he crossed himself by ’t: and I cannot think but in the end the villanies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire:

Of such a nature is his politic love.

This was my lord’s best hope; now all are fled 36

Save only the gods. Now his friends are dead,

Doors, that were ne’er acquainted with their wards

Many a bounteous year, must be employ’d

Now to guard sure their master: 40

And this is all a liberal course allows;

Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Hall in Timon’s House.

Enter two Servants of Varro, and the Servant of Lucius, meeting Titus, Hortensius, and other Servants to Timon’s Creditors, waiting his coming out.

First Var. Serv.

Well met; good morrow, Titus and Hortensius.

Tit.

The like to you, kind Varro.

Hor.

Lucius!

What! do we meet together!

Luc. Ser.

Ay, and I think

One business does command us all; for mine 4

Is money.

Tit.

So is theirs and ours.

Enter Philotus.

Luc. Serv.

And Sir Philotus too!

Phi.

Good day at once.

Luc. Serv.

Welcome, good brother.

What do you think the hour?

Phi.

Labouring for nine. 8

Luc. Serv.

So much?

Phi.

Is not my lord seen yet?

Luc. Serv.

Not yet.

Phi.

I wonder on ’t; he was wont to shine at seven.

Luc. Serv.

Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him:

You must consider that a prodigal course 12

Is like the sun’s; but not, like his, recoverable.

I fear,

’Tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse;

That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet 16

Find little.

Phi.

I am of your fear for that.

Tit.

I’ll show you how to observe a strange event.

Your lord sends now for money.

Hor.

Most true, he does.

Tit.

And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift,

For which I wait for money. 21

Hor.

It is against my heart.

Luc. Serv.

Mark, how strange it shows,

Timon in this should pay more than he owes:

And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels,

And send for money for ’em. 25

Hor.

I’m weary of this charge, the gods can witness:

I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth,

And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. 28

First Var. Serv.

Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns; what’s yours?

Luc. Serv.

Five thousand mine.

First Var. Serv.

’Tis much deep: and it should seem by the sum,

Your master’s confidence was above mine; 32

Else, surely, his had equall’d.

Enter Flaminius.

Tit.

One of Lord Timon’s men.

Luc. Serv.

Flaminius! Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth? 36

Flam.

No, indeed, he is not.

Tit.

We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much.

Flam.

I need not tell him that; he knows you are too diligent.

[Exit Flaminius.

Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled.

Luc. Serv.

Ha! is not that his steward muffled so?

He goes away in a cloud: call him, call him.

Tit.

Do you hear, sir? 44

Sec. Var. Serv.

By your leave, sir.

Flav.

What do you ask of me, my friend?

Tit.

We wait for certain money here, sir.

Flav.

Ay,

If money were as certain as your waiting, 48

’Twere sure enough.

Why then preferr’d you not your sums and bills,

When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat?

Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts,

And take down the interest into their gluttonous maws. 53

You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up;

Let me pass quietly:

Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end; 56

I have no more to reckon, he to spend.

Luc. Serv.

Ay, but this answer will not serve.

Flav.

If ’twill not serve, ’tis not so base as you;

For you serve knaves.

[Exit.

First Var. Serv.

How! what does his cashiered worship mutter? 62

Sec. Var. Serv.

No matter what; he’s poor, and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in? such may rail against great buildings.

Enter Servilius.

Tit.

O! here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer. 68

Servil.

If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from ’t; for, take ’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him; he’s much out of health, and keeps his chamber.

Luc. Serv.

Many do keep their chambers are not sick:

And, if it be so far beyond his health, 76

Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts,

And make a clear way to the gods.

Servil.

Good gods!

Tit.

We cannot take this for answer, sir.

Flam.

[Within.] Servilius, help! my lord! my lord! 80

Enter Timon, in a rage; Flaminius following.

Tim.

What! are my doors oppos’d against my passage?

Have I been ever free, and must my house

Be my retentive enemy, my gaol?

The place which I have feasted, does it now, 84

Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?

Luc. Serv.

Put in now, Titus.

Tit.

My lord, here is my bill.

Luc. Serv.

Here’s mine. 88

Hor.

And mine, my lord.

Both Var. Serv.

And ours, my lord.

Phi.

All our bills.

Tim.

Knock me down with ’em: cleave me to the girdle. 92

Luc. Serv.

Alas! my lord,—

Tim.

Cut my heart in sums.

Tit.

Mine, fifty talents.

Tim.

Tell out my blood. 96

Luc. Serv.

Five thousand crowns, my lord.

Tim.

Five thousand drops pays that. What yours? and yours?

First Var. Serv.

My lord,—

Sec. Var. Serv.

My lord,— 100

Tim.

Tear me, take me; and the gods fall upon you!

[Exit.

Hor.

Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money: these debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Timon and Flavius.

Tim.

They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves:

Creditors? devils!

Flav.

My dear lord,— 108

Tim.

What if it should be so?

Flav.

My lord,—

Tim.

I’ll have it so. My steward!

Flav.

Here, my lord. 112

Tim.

So fitly! Go, bid all my friends again,

Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius; all:

I’ll once more feast the rascals.

Flav.

O my lord!

You only speak from your distracted soul; 116

There is not so much left to furnish out

A moderate table.

Tim.

Be’t not in thy care: go.

I charge thee, invite them all: let in the tide

Of knaves once more; my cook and I’ll provide.

[Exeunt

Scene V.— The Same. The Senate House.

The Senate sitting.

First Sen.

My lord, you have my voice to it; the fault’s

Bloody; ’tis necessary he should die;

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Sec. Sen.

Most true; the law shall bruise him.

Enter Alcibiades, attended.

Alcib.

Honour, health, and compassion to the senate! 5

First Sen.

Now, captain.

Alcib.

I am a humble suitor to your virtues;

For pity is the virtue of the law, 8

And none but tyrants use it cruelly.

It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy

Upon a friend of mine, who, in hot blood,

Hath stepp’d into the law, which is past depth

To those that without heed to plunge into ’t. 13

He is a man, setting his fate aside,

Of comely virtues;

Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice,— 16

An honour in him which buys out his fault,—

But, with a noble fury and fair spirit,

Seeing his reputation touch’d to death,

He did oppose his foe; 20

And with such sober and unnoted passion

He did behave his anger, ere ’twas spent,

As if he had but prov’d an argument.

First Sen.

You undergo too strict a paradox,

Striving to make an ugly deed look fair: 25

Your words have took such pains as if they labour’d

To bring manslaughter into form, and set quarrelling

Upon the head of valour; which indeed 28

Is valour misbegot, and came into the world

When sects and factions were newly born.

He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer

The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs 32

His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly,

And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart,

To bring it into danger.

If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, 36

What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill!

Alcib.

My lord,—

First Sen.

You cannot make gross sins look clear;

To revenge is no valour, but to bear. 40

Alcib.

My lords, then, under favour, pardon me,

If I speak like a captain.

Why do fond men expose themselves to battle,

And not endure all threats? sleep upon’t, 44

And let the foes quietly cut their throats

Without repugnancy? If there be

Such valour in the bearing, what make we

Abroad? why then, women are more valiant 48

That stay at home, if bearing carry it,

And the ass more captain than the lion, the felon

Loaden with irons wiser than the judge,

If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords! 52

As you are great, be pitifully good:

Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood?

To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust;

But, in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. 56

To be in anger is impiety;

But who is man that is not angry?

Weigh but the crime with this.

Sec. Sen.

You breathe in vain.

Alcib.

In vain! his service done 60

At Lacedæmon and Byzantium

Were a sufficient briber for his life.

First Sen.

What’s that?

Alcib.

I say, my lords, he has done fair service, 64

And slain in fight many of your enemies.

How full of valour did he bear himself

In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds!

Sec. Sen.

He has made too much plenty with ’em; 68

He’s a sworn rioter; he has a sin that often

Drowns him and takes his valour prisoner;

If there were no foes, that were enough

To overcome him; in that beastly fury 72

He has been known to commit outrages

And cherish factions; ’tis inferr’d to us,

His days are foul and his drink dangerous.

First Sen.

He dies. 76

Alcib.

Hard fate! he might have died in war.

My lords, if not for any parts in him,—

Though his right arm might purchase his own time,

And be in debt to none,—yet, more to move you,

Take my deserts to his, and join ’em both; 81

And, for I know your reverend ages love

Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all

My honour to you, upon his good returns. 84

If by this crime he owes the law his life,

Why, let the war receive’t in valiant gore;

For law is strict, and war is nothing more.

First Sen.

We are for law; he dies: urge it no more, 88

On height of our displeasure. Friend, or brother,

He forfeits his own blood that spills another.

Alcib.

Must it be so? it must not be. My lords,

I do beseech you, know me. 92

Sec. Sen.

How!

Alcib.

Call me to your remembrances.

Third Sen

What!

Alcib.

I cannot think but your age has forgot me;

It could not else be I should prove so base, 96

To sue, and be denied such common grace.

My wounds ache at you.

First Sen.

Do you dare our anger?

’Tis in few words, but spacious in effect;

We banish thee for ever.

Alcib.

Banish me! 100

Banish your dotage; banish usury,

That makes the senate ugly.

First Sen.

If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee,

Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit, 104

He shall be executed presently.

[Exeunt Senators.

Alcib.

Now the gods keep you old enough; that you may live

Only in bone, that none may look on you!

I am worse than mad: I have kept back their foes, 108

While they have told their money and let out

Their coin upon large interest; I myself

Rich only in large hurts: all those for this?

Is this the balsam that the usuring senate 112

Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment!

It comes not ill; I hate not to be banish’d;

It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury,

That I may strike at Athens. I’ll cheer up 116

My discontented troops, and lay for hearts.

’Tis honour with most lands to be at odds;

Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Room of State in Timon’s House.

Music. Tables set out: Servants attending. Enter divers Lords, Senators, and Others, at several doors.

First Lord.

The good time of day to you, sir.

Sec. Lord.

I also wish it you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day. 3

First Lord.

Upon that were my thoughts tiring when we encountered: I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends.

Sec. Lord.

It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting. 9

First Lord.

I should think so: he hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear. 14

Sec. Lord.

In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out.

First Lord.

I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go. 20

Sec. Lord.

Every man here’s so. What would he have borrowed you?

First Lord.

A thousand pieces.

Sec. Lord.

A thousand pieces! 24

First Lord.

What of you?

Third Lord

He sent to me, sir,—Here he comes.

Enter Timon and Attendants.

Tim.

With all my heart, gentlemen both; and how fare you? 29

First Lord.

Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship.

Sec. Lord.

The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship. 33

Tim.

[Aside.] Nor more willingly leaves winter; such summer-birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long stay: feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o’ the trumpet’s sound; we shall to ’t presently. 39

First Lord.

I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty messenger.

Tim.

O! sir, let it not trouble you.

Sec. Lord.

My noble lord,— 44

Tim.

Ah! my good friend, what cheer?

Sec. Lord.

My most honourable lord, I am e’en sick of shame, that when your lordship this other day sent to me I was so unfortunate a beggar.

Tim.

Think not on ’t, sir. 49

Sec. Lord.

If you had sent but two hours before,—

Tim.

Let it not cumber your better remembrance. [The banquet brought in.] Come, bring in all together.

Sec. Lord.

All covered dishes!

First Lord.

Royal cheer, I warrant you. 56

Third Lord.

Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it.

First Lord.

How do you? What’s the news?

Third Lord.

Alcibiades is banished: hear you of it? 61

First Lord.

Alcibiades banished!

Sec. Lord.

Alcibiades banished!

Third Lord.

’Tis so, be sure of it.

First Lord.

How? how? 64

Sec. Lord.

I pray you, upon what?

Tim.

My worthy friends, will you draw near?

Third Lord.

I’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a noble feast toward. 68

Sec. Lord.

This is the old man still.

Third Lord.

Will’t hold? will’t hold?

Sec. Lord.

It does; but time will—and so—

Third Lord.

I do conceive. 72

Tim.

Each man to his stool, with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress; your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place: sit, sit. The gods require our thanks.— 78

You great benefactors sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised: but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains: if there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be as they are. The rest of your fees, O gods! the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people, what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome.

Uncover, dogs, and lap. 96

[The dishes uncovered are full of warm water.

Some speak.

What does his lordship mean?

Some other.

I know not.

Tim.

May you a better feast never behold,

You knot of mouth-friends! smoke and lukewarm water 100

Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last;

Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries,

Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces

[Throwing the water in their faces.

Your reeking villany. Live loath’d, and long, 104

Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites,

Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears,

You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies,

Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks!

Of man and beast the infinite malady 109

Crust you quite o’er! What! dost thou go?

Soft! take thy physic first,—thou too,—and thou;—

Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. 112

[Throws the dishes at them.

What! all in motion? Henceforth be no feast,

Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest.

Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be

Of Timon man and all humanity!

[Exit.

Re-enter the Lords, Senators, &c.

First Lord.

How now, my lords! 117

Sec. Lord.

Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury?

Third Lord.

Push! did you see my cap? 120

Fourth Lord.

I have lost my gown.

First Lord.

He’s but a mad lord, and nought but humour sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat: did you see my jewel? 125

Third Lord.

Did you see my cap?

Sec. Lord.

Here ’tis.

Fourth Lord.

Here lies my gown. 128

First Lord.

Let’s make no stay.

Sec. Lord.

Lord Timon’s mad.

Third Lord.

I feel ’t upon my bones.

Fourth Lord.

One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Without the Walls of Athens

Enter Timon.

Tim.

Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall,

That girdlest in those wolves, dive in the earth.

And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent!

Obedience fail in children! slaves and fools, 4

Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench,

And minister in their steads! To general filths

Convert, o’the instant, green virginity!

Do’t in your parents’ eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast; 8

Rather than render back, out with your knives,

And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound servants, steal!—

Large-handed robbers your grave masters are,—

And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed; 12

Thy mistress is o’ the brothel! Son of sixteen,

Pluck the lin’d crutch from thy old limping sire,

With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,

Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, 16

Domestic awe, night-rest and neighbourhood,

Instruction, manners, mysteries and trades,

Degrees, observances, customs and laws,

Decline to your confounding contraries, 20

And let confusion live! Plagues incident to men,

Your potent and infectious fevers heap

On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica,

Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt

As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty

Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth,

That’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,

And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, 28

Sow all the Athenian bosoms, and their crop

Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath,

That their society, as their friendship, may

Be merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee

But nakedness, thou detestable town! 33

Take thou that too, with multiplying bans!

Timon will to the woods; where he shall find

The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.

The gods confound—hear me, you good gods all— 37

The Athenians both within and out that wall!

And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow

To the whole race of mankind, high and low! 40

Amen.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Athens. A Room in Timon’s House.

Enter Flavius, with two or three Servants.

First Serv.

Hear you, Master steward! where’s our master?

Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?

Flav.

Alack! my fellows, what should I say to you?

Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, 4

I am as poor as you.

First Serv.

Such a house broke!

So noble a master fall’n! All gone! and not

One friend to take his fortune by the arm,

And go along with him!

Sec. Serv.

As we do turn our backs 8

From our companion thrown into his grave,

So his familiars to his buried fortunes

Slink all away, leave their false vows with him,

Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor self, 12

A dedicated beggar to the air,

With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty,

Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.

Enter other Servants.

Flav.

All broken implements of a ruin’d house. 16

Third Serv.

Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery,

That see I by our faces; we are fellows still,

Serving alike in sorrow. Leak’d is our bark,

And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, 20

Hearing the surges threat: we must all part

Into this sea of air.

Flav.

Good fellows all,

The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you.

Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake 24

Let’s yet be fellows; let’s shake our heads, and say,

As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortunes,

‘We have seen better days.’ Let each take some;

[Giving them money.

Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: 28

Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.

[They embrace, and part several ways.

O! the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us.

Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,

Since riches point to misery and contempt? 32

Who would be so mock’d with glory? or so live,

But in a dream of friendship?

To have his pomp and all what state compounds

But only painted, like his varnish’d friends? 36

Poor honest lord! brought low by his own heart,

Undone by goodness. Strange, unusual blood,

When man’s worst sin is he does too much good!

Who then dares to be half so kind agen? 40

For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.

My dearest lord, bless’d, to be most accurs’d,

Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes

Are made thy chief affictions. Alas! kind lord,

He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat 45

Of monstrous friends;

Nor has he with him to supply his life,

Or that which can command it. 48

I’ll follow and inquire him out:

I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will;

Whilst I have gold I’ll be his steward still.

[Exit.

Scene III.— Woods and Cave near the Sea-shore.

Enter Timon from the Cave.

Tim.

O blessed breeding sun! draw from the earth

Rotten humidity; below thy sister’s orb

Infect the air! Twinn’d brothers of one womb,

Whose procreation, residence and birth, 4

Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes;

The greater scorns the lesser: not nature,

To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,

But by contempt of nature. 8

Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord;

The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,

The beggar native honour.

It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, 12

The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares,

In purity of manhood stand upright,

And say, ‘This man’s a flatterer?’ if one be,

So are they all; for every grize of fortune 16

Is smooth’d by that below: the learned pate

Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique;

There’s nothing level in our cursed natures

But direct villany. Therefore, be abhorr’d 20

All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!

His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:

Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!

[Digging.

Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate 24

With thy most operant poison! What is here?

Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold! No, gods,

I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens!

Thus much of this will make black white, foul fair, 28

Wrong right, base noble, old young, coward valiant.

Ha! you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this

Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,

Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their head: 32

This yellow slave

Will knit and breah religions; bless the accurs’d;

Make the hoar leprosy ador’d; place thieves,

And give them title, knee, and approbation, 36

With senators on the bench; this is it

That makes the wappen’d widow wed again;

She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores

Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices 40

To the April day again. Come, damned earth,

Thou common whore of mankind, that putt’st odds

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature.—[March afar off.] Ha! a drum? thou’rt quick, 44

But yet I’ll bury thee: thou’lt go, strong theif,

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand:

Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

[Keeping some gold.

Enter Alcibiades, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; Phrynia and Timandra.

Alcib.

What art thou there? speak. 48

Tim.

A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart,

For showing me again the eyes of man!

Alcib.

What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,

That art thyself a man? 52

Tim.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,

That I might love thee something.

Alcib.

I know thee well,

But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.

Tim.

I know thee too; and more than that I know thee 57

I not desire to know. Follow thy drum;

With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, gules;

Religious canons, civil laws are cruel; 60

Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine

Hath in her more destruction than thy sword

For all her cherubin look.

Phry.

Thy lips rot off!

Tim.

I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns 64

To thine own lips again.

Alcib.

How came the noble Timon to this change?

Tim.

As the moon does, by wanting light to give:

But then renew I could not like the moon; 68

There were no suns to borrow of.

Alcib.

Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee?

Tim.

None, but to maintain my opinion.

Alcib.

What is it, Timon? 72

Tim.

Promise me friendship, but perform none: if thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man! 76

Alcib.

I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.

Tim.

Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity.

Alcib.

I see them now; then was a blessed time.

Tim.

As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. 80

Timan.

Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world

Voic’d so regardfully?

Tim.

Art thou Timandra?

Timan.

Yes.

Tim.

Be a whore still; they love thee not that use thee;

Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.

Make use of thy salt hours; season the slaves 85

For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth

To the tub-fast and the diet.

Timan.

Hang thee, monster!

Alcib.

Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits 88

Are drown’d and lost in his calamities.

I have but little gold of late, brave Timon,

The want whereof doth daily make revolt

In my penurious band: I have heard and griev’d

How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, 93

Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,

But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,—

Tim.

I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone. 96

Alcib.

I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.

Tim.

How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?

I had rather be alone.

Alcib.

Why, fare thee well:

Here is some gold for thee.

Tim.

Keep it, I cannot eat it. 100

Alcib.

When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,—

Tim.

Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?

Alcib.

Ay, Timon, and have cause.

Tim.

The gods confound them all in thy conquest; and 104

Thee after, when thou hast conquer’d!

Alcib.

Why me, Timon?

Tim.

That, by killing of villains, thou wast born to conquer

My country.

Put up thy gold: go on,—here’s gold,—go on;

Be as a planetary plague, when Jove 109

Will o’er some high-vic’d city hang his poison

In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one.

Pity not honour’d age for his white beard; 112

He is a usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron;

It is her habit only that is honest,

Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek

Make soft thy trenchant sword; for those milkpaps, 116

That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes,

Are not within the leaf of pity writ,

But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe,

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; 120

Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounc’d thy throat shall cut,

And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects;

Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes, 124

Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,

Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,

Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers:

Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent, 128

Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.

Alcib.

Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou giv’st me,

Not all thy counsel.

Tim.

Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee! 132

Phr.

Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more?

Timan.

Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more?

Tim.

Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,

And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,

Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable,

Although, I know, you’ll swear, terribly swear

Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues 138

The immortal gods that hear you, spare your oaths,

I’ll trust to your conditions: be whores still;

And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,

Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up;

Let your close fire predominate his smoke,

And be no turncoats: yet may your pains, six months, 144

Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs

With burdens of the dead; some that were hang’d,

No matter; wear them, betray with them: whore still;

Paint till a horse may mire upon your face: 148

A pox of wrinkles!

Phr.

Well, more gold. What then?

Timan.

Well, more gold. What then?

Believe’t, that we’ll do anything for gold.

Tim.

Consumptions sow 152

In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins,

And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice,

That he may never more false title plead,

Nor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen,

That scolds against the quality of flesh, 157

And not believes himself: down with the nose,

Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away

Of him that, his particular to foresee, 160

Smells from the general weal: make curl’d-pate ruffians bald,

And let the unscarr’d braggarts of the war

Derive some pain from you: plague all,

That your activity may defeat and quell 164

The source of all erection. There’s more gold;

Do you damn others, and let this damn you,

And ditches grave you all!

Phr.

More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. 168

Timan.

More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. 168

Tim.

More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest.

Alcib.

Strike up the drum towards Athens! Farewell, Timon:

If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again.

Tim.

If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.

Alcib.

I never did thee harm. 173

Tim.

Yes, thou spok’st well of me.

Alcib.

Call’st thou that harm?

Tim.

Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take

Thy beagles with thee.

Alcib.

We but offend him. Strike!

[Drum beats. Exeunt Alcibiades, Phrynia, and Timandra.

Tim.

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, 177

Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,

[Digging.

Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,

Teams, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,

Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d, 181

Engenders the black toad and adder blue,

The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm,

With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven

Whareon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine;

Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,

From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root!

Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, 188

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man!

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;

Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face

Hath to the marbled mansion all above 192

Never presented! O! a root; dear thanks:

Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas;

Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts

And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,

That from it all consideration slips! 197

Enter Apemantus.

More man! Plague! plague!

Apem.

I was directed hither: men report

Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them. 200

Tim.

’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog

Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee!

Apem.

This is in thee a nature but infected;

A poor unmanly melancholy sprung 204

From change of fortune. Why this spade? this place?

This slave-like habit? and these looks of care?

Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft,

Hug their diseas’d perfumes, and have forgot

That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods

By putting on the cunning of a carper. 210

Be thou a flatterer now, and seak to thrive

By that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,

And let his very breath, whom thou’lt observe,

Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,

And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus;

Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bid welcome, 216

To knaves and all approachers: ’tis most just

That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again,

Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness.

Tim.

Were I like thee I’d throw away myself.

Apem.

Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself; 221

A madman so long, now a fool. What! think’st

That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,

Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moss’d trees, 224

That have outliv’d the eagle, page thy heels

And skip when thou point’st out? will the cold brook,

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste

To cure the o’er-night’s surfeit? Call the creatures 228

Whose naked natures live in all the spite

Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks

To the conflicting elements expos’d,

Answer mere nature; bid them flatter thee; 232

O! thou shalt find—

Tim.

A fool of thee. Depart.

Apem.

I love thee better now than e’er I did.

Tim.

I hate thee worse.

Apem.

Why?

Tim.

Thou flatter’st misery.

Apem.

I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff.

Tim.

Why dost thou seek me out?

Apem.

To vex thee. 237

Tim.

Always a villain’s office, or a fool’s.

Dost please thyself in ’t?

Apem.

Ay.

Tim.

What! a knave too?

Apem.

If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on 240

To castigate thy pride, ’twere well; but thou

Dost it enforcedly; thou’dst courtier be again

Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery

Outlives incertain pomp, is crown’d before; 244

The one is filling still, never complete;

The other, at high wish: best state, contentless,

Hath a distracted and most wretched being,

Worse than the worst, content. 248

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.

Tim.

Not by his breath that is more miserable.

Thou art a slave, whom Fortune’s tender arm

With favour never clasp’d, but bred a dog. 252

Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords

To such as may the passive drudges of it

Freely command, thou wouldst have plung’d thyself 256

In general riot; melted down thy youth

In different beds of lust; and never learn’d

The icy precepts of respect, but follow’d

The sugar’d game before thee. But myself, 260

Who had the world as my confectionary,

The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, and hearts of men

At duty, more than I could frame employment,

That numberless upon me stuck as leaves 264

Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush

Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare

For every storm that blows; I, to bear this,

That never knew but better, is some burden: 268

Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time

Hath made thee hard in ’t. Why shouldst thou hate men?

They never flatter’d thee: what hast thou given?

If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, 272

Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff

To some she beggar and compounded thee

Poor rogue hereditary. Hence! be gone!

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,

Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.

Apem.

Art thou proud yet? 277

Tim.

Ay, that I am not thee.

Apem.

I, that I was

No prodigal.

Tim.

I, that I am one now:

Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, 280

I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone.

That the whole life of Athens were in this!

Thus would I eat it.

[Eating a root.

Apem.

Here; I will mend thy feast.

Tim.

First mend my company, take away thyself. 284

Apem.

So I shall mend mine own, by the lack of thine.

Tim.

’Tis not well mended so, it is but botch’d;

If not, I would it were.

Apem.

What wouldst thou have to Athens?

Tim.

Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, 289

Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have.

Apem.

Here is no use for gold.

Tim.

The best and truest;

For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm. 292

Apem.

Where liest o’ nights, Timon?

Tim.

Under that’s above me.

Where feed’st thou o’ days, Apemantus?

Apem.

Where my stomach finds meat; or, rather, where I eat it. 296

Tim.

Would poison were obedient and knew my mind!

Apem.

Where wouldst thou send it?

Tim.

To sauce thy dishes.

Apem.

The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou knowest none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee; eat it.

Tim.

On what I hate I feed not. 306

Apem.

Dost hate a medlar?

Tim.

Ay, though it look like thee.

Apem.

An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means? 312

Tim.

Who, without those means thou talkest of, didst thou ever know beloved?

Apem.

Myself.

Tim.

I understand thee; thou hadst some means to keep a dog. 317

Apem.

What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers?

Tim.

Women nearest; but men, men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?

Apem.

Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men. 324

Tim.

Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men, and remain a beast with the beasts?

Apem.

Ay, Timon. 328

Tim.

A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee to attain to. If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat thee; if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass; if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou livedst but as a breakfast to the wolf; if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner; wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury; wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard; wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life; all thy safety were remotion, and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that were not subject to a beast? and what a beast art thou already, that seest not thy loss in transformation! 351

Apem.

If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here; the commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

Tim.

How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city? 357

Apem.

Yonder comes a poet and a painter: the plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it, and give way. When I know not what else to do, I’ll see thee again. 361

Tim.

When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus. 364

Apem.

Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.

Tim.

Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

Apem.

A plague on thee! thou art too bad to curse!

Tim.

All villains that do stand by thee are pure. 368

Apem.

There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st.

Tim.

If I name thee.

I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

Apem.

I would my tongue could rot them off!

Tim.

Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! 373

Choler does kill me that thou art alive;

I swound to see thee.

Apem.

Would thou wouldst burst!

Tim.

Away,

Thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose 376

A stone by thee.

[Throws a stone at him.

Apem.

Beast!

Tim.

Slave!

Apem.

Toad!

Tim.

Rogue, rogue, rogue!

I am sick of this false world, and will love nought

But even the mere necessities upon ’t.

Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave; 380

Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat

Thy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph,

That death in me at others’ lives may laugh.

[Looking on the gold.

O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce 384

’Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler

Of Hymen’s purest bed! thou valiant Mars!

Thou ever young, fresh, lov’d, and delicate wooer,

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

That lies on Dian’s lap! thou visible god, 389

That solder’st close impossibilities,

And mak’st them kiss! that speak’st with every tongue,

To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts! 392

Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue

Set them into confounding odds, that beasts

May have the world in empire.

Apem.

Would ’twere so:

But not till I am dead; I’ll say thou’st gold:

Thou wilt be throng’d to shortly.

Tim.

Throng’d to?

Apem.

Ay.

Tim.

Thy back, I prithee.

Apem.

Live, and love thy misery!

Tim.

Long live so, and so die!

[Exit Apemantus.

I am quit.

More things like men! Eat, Timon, and abhor them. 400

Enter Thieves.

First Thief.

Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold, and the falling-from of his friends, drove him into this melancholy. 405

Sec. Thief.

It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.

Third Thief.

Let us make the assay upon him: if he care not for ’t, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it?

Sec. Thief.

True; for he bears it not about him, ’tis hid. 412

First Thief.

Is not this he?

Thieves.

Where?

Sec. Thief.

’Tis his description.

Third Thief.

He; I know him. 416

All.

Save thee, Timon.

Tim.

Now, thieves?

All.

Soldiers, not thieves.

Tim.

Both too; and women’s sons. 420

Thieves.

We are not thieves, but men that much do want.

Tim.

Your greatest want is, you want much of meat.

Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots;

Within this mile break forth a hundred springs;

The oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips; 425

The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush

Lays her full mess before you. Want! why want?

First Thief.

We cannot live on grass, on berries, water, 428

As beasts, and birds, and fishes.

Tim.

Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes;

You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con

That you are thieves profess’d, that you work not 432

In holier shapes; for there is boundless theft

In limited professions. Rascal thieves,

Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ the grape, 435

Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth,

And so ’scape hanging: trust not the physician;

His antidotes are poison, and he slays

More than you rob: take wealth and lives together;

Do villany, do, since you protest to do’t, 440

Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery:

The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction

Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief,

And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; 444

The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves

The moon into salt tears; the earth’s a thief,

That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen

From general excrement, each thing’s a thief;

The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power 449

Have uncheck’d theft. Love not yourselves; away!

Rob one another. There’s more gold: cut throats;

All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go,

Break open shops; nothing can you steal 453

But thieves do lose it: steal no less for this

I give you; and gold confound you howsoe’er!

Amen. 456

Third Thief.

He has almost charmed me from my profession, by persuading me to it.

First Thief.

’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us; not to have us thrive in our mystery. 461

Sec. Thief.

I’ll believe him as an enemy, and give over my trade.

First Thief.

Let us first see peace in Athens; there is no time so miserable but a man may be true.

[Exeunt Thieves.

Enter Flavius.

Flav.

O you gods!

Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord? 468

Full of decay and failing? O monument

And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d!

What an alteration of honour

Has desperate want made! 472

What viler thing upon the earth than friends

Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends!

How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise,

When man was wish’d to love his enemies! 476

Grant I may ever love, and rather woo

Those that would mischief me than those that do!

He hath caught me in his eye: I will present

My honest grief unto him; and, as my lord, 480

Still serve him with my life. My dearest master!

Timon comes forward.

Tim.

Away! what art thou?

Flav.

Have you forgot me, sir?

Tim.

Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;

Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee. 484

Flav.

An honest poor servant of yours.

Tim.

Then I know thee not:

I never had an honest man about me; ay all

I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.

Flav.

The gods are witness, 488

Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief

For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.

Tim.

What! dost thou weep? Come nearer. Then I love thee,

Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st 492

Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give,

But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping:

Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping!

Flav.

I beg of you to know me, good my lord,

To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts 497

To entertain me as your steward still.

Tim.

Had I a steward

So true, so just, and now so comfortable? 500

It almost turns my dangerous nature mild.

Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man

Was born of woman.

Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, 504

You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim

One honest man, mistake me not, but one;

No more, I pray, and he’s a steward.

How fain would I have hated all mankind! 508

And thou redeem’st thyself: but all, save thee,

I fell with curses.

Methinks thou art more honest now than wise;

For, by oppressing and betraying me, 512

Thou mightst have sooner got another service:

For many so arrive at second masters

Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true,—

For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure,—

Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, 517

If not a usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts,

Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flav.

No, my most worthy master; in whose breast 520

Doubt and suspect, alas! are plac’d too late.

You should have fear’d false times when you did feast;

Suspect still comes when an estate is least.

That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,

Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, 525

Care of your food and living; and, believe it,

My most honour’d lord,

For any benefit that points to me, 528

Either in hope, or present, I’d exchange

For this one wish, that you had power and wealth

To requite me by making rich yourself.

Tim.

Look thee, ’tis so. Thou singly honest man, 532

Here, take: the gods out of my misery,

Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy;

But thus condition’d: thou shalt build from men;

Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, 536

But let the famish’d flesh slide from the bone,

Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs

What thou deny’st to men; let prisons swallow ’em,

Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted woods, 540

And may diseases lick up their false bloods!

And so, farewell and thrive.

Flav.

O! let me stay

And comfort you, my master.

Tim.

If thou hatest

Curses, stay not; fly, whilst thou’rt bless’d and free: 544

Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee.

[Exeunt, severally.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Woods. Before Timon’s Cave.

Enter Poet and Painter.

Pain.

As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.

Poet.

What’s to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he is so full of gold? 5

Pain.

Certain: Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity. ’Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. 10

Poet.

Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends.

Pain.

Nothing else; you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him, in this supposed distress of his: it will show honestly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travel for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his having.

Poet.

What have you now to present unto him?

Pain.

Nothing at this time but my visitation; only, I will promise him an excellent piece. 22

Poet.

I must serve him so too; tell him of an intent that’s coming towards him.

Pain.

Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ the time; it opens the eyes of expectation; performance is ever the duller for his act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it. 33

Enter Timon from his cave.

Tim.

[Aside.] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself.

Poet.

I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him: it must be a personating of himself; a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. 40

Tim.

[Aside.] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee. 44

Poet.

Nay, let’s seek him:

Then do we sin against our own estate,

When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Pain.

True; 48

When the day serves, before black-corner’d night,

Find what thou want’st by free and offer’d light.

Come.

Tim.

[Aside.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold, 52

That he is worshipp’d in a baser temple

Than where swine feed!

’Tis thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the foam,

Settlest admired reverence in a slave: 56

To thee be worship; and thy saints for aye

Be crown’d with plagues that thee alone obey.

Fit I meet them.

[Advancing.

Poet.

Hail, worthy Timon!

Pain.

Our late noble master! 60

Tim.

Have I once liv’d to see two honest men?

Poet.

Sir,

Having often of your open bounty tasted, 63

Hearing you were retir’d, your friends fall’n off,

Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits!

Not all the whips of heaven are large enough—

What! to you,

Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence

To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot cover 69

The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude

With any size of words.

Tim.

Let it go naked, men may see ’t the better: 72

You, that are honest, by being what you are,

Make them best seen and known.

Pain.

He and myself

Have travell’d in the great shower of your gifts,

And sweetly felt it.

Tim.

Ay, you are honest men. 76

Pain.

We are hither come to offer you our service.

Tim.

Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you?

Can you eat roots and drink cold water? no.

Both.

What we can do, we’ll do, to do you service. 80

Tim.

Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold;

I am sure you have: speak truth; ye’re honest men.

Pain.

So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore

Came not my friend nor I. 84

Tim.

Good honest men! Thou draw’st a counterfeit

Best in all Athens: thou’rt, indeed, the best;

Thou counterfeit’st most lively.

Pain.

So, so, my lord.

Tim.

E’en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction, 88

Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth

That thou art even natural in thine art.

But for all this, my honest-natur’d friends,

I must needs say you have a little fault: 92

Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I

You take much pains to mend.

Both.

Beseech your honour

To make it known to us.

Tim.

You’ll take it ill.

Both.

Most thankfully, my lord.

Tim.

Will you indeed? 96

Both.

Doubt it not, worthy lord.

Tim.

There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave,

That mightily deceives you.

Both.

Do we, my lord?

Tim.

Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble, 100

Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,

Keep in your bosom; yet remain assur’d

That he’s a made-up villain.

Pain.

I know none such, my lord.

Poet.

Nor I. 104

Tim.

Look you, I love you well; I’ll give you gold,

Rid me these villains from your companies:

Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught,

Confound them by some course, and come to me, 108

I’ll give you gold enough.

Both.

Name them, my lord; let’s know them.

Tim.

You that way and you this, but two in company;

Each man apart, all single and alone, 112

Yet an arch villain keeps him company.

If, where thou art two villains shall not be,

Come not near him. [To the Poet.] If thou would not reside

But where one villain is, then him abandon.

Hence! pack! there’s gold; ye came for gold, ye slaves: 117

You have done work for me, there’s payment: hence!

You are an alchemist, make gold of that.

Out, rascal dogs! 120

[Beats them out and then returns to his cave.

Enter Flavius and two Senators.

Flav.

It is in vain that you would speak with Timon;

For he is set so only to himself

That nothing but himself, which looks like man,

Is friendly with him.

First Sen.

Bring us to his cave: 124

It is our part and promise to the Athenians

To speak with Timon.

Sec. Sen.

At all times alike

Men are not still the same: ’twas time and griefs

That fram’d him thus: time, with his fairer hand, 128

Offering the fortunes of his former days,

The former man may make him. Bring us to him,

And chance it as it may.

Flav.

Here is his cave. 131

Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon!

Look out, and speak to friends. The Athenians,

By two of their most reverend senate, greet thee:

Speak to them, noble Timon.

Enter Timon, from his cave.

Tim.

Thousun, that comfort’st, burn! Speak, and be hang’d: 136

For each true word, a blister! and each false

Be as a cauterizing to the root o’the tongue,

Consuming it with speaking!

First Sen.

Worthy Timon,—

Tim.

Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. 140

Sec. Sen.

The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon.

Tim.

I thank them; and would send them back the plague,

Could I but catch it for them.

First Sen.

O! forget

What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. 144

The senators with one consent of love

Entreat thee back to Athens; who have thought

On special dignities, which vacant lie

For thy best use and wearing.

Sec. Sen.

They confess 148

Toward thee forgetfulness to general, gross;

Which now the public body, which doth seldom

Play the recanter, feeling in itself

A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal 152

Of its own fail, restraining aid to Timon;

And send forth us, to make their sorrow’d render,

Together with a recompense more fruitful

Than their offence can weigh down by the dram;

Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth

As shall to thee block out what wrongs were theirs,

And write in thee the figures of their love,

Ever to read them thine.

Tim.

You witch me in it; 160

Surprise me to the very brink of tears:

Lend me a fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes,

And I’ll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.

First Sen.

Therefore so please thee to return with us, 164

And of our Athens—thine and ours—to take

The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks,

Allow’d with absolute power, and thy good name

Live with authority: so soon we shall drive back

Of Alcibiades the approaches wild; 169

Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up

His country’s peace.

Sec. Sen.

And shakes his threat’ning sword

Against the walls of Athens.

First Sen.

Therefore, Timon,— 172

Tim.

Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir; thus:—

If Alcibiades kill my countrymen,

Let Alcibiades know this of Timon,

That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens, 176

And take our goodly aged men by the beards,

Giving our holy virgins to the stain

Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain’d war;

Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it, 180

In pity of our aged and our youth

I cannot choose but tell him, that I care not,

And let him take’t at worst; for their knives care not

While you have throats to answer: for myself,

There’s not a whittle in the unruly camp 185

But I do prize it at my love before

The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you

To the protection of the prosperous gods, 188

As thieves to keepers.

Flav.

Stay not; all’s in vain.

Tim.

Why, I was writing of my epitaph;

It will be seen to-morrow. My long sickness

Of health and living now begins to mend, 192

And nothing brings me all things. Go; live still:

Be Alcibiades your plague, you his,

And last so long enough!

First Sen.

We speak in vain.

Tim.

But yet I love my country, and am not 196

One that rejoices in the common wrack,

As common bruit doth put it.

First Sen.

That’s well spoke.

Tim.

Commend me to my loving countrymen,—

First Sen.

These words become your lips as they pass through them. 200

Sec. Sen.

And enter in our ears like great triumphers

In their applauding gates.

Tim.

Commend me to them;

And tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs,

Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses,

Their pangs of love, with other incident throes

That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain

In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them:

I’ll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath. 208

Sec. Sen.

I like this well; he will return again.

Tim.

I have a tree which grows here in my close,

That mine own use invites me to cut down,

And shortly must I fell it; tell my friends, 212

Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree,

From high to low throughout, that whoso please

To stop affliction, let him take his haste,

Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe, 216

And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting.

Flav.

Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him.

Tim.

Come not to me again; but say to Athans,

Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 220

Upon the beached verge of the salt flood;

Who once a day with his embossed froth

The turbulent surge shall cover: thither come,

And let my grave-stone be your oracle. 224

Lips, let sour words go by and language end:

What is amiss plague and infection mend!

Graves only be men’s works and death their gain!

Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.

[Exit.

First Sen.

His discontents are unremovably Coupled to nature.

Sec. Sen.

Our hope in him is dead: let us return,

And strain what other means is left unto us 232

In our dear peril.

First Sen.

It requires swift foot.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before the Walls of Athens.

Enter two Senators and a Messenger.

First Sen.

Thou hast painfully discover’d: are his files

As full as thy report?

Mess.

I have spoke the least;

Besides, his expedition promises

Present approach. 4

Sec. Sen.

We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon.

Mess.

I met a courier, one mine ancient friend,

Whom, though in general part we were oppos’d,

Yet our old love made a particular force, 8

And made us speak like friends: this man was riding

From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave,

With letters of entreaty, which imported

His fellowship i’ the cause against your city, 12

In part for his sake mov’d.

First Sen.

Here come our brothers.

Enter Senators from Timon.

Third Sen.

No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect.

The enemies’ drum is heard, and fearful scouring

Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare:

Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare. 17

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Woods. Timon’s Cave, and a rude Tomb seen.

Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon.

Sold.

By all description this should be the place.

Who’s here? speak, ho! No answer! What is this?

Timon is dead, who hath outstretch’d his span:

Some beast rear’d this; here does not live a man. 4

Dead, sure; and this his grave. What’s on this tomb

I cannot read; the character I’ll take with wax:

Our captain hath in every figure skill;

An ag’d interpreter, though young in days. 8

Before proud Athens he’s set down by this,

Whose fall the mark of his ambition is.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Before the Walls of Athens.

Trumpets sound. Enter Alciblades with his Powers.

Alcib.

Sound to this coward and lascivious town

Our terrible approach.

[A parley sounded.

Enter Senators, on the Walls.

Till now you have gone on, and fill’d the time

With all licentious measure, making your wills 4

The scope of justice; till now myself and such

As slept within the shadow of your power

Have wander’d with our travers’d arms, and breath’d

Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush, 8

When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,

Cries of itself, ‘No more:’ now breathless wrong

Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease,

And pursy insolence shall break his wind 12

With fear and horrid flight.

First Sen.

Noble and young,

When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,

Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear,

We sent to thee, to give thy rages balm, 16

To wipe out our ingratitude with loves

Above their quantity.

Sec. Sen.

So did we woo

Transformed Timon to our city’s love

By humble message and by promis’d means: 20

We were not all unkind, nor all deserve

The common stroke of war.

First Sen.

These walls of ours

Were not erected by their hands from whom

You have receiv’d your grief; nor are they such

That these great towers, trophies, and schools should fall 25

For private faults in them.

Sec. Sen.

Nor are they living

Who were the motives that you first went out;

Shame that they wanted cunning in excess 28

Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,

Into our city with thy banners spread:

By decimation, and a tithed death,—

If thy revenges hunger for that food 32

Which nature loathes,—take thou the destin’d tenth,

And by the hazard of the spotted die

Let die the spotted.

First Sen.

All have not offended;

For those that were, it is not square to take 36

On those that are, revenges: crimes, like lands,

Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,

Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage:

Spare thyAthenian cradle, and those kin 40

Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall

With those that have offended: like a shepherd,

Approach the fold and cull th’ infected forth,

But kill not all together.

Sec. Sen.

What thou wilt, 44

Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile

Thank hew to’t with thy sword.

First Sen.

Set but thy foot

Against our rampir’d gates, and they shall ope,

So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before, 48

To say thou’lt enter friendly.

Sec. Sen.

Throw thy glove,

Or any token of thine honour else,

That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress

And not as our confusion, all thy powers 52

Shall make their harbour in our town, till we

Have seal’d thy full desire.

Alcib.

Then there’s my glove;

Descend, and open your uncharged ports:

Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own 56

Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,

Fall, and no more; and, to atone your fears

With my more noble meaning, not a man

Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream 60

Of regular justice in your city’s bounds,

But shall be render’d to your public laws

At heaviest answer.

Both.

’Tis most nobly spoken.

Alcib.

Descend, and keep your words. 64

[The Senators descend, and open the gates.

Enter a Soldier.

Sold.

My noble general, Timon is dead;

Entomb’d upon the very hem o’ the sea:

And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which

With wax I brought away, whose soft impression 68

Interprets for my poor ignorance.

Alcib.

Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:

Seek not my name: a plague consume you wicked caitiffs left!

Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate: 72

Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass and stay not here thy gait.

These well express in thee thy latter spirits:

Though thou abhorr’dst in us our human griefs,

Scorn’dst our brain’s flow and those our droplets which 76

From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit

Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye

On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead

Is noble Timon; of whose memory 80

Hereafter more. Bring me into your city,

And I will use the olive with my sword;

Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each

Prescribe to other as each other’s leech. 84

Let our drums strike.

[Exeunt.

JULIUS CÆSAR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Julius Cæsar. }	Triumvirs after the Death of Julius Cæsar.
Octavius Cæsar, }
Marcus Antonius, }
M. Æmilius Lepidus, }
Cicero, }	Senators.
Publius, }
Popilius Lena, }
Marcus Brutus, }	Conspirators against Julius Cæsar.
Cassius, }
Casca, }
Trebonius, }
Ligarius, }
Decius Brutus, }
Metellus Cimber, }
Cinna, }
Flavius and Marullus,	Tribunes.
Artemidorus,	a Sophist of Cnidos.
A Soothsayer:
Cinna,	a Poet.
Another Poet.
Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, Young Cato, and Volumnius; Friends to Brutus and Cassius.
Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardanius; Servants to Brutus.
Pindarus,	Servant to Cassius.
Calphurnia,	Wife to Cæsar.
Portia,	Wife to Brutus.
Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, &c.

Scene.—During a great part of the Play, at Rome; afterwards, Sardis and near Philippi.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Rome. A Street.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners.

Flav.

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home:

Is this a holiday? What! know you not,

Being mechanical, you ought not walk

Upon a labouring day without the sign 4

Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?

First Com.

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Mar.

Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule?

What dost thou with thy best apparel on? 8

You, sir, what trade are you?

Second Com.

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Mar.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. 12

Sec. Com.

A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

Mar.

What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade? 16

Sec. Com.

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

Mar.

What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! 20

Sec. Com.

Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Sec. Com.

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl: I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but with awl. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork. 29

Flav.

But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day?

Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Sec. Com.

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Cæsar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Mar.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? 36

What tributaries follow him to Rome

To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!

O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 40

Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft

Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat

The livelong day, with patient expectation, 45

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:

And when you saw his chariot but appear,

Have you not made a universal shout, 48

That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,

To hear the replication of your sounds

Made in her concave shores?

And do you now put on your best attire? 52

And do you now cull out a holiday?

And do you now strew flowers in his way,

That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood?

Be gone! 56

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague

That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Flav.

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault 60

Assemble all the poor men of your sort;

Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears

Into the channel, till the lowest stream

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. 64

[Exeunt all the Commoners.

See whe’r their basest metal be not mov’d;

They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.

Go you down that way towards the Capitol;

This way will I. Disrobe the images 68

If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.

Mar.

May we do so?

You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flav.

It is no matter; let no images 72

Be hung with Cæsar’s trophies. I’ll about

And drive away the vulgar from the streets:

So do you too where you perceive them thick.

These growing feathers pluck’d from Cæsar’s wing 76

Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,

Who else would soar above the view of men

And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Public Place.

Enter, in procession, with music, Cæsar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.

Cæs.

Calphurnia!

Casca.

Peace, ho! Cæsar speaks.

[Music ceases.

Cæs.

Calphurnia!

Cal.

Here, my lord.

Cæs.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way

When he doth run his course. Antonius! 4

Ant.

Cæsar, my lord.

Cæs.

Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say,

The barren, touched in this holy chase, 8

Shake off their sterile curse.

Ant.

I shall remember:

When Cæsar says ‘Do this,’ it is perform’d.

Cæs.

Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

[Music.

Sooth.

Cæsar! 12

Cæs.

Ha! Who calls?

Casca.

Bid every noise be still: peace yet again!

[Music ceases.

Cæs.

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, 16

Cry ‘Cæsar.’ Speak; Cæsar is turn’d to hear.

Sooth.

Beware the ides of March.

Cæs.

What man is that?

Bru.

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Cæs.

Set him before me; let me see his face.

Cas.

Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Cæsar. 21

Cæs.

What sayst thou to me now? Speak once again.

Sooth.

Beware the ides of March.

Cæs.

He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.

[Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius.

Cas.

Will you go see the order of the course?

Bru.

Not I.

Cas.

I pray you, do.

Bru.

I am not gamesome: I do lack some part 28

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;

I’ll leave you.

Cas.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: 32

I have not from your eyes that gentleness

And show of love as I was wont to have:

You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand

Over your friend that loves you.

Bru.

Cassius, 36

Be not deceiv’d: if I have veil’d my look,

I turn the trouble of my countenance

Merely upon myself. Vexed I am

Of late with passions of some difference, 40

Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours;

But let not therefore my good friends be griev’d,—

Among which number, Cassius, be you one,— 44

Nor construe any further my neglect,

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas.

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; 48

By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Bru.

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,

But by reflection, by some other things. 53

Cas.

’Tis just:

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no such mirrors as will turn 56

Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

That you might see your shadow. I have heard,

Where many of the best respect in Rome,—

Except immortal Cæsar,—speaking of Brutus,

And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, 61

Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Bru.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

That you would have me seek into myself 64

For that which is not in me?

Cas.

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepar’d to hear;

And, since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 68

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.

And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus:

Were I a common laugher, or did use 72

To stale with ordinary oaths my love

To every new protester; if you know

That I do fawn on men and hug them hard,

And after scandal them; or if you know 76

That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

[Flourish and shout.

Bru.

What means this shouting? I do fear the people

Choose Cæsar for their king.

Cas.

Ay, do you fear it? 80

Then must I think you would not have it so.

Bru.

I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.

But wherefore do you hold me here so long?

What is it that you would impart to me? 84

If it be aught toward the general good,

Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other,

And I will look on both indifferently;

For let the gods so speed me as I love 88

The name of honour more than I fear death.

Cas.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,

As well as I do know your outward favour.

Well, honour is the subject of my story. 92

I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,

I had as lief not be as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself. 96

I was born free as Cæsar; so were you:

We both have fed as well, and we can both

Endure the winter’s cold as well as he:

For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 100

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,

Cæsar said to me, ‘Dar’st thou, Cassius, now

Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?’ Upon the word,

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in 105

And bade him follow; so, indeed he did.

The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside 108

And stemming it with hearts of controversy;

But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,

Cæsar cried, ‘Help me, Cassius, or I sink!’

I, as Æneas, our great ancestor, 112

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Cæsar. And this man

Is now become a god, and Cassius is 116

A wretched creature and must bend his body

If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark 120

How he did shake; ’tis true, this god did shake;

His coward lips did from their colour fly,

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world

Did lose his lustre; I did hear him groan; 124

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans

Mark him and write his speeches in their books,

Alas! it cried, ‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 128

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,

And bear the palm alone.

[Flourish. Shout.

Bru.

Another general shout!

I do believe that these applauses are 132

For some new honours that are heaped on Cæsar.

Cas.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus; and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 136

To find ourselves dishonourable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 140

Brutus and Cæsar: what should be in that ‘Cæsar?’

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?

Write them together, yours is as fair a name;

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; 144

Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,

‘Brutus’ will start a spirit as soon as ‘Cæsar.’

Now, in the names of all the gods at once,

Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed, 148

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d!

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!

When went there by an age, since the great flood,

But it was fam’d with more than with one man?

When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome, 153

That her wide walls encompass’d but one man?

Now is it Rome indeed and room enough,

When there is in it but one only man. 156

O! you and I have heard our fathers say,

There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d

Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome

As easily as a king. 160

Bru.

That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;

What you would work me to, I have some aim:

How I have thought of this and of these times,

I shall recount hereafter; for this present, 164

I would not, so with love I might entreat you,

Be any further mov’d. What you have said

I will consider; what you have to say

I will with patience hear, and find a time 168

Both meet to hear and answer such high things.

Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:

Brutus had rather be a villager

Than to repute himself a son of Rome 172

Under these hard conditions as this time

Is like to lay upon us.

Cas.

I am glad

That my weak words have struck but thus much show

Of fire from Brutus. 176

Bru.

The games are done and Cæsar is returning.

Cas.

As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve,

And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you

What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 180

Re-enter Cæsar and his Train.

Bru.

I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,

The angry spot doth glow on Cæsar’s brow,

And all the rest look like a chidden train:

Calphurnia’s cheek is pale, and Cicero 184

Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes

As we have seen him in the Capitol,

Being cross’d in conference by some senators.

Cas.

Casca will tell us what the matter is.

Cæs.

Antonius! 189

Ant.

Cæsar.

Cæs.

Let me have men about me that are fat;

Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights.

Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; 193

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous:

Ant.

Fear him not, Cæsar, he’s not dangerous;

He is a noble Roman, and well given. 196

Cæs.

Would he were fatter! but I fear him not:

Yet if my name were liable to fear,

I do not know the man I should avoid

So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;

He is a great observer, and he looks 201

Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays,

As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;

Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 204

As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit

That could be mov’d to smile at any thing.

Such men as he be never at heart’s ease

Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,

And therefore are they very dangerous. 209

I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d

Than what I fear, for always I am Cæsar.

Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, 212

And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.

[Sennet. Exeunt Cæsar and his Train. Casca stays behind.

Casca.

You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?

Bru.

Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc’d to-day,

That Cæsar looks so sad. 216

Casca.

Why, you were with him, were you not?

Bru.

I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d.

Casca.

Why, there was a crown offered him; and, being offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.

Bru.

What was the second noise for?

Casca.

Why, for that too. 224

Cas.

They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?

Casca.

Why, for that too.

Bru.

Was the crown offered him thrice?

Casca.

Ay, marry, was ’t, and he put it by thrice, everytime gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted.

Cas.

Who offered him the crown?

Casca.

Why, Antony. 232

Bru.

Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.

Casca.

I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he put it by once; but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again; but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it the rabblement shouted and clapped their chopped hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Cæsar; for he swounded and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.

Cas.

But soft, I pray you: what! did Cæsar swound? 252

Casca.

He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless.

Bru.

’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness.

Cas.

No, Cæsar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.

Casca.

I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Cæsar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. 263

Bru.

What said he, when he came unto himself?

Casca.

Marry, before he fell down, when he perceiv’d the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his throat to cut. An I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried, ‘Alas! good soul,’ and forgave him with all their hearts: but there’s no head to be taken of them; if Cæsar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. 279

Bru.

And after that he came, thus sad, away?

Casca.

Ay.

Cas.

Did Cicero say any thing?

Casca.

Ay, he spoke Greek.

Cas.

To what effect? 284

Casca.

Nay, an I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again; but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too; Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Cæsar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it. 292

Cas.

Will you sup with me to-night, Casca?

Casca.

No, I am promised forth.

Cas.

Will you dine with me to-morrow?

Casca.

Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. 297

Cas.

Good; I will expect you.

Casca.

Do so. Farewell, both.

[Exit.

Bru.

What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! 300

He was quick mettle when he went to school.

Cas.

So is he now in execution

Of any bold or noble enterprise,

However he puts on this tardy form. 304

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,

Which gives men stomach to digest his words

With better appetite.

Bru.

And so it is. For this time I will leave you: 308

To-morrow, if you please to speak with me,

I will come home to you; or, if you will,

Come home to me, and I will wait for you.

Cas.

I will do so: till then, think of the world.

[Exit Brutus.

Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, 313

Thy honourable metal may be wrought

From that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meet

That noble minds keep ever with their likes; 316

For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d?

Cæsar doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus:

If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius

He should not humour me. I will this night,

In several hands, in at his windows throw, 321

As if they came from several citizens,

Writings all tending to the great opinion

That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely 324

Cæsar’s ambition shall be glanced at:

And after this let Cæsar seat him sure;

For we will shake him, or worse days endure.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street.

Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca, with his sword drawn, and Cicero.

Cic.

Good even, Casca: brought you Cæsar home?

Why are you breathless? and why stare you so?

Casca.

Are not you mov’d, when all the sway of earth

Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero! 4

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds

Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen

The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,

To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds: 8

But never till to-night, never till now,

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.

Either there is a civil strife in heaven,

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 12

Incenses them to send destruction.

Cic.

Why, saw you any thing more wonderful?

Casca.

A common slave—you know him well by sight—

Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn

Like twenty torches join’d; and yet his hand, 17

Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d.

Besides,—I have not since put up my sword,—

Against the Capitol I met a hon, 20

Who glar’d upon me, and went surly by,

Without annoying me; and there were drawn

Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women,

Transformed with their fear, who swore they saw 24

Men all in fire walk up and down the streets.

And yesterday the bird of night did sit,

Even at noon-day, upon the market-place,

Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies

Do so conjointly meet, let not men say 29

‘These are their reasons, they are natural;’

For, I believe, they are portentous things

Unto the climate that they point upon. 32

Cic.

Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:

But men may construe things after their fashion,

Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Comes Cæsar to the Capitol to-morrow? 36

Casca.

He doth; for he did bid Antonius

Send word to you he would be there to-morrow.

Cic.

Good-night then, Casca: this disturbed sky

Is not to walk in.

Casca.

Farewell, Cicero.

[Exit Cicero.

Enter Cassius.

Cas.

Who’s there?

Casca.

A Roman.

Cas.

Casca, by your voice.

Casca.

Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!

Cas.

A very pleasing night to honest men.

Casca.

Who ever knew the heavens menace so? 44

Cas.

Those that have known the earth so full of faults.

For my part, I have walk’d about the streets,

Submitting me unto the perilous night,

And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, 48

Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone;

And, when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open

The breast of heaven, I did present myself

Even in the aim and very flash of it. 52

Casca.

But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens?

It is the part of men to fear and tremble

When the most mighty gods by tokens send

Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 56

Cas.

You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of life

That should be in a Roman you do want,

Or else you use not. You look pale, and gaze,

And put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, 60

To see the strange impatience of the heavens;

But if you would consider the true cause

Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,

Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind;

Why old men, fools, and children calculate; 65

Why all these things change from their ordinance,

Their natures, and pre-formed faculties,

To monstrous quality, why, you shall find 68

That heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits

To make them instruments of fear and warning

Unto some monstrous state.

Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man 72

Most like this dreadful night,

That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars

As doth the lion in the Capitol,

A man no mightier than thyself or me 76

In personal action, yet prodigious grown

And fearful as these strange eruptions are.

Casca.

’Tis Cæsar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?

Cas.

Let it be who it is: for Romans now 80

Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;

But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead,

And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits;

Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. 84

Casca.

Indeed, they say the senators to-morrow

Mean to establish Cæsar as a king;

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,

In every place, save here in Italy. 88

Cas.

I know where I will wear this dagger then;

Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:

Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;

Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: 92

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,

Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,

Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;

But life, being weary of those worldly bars, 96

Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

If I know this, know all the world besides,

That part of tyranny that I do bear

I can shake off at pleasure.

[Thunder still.

Casca.

So can I: 100

So every bondman in his own hand bears

The power to cancel his captivity.

Cas.

And why should Cæsar be a tyrant then?

Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf 104

But that he sees the Romans are but sheep;

He were no lion were not Romans hinds.

Those that with haste will make a mighty fire

Begin it with weak straws; what trash is Rome,

What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves 109

For the base matter to illuminate

So vile a thing as Cæsar! But, O grief!

Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this

Before a willing bondman; then I know 113

My answer must be made: but I am arm’d,

And dangers are to me indifferent.

Casca.

You speak to Casca, and to such a man 116

That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:

Be factious for redress of all these griefs,

And I will set this foot of mine as far

As who goes furthest.

Cas.

There’s a bargain made. 120

Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already

Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans

To undergo with me an enterprise

Of honourable-dangerous consequence; 124

And I do know by this they stay for me

In Pompey’s porch: for now, this fearful night,

There is no stir, or walking in the streets;

And the complexion of the element 128

In favour’s like the work we have in hand,

Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible.

Casca.

Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste.

Cas.

’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait:

He is a friend.

Enter Cinna.

Cinna, where haste you so? 133

Cin.

To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?

Cas.

No, it is Casca; one incorporate

To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna?

Cin.

I am glad on ’t. What a fearful night is this! 137

There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.

Cas

Am I not stay’d for? Tell me.

Cin.

Yes, you are.

O Cassius! if you could 140

But win the noble Brutus to our party—

Cas.

Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper,

And look you lay it in the prætor’s chair,

Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this

In at his window; set this up with wax 145

Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done,

Repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find us.

Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? 148

Cin.

All but Metellus Cimber; and he’s gone

To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie,

And so bestow these papers as you bade me.

Cas.

That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.

[Exit Cinna.

Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day 153

See Brutus at his house: three parts of him

Is ours already, and the man entire

Upon the next encounter yields him ours. 156

Casca.

O! he sits high in all the people’s hearts:

And that which would appear offence in us,

His countenance, like richest alchemy,

Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 160

Cas.

Him and his worth and our great need of him

You have right well conceited. Let us go,

For it is after midnight; and ere day

We will awake him and be sure of him. 164

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Rome. Brutus’ Orchard.

Enter Brutus.

Bru.

What, Lucius! ho!

I cannot, by the progress of the stars,

Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say!

I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. 4

When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say! what, Lucius!

Enter Lucius.

Luc.

Call’d you, my lord?

Bru.

Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:

When it is lighted, come and call me here. 8

Luc.

I will, my lord.

[Exit.

Bru.

It must be by his death: and, for my part,

I know no personal cause to spurn at him,

But for the general. He would be crown’d: 12

How that might change his nature, there’s the question:

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;

And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that!

And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, 16

That at his will he may do danger with.

The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins

Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Cæsar,

I have not known when his affections sway’d 20

More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof,

That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,

Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;

But when he once attains the upmost round, 24

He then unto the ladder turns his back,

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees

By which he did ascend. So Cæsar may:

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel 28

Will bear no colour for the thing he is,

Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,

Would run to these and these extremities;

And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg 32

Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,

And kill him in the shell.

Re-enter Lucius.

Luc.

The taper burneth in your closet, sir.

Searching the window for a flint, I found 36

This paper, thus seal’d up; and I am sure

It did not lie there when I went to bed.

Bru.

Get you to bed again; it is not day.

Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March? 40

Luc.

I know not, sir.

Bru.

Look in the calendar, and bring me word.

Luc.

I will, sir.

[Exit.

Bru.

The exhalations whizzing in the air 44

Give so much light that I may read by them.

[Opens the letter.

Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself.

Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!

Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake! 48

Such instigations have been often dropp’d

Where I have took them up.

‘Shall Rome, &c.’ Thus must I piece it out:

Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? 52

My ancestors did from the streets of Rome

The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king.

‘Speak, strike, redress!’ Am I entreated

To speak, and strike? O Rome! I make thee promise; 56

If the redress will follow, thou receiv’st

Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!

Re-enter Lucius.

Luc.

Sir, March is wasted fourteen days.

[Knocking within.

Bru.

’Tis good. Go to the gate: somebody knocks.

[Exit Lucius.

Since Cassius first did whet me against Cæsar,

I have not slept.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is 64

Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:

The genius and the mortal instruments

Are then in council; and the state of man,

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 68

The nature of an insurrection.

Re-enter Lucius.

Luc.

Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door,

Who doth desire to see you.

Bru.

Is he alone?

Luc.

No, sir, there are more with him.

Bru.

Do you know them? 72

Luc.

No, sir; their hats are pluck’d about their ears,

And half their faces buried in their cloaks,

That by no means I may discover them

By any mark of favour.

Bru.

Let ’em enter. 76

[Exit Lucius.

They are the faction. O conspiracy!

Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,

When evils are most free? O! then by day

Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 80

To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy;

Hide it in smiles and affability:

For if thou path, thy native semblance on,

Not Erebus itself were dim enough 84

To hide thee from prevention.

Enter the Conspirators, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius.

Cas.

I think we are too bold upon your rest:

Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

Bru.

I have been up this hour, awake all night. 88

Know I these men that come along with you?

Cas.

Yes, every man of them; and no man here

But honours you; and every one doth wish

You had but that opinion of yourself 92

Which every noble Roman bears of you.

This is Trebonius.

Bru.

He is welcome hither.

Cas.

This, Decius Brutus.

Bru.

He is welcome too.

Cas.

This, Casca; this, Cinna; 96

And this, Metellus Cimber.

Bru.

They are all welcome.

What watchful cares do interpose themselves

Betwixt your eyes and night?

Cas.

Shall I entreat a word? 100

[Brutus and Cassius whisper.

Dec.

Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

Casca.

No.

Cin.

O! pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines

That fret the clouds are messengers of day. 104

Casca.

You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d.

Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises;

Which is a great way growing on the south,

Weighing the youthful season of the year. 108

Some two months hence up higher toward the north

He first presents his fire; and the high east

Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

Bru.

Give me your hands all over, one by one. 112

Cas.

And let us swear our resolution.

Bru.

No, not an oath: if not the face of men,

The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse,

If these be motives weak, break off betimes, 116

And every man hence to his idle bed;

So let high-sighted tyranny range on,

Till each man-drop by lottery. But if these,

As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 120

To kindle cowards and to steel with valour

The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen,

What need we any spur but our own cause

To prick us to redress? what other bond 124

Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word

And will not palter? and what other oath

Than honesty to honesty engag’d,

That this shall be, or we will fall for it? 128

Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous,

Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls

That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear

Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain

The even virtue of our enterprise, 133

Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits,

To think that or our cause or our performance

Did need an oath; when every drop of blood 136

That every Roman bears, and nobly bears,

Is guilty of a several bastardy,

If he do break the smallest particle

Of any promise that hath pass’d from him. 140

Cas.

But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him?

I think he will stand very strong with us.

Casca.

Let us not leave him out.

Cin.

No, by no means.

Met.

O! let us have him; for his silver hairs

Will purchase us a good opinion 145

And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:

It shall be said his judgment rul’d our hands;

Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,

But all be buried in his gravity. 149

Bru.

O! name him not: let us not break with him;

For he will never follow any thing

That other men begin.

Cas.

Then leave him out. 152

Casca.

Indeed he is not fit.

Dec.

Shall no man else be touch’d but only Cæsar?

Cas.

Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet,

Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Cæsar, 156

Should outlive Cæsar: we shall find of him

A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,

If he improve them, may well stretch so far

As to annoy us all; which to prevent, 160

Let Antony and Cæsar fall together.

Bru.

Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,

To cut the head off and then hack the limbs,

Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; 164

For Antony is but a limb of Cæsar.

Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.

We all stand up against the spirit of Cæsar;

And in the spirit of men there is no blood: 168

O! then that we could come by Cæsar’s spirit,

And not dismember Cæsar. But, alas!

Cæsar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends,

Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; 172

Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods,

Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:

And let our hearts, as subtle masters do,

Stir up their servants to an act of rage, 176

And after seem to chide ’em. This shall make

Our purpose necessary and not envious;

Which so appearing to the common eyes,

We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. 180

And, for Mark Antony, think not of him;

For he can do no more than Cæsar’s arm

When Cæsar’s head is off.

Cas.

Yet I fear him;

For in the engrafted love he bears to Cæsar— 184

Bru.

Alas! good Cassius, do not think of him:

If he love Cæsar, all that he can do

Is to himself, take thought and die for Cæsar:

And that were much he should; for he is given

To sports, to wildness, and much company. 189

Treb.

There is no fear in him; let him not die:

For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.

[Clock strikes.

Bru.

Peace! count the clock.

Cas.

The clock hath stricken three. 192

Treb.

’Tis time to part.

Cas.

But it is doubtful yet

Whether Cæsar will come forth to-day or no;

For he is superstitious grown of late,

Quite from the main opinion he held once 196

Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies.

It may be, these apparent prodigies,

The unaccustom’d terror of this night,

And the persuasion of his augurers, 200

May hold him from the Capitol to-day.

Dec.

Never fear that: if he be so resolv’d,

I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear

That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, 204

And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,

Lions with toils, and men with flatterers;

But when I tell him he hates flatterers,

He says he does, being then most flattered. 208

Let me work;

For I can give his humour the true bent,

And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Cas.

Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. 212

Bru.

By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

Cin.

Be that the uttermost, and fail not then.

Met.

Caius Ligarius doth bear Cæsar hard,

Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey:

I wonder none of you have thought of him. 217

Bru.

Now, good Metellus, go along by him:

He loves me well, and I have given him reasons;

Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him. 220

Cas.

The morning comes upon ’s: we’ll leave you, Brutus.

And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember

What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Bru.

Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;

Let not our looks put on our purposes, 225

But bear it as our Roman actors do,

With untir’d spirits and formal constancy:

And so good morrow to you every one. 228

[Exeunt all except Brutus.

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter;

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies

Which busy care draws in the brains of men;

Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. 233

Enter Portia.

Por.

Brutus, my lord!

Bru.

Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now?

It is not for your health thus to commit

Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

Por.

Nor for yours neither. You’ve ungently, Brutus, 237

Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper

You suddenly arose, and walk’d about,

Musing and sighing, with your arms across, 240

And when I ask’d you what the matter was,

You star’d upon me with ungentle looks.

I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head,

And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; 244

Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not,

But, with an angry wafture of your hand.

Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did,

Fearing to strengthen that impatience 248

Which seem’d too much enkindled, and withal

Hoping it was but an effect of humour,

Which sometime hath his hour with every man.

It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, 252

And could it work so much upon your shape

As it hath much prevail’d on your condition,

I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,

Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

Bru.

I am not well in health, and that is all. 257

Por.

Brutus is wise, and were he not in health,

He would embrace the means to come by it.

Bru.

Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. 260

Por.

Is Brutus sick, and is it physical

To walk unbraced and suck up the humours

Of the dank morning? What! is Brutus sick,

And will he steal out of his wholesome bed 264

To dare the vile contagion of the night,

And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air

To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;

You have some sick offence within your mind,

Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 269

I ought to know of; and, upon my knees,

I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,

By all your vows of love, and that great vow 272

Which did incorporate and make us one,

That you unfold to me, your self, your half,

Why are you heavy, and what men to-night

Have had resort to you; for here have been 276

Some six or seven, who did hide their faces

Even from darkness.

Bru.

Kneel not, gentle Portia.

Por.

I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,

Is it excepted, I should know no secrets 281

That appertain to you? Am I yourself

But, as it were, in sort of limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs 285

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.

Bru.

You are my true and honourable wife, 288

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.

Por.

If this were true then should I know this secret.

I grant I am a woman, but, withal, 292

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife;

I grant I am a woman, but, withal,

A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter.

Think you I am no stronger than my sex, 296

Being so father’d and so husbanded?

Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em.

I have made strong proof of my constancy,

Giving myself a voluntary wound 300

Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience

And not my husband’s secrets?

Bru.

O ye gods!

Render me worthy of this noble wife.

[Knocking within.

Hark, hark! one knocks. Portia, go in awhile;

And by and by thy bosom shall partake 305

The secrets of my heart.

All my engagements I will construe to thee,

All the charactery of my sad brows. 308

Leave me with haste.

[Exit Portia.

Lucius, who’s that knocks?

Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius.

Luc.

Here is a sick man that would speak with you.

Bru.

Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spoke of.

Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how? 312

Lig.

Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.

Bru.

O! what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,

To wear a kerchief. Would you were not sick.

Lig.

I am not sick if Brutus have in hand

Any exploit worthy the name of honour. 317

Bru.

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,

Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

Lig.

By all the gods that Romans bow before

I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! 321

Brave son, deriv’d from honourable loins!

Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up

My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, 324

And I will strive with things impossible;

Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

Bru.

A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

Lig.

But are not some whole that we must make sick? 328

Bru.

That must we also. What it is, my Caius,

I shall unfold to thee as we are going

To whom it must be done.

Lig.

Set on your foot,

And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, 332

To do I know not what; but it sufficeth

That Brutus leads me on.

Bru.

Follow me then.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Cæsar’s House.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Cæsar in his night-gown.

Cæs.

Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace to-night:

Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out,

‘Help, ho! They murder Cæsar!’ Who’s within?

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

My lord! 4

Cæs.

Go bid the priests do present sacrifice,

And bring me their opinions of success.

Serv.

I will, my lord.

[Exit.

Enter Calphurnia.

Cal.

What mean you, Cæsar? Think you to walk forth? 8

You shall not stir out of your house to-day.

Cæs.

Cæsar shall forth: the things that threaten’d me

Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see

The face of Cæsar, they are vanished. 12

Cal.

Cæsar, I never stood on ceremonies,

Yet now they fright me. There is one within,

Besides the things that we have heard and seen,

Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.

A lioness hath whelped in the streets; 17

And graves have yawn’d and yielded up their dead;

Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,

In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,

Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; 21

The noise of battle hurtled in the air,

Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,

And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. 24

O Cæsar! these things are beyond all use,

And I do fear them.

Cæs.

What can be avoided

Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods?

Yet Cæsar shall go forth; for these predictions

Are to the world in general as to Cæsar. 29

Cal.

When beggars die there are no comets seen;

The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Cæs.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; 32

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end, 36

Will come when it will come.

Re-enter Servant.

What say the augurers?

Serv.

They would not have you to stir forth to-day.

Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,

They could not find a heart within the beast. 40

Cæs.

The gods do this in shame of cowardice:

Cæsar should be a beast without a heart

If he should stay at home to-day for fear.

No, Cæsar shall not; danger knows full well 44

That Cæsar is more dangerous than he:

We are two lions litter’d in one day,

And I the elder and more terrible:

And Cæsar shall go forth.

Cal.

Alas! my lord, 48

Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence.

Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear

That keeps you in the house, and not your own.

We’ll send Mark Antony to the senate-house, 52

And he shall say you are not well to-day:

Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this.

Cæs.

Mark Antony shall say I am not well;

And, for thy humour, I will stay at home. 56

Enter Decius.

Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.

Dec.

Cæsar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Cæsar:

I come to fetch you to the senate-house.

Cæs.

And you are come in very happy time

To bear my greeting to the senators, 61

And tell them that I will not come to-day:

Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser;

I will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius. 64

Cal.

Say he is sick.

Cæs.

Shall Cæsar send a lie?

Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far

To be afeard to tell greybeards the truth?

Decius, go tell them Cæsar will not come. 68

Dec.

Most mighty Cæsar, let me know some cause,

Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so.

Cæs.

The cause is in my will: I will not come;

That is enough to satisfy the senate: 72

But for your private satisfaction,

Because I love you, I will let you know:

Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:

She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, 76

Which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts,

Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans

Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it:

And these does she apply for warnings and portents, 80

And evils imminent; and on her knee

Hath begg’d that I will stay at home to-day.

Dec.

This dream is all amiss interpreted;

It was a vision fair and fortunate: 84

Your statue spouting blood in many pipes,

In which so many smiling Romans bath’d,

Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck

Reviving blood, and that great men shall press

For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. 89

This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified.

Cæs.

And this way have you well expounded it.

Dec.

I have, when you have heard what I can say: 92

And know it now: the senate have concluded

To give this day a crown to mighty Cæsar.

If you shall send them word you will not come,

Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock 96

Apt to be render’d, for some one to say

‘Break up the senate till another time,

When Cæsar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.’

If Cæsar hide himself, shall they not whisper 100

‘Lo! Cæsar is afraid?’

Pardon me, Cæsar; for my dear dear love

To your proceeding bids me tell you this,

And reason to my love is liable. 104

Cæs.

How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia!

I am ashamed I did yield to them.

Give me my robe, for I will go:

Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna.

And look where Publius is come to fetch me. 108

Pub.

Good morrow, Cæsar.

Cæs.

Welcome, Publius.

What! Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too?

Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,

Cæsar was ne’er so much your enemy 112

As that same ague which hath made you lean.

What is’t o’clock?

Bru.

Cæsar, ’tis strucken eight.

Cæs.

I thank you for your pains and courtesy.

Enter Antony.

See! Antony, that revels long o’ nights, 116

Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.

Ant.

So to most noble Cæsar.

Cæs.

Bid them prepare within:

I am to blame to be thus waited for.

Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius!

I have an hour’s talk in store for you; 121

Remember that you call on me to-day:

Be near me, that I may remember you.

Treb.

Cæsar, I will:—[Aside.] and so near will I be, 124

That your best friends shall wish I had been further.

Cæs.

Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;

And we, like friends, will straightway go together.

Bru.

[Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Cæsar! 128

The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street near the Capitol.

Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper.

Art.

Cæsar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Cæsar. If thou be’st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, 9

Artemidorus.

Here will I stand till Cæsar pass along,

And as a suitor will I give him this. 12

My heart laments that virtue cannot live

Out of the teeth of emulation.

If thou read this, O Cæsar! thou mayst live;

If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Same. Another Part of the same Street, before the House of Brutus.

Enter Portia and Lucius.

Por.

I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;

Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone.

Why dost thou stay?

Luc.

To know my errand, madam.

Por.

I would have had thee there, and here again, 4

Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.

O constancy! be strong upon my side;

Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue;

I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. 8

How hard it is for women to keep counsel!

Art thou here yet?

Luc.

Madam, what shall I do?

Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?

And so return to you, and nothing else? 12

Por.

Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,

For he went sickly forth; and take good note

What Cæsar doth, what suitors press to him.

Hark, boy! what noise is that? 16

Luc.

I hear none, madam.

Por.

Prithee, listen well:

I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,

And the wind brings it from the Capitol.

Luc.

Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. 20

Enter the Soothsayer.

Por.

Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou been?

Sooth.

At mine own house, good lady.

Por.

What is ’t o’clock?

Sooth.

About the ninth hour, lady.

Por.

Is Cæsar yet gone to the Capitol? 24

Sooth.

Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand,

To see him pass on to the Capitol.

Por.

Thou hast some suit to Cæsar, hast thou not?

Sooth.

That I have, lady: if it will please Cæsar 28

To be so good to Cæsar as to hear me,

I shall beseech him to befriend himself.

Por.

Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?

Sooth.

None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. 32

Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:

The throng that follows Cæsar at the heels,

Of senators, of prætors, common suitors,

Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: 36

I’ll get me to a place more void, and there

Speak to great Cæsar as he comes along.

[Exit.

Por.

I must go in. Ay me! how weak a thing

The heart of woman is. O Brutus! 40

The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise.

Sure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit

That Cæsar will not grant. O! I grow faint.

Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; 44

Say I am merry: come to me again,

And bring me word what he doth say to thee.

[Exeunt, severally.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting above.

A crowd of People; among them Artemidorus and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter Cæsar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, and Others.

Cæs.

[To the Soothsayer.] The idea of March are come.

Sooth.

Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.

Art.

Hail, Cæsar! Read this schedule.

Dec.

Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, 4

At your best leisure, this his humble suit.

Art.

O Cæsar! read mine first; for mine’s a suit

That touches Cæsar nearer. Read it, great Cæsar.

Cæs.

What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d 8

Art.

Delay not, Cæsar; read it instantly.

Cæs.

What! is the fellow mad?

Pub.

Sirrah, give place.

Cæs.

What! urge you your petitions in the street?

Come to the Capitol. 12

Cæsar goes up to the Senate-House, the rest following. All the Senators rise.

Pop.

I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive.

Cas.

What enterprise, Popilius?

Pop.

Fare you well.

[Advances to Cæsar.

Bru.

What said Popilius Lena?

Cas.

He wish’d to-day our enterprise might thrive. 16

I fear our purpose is discovered.

Bru.

Look, how he makes to Cæsar: mark him.

Cas.

Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.

Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, 20

Cassius or Cæsar never shall turn back,

For I will slay myself.

Bru.

Cassius, be constant:

Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;

For, look, he smiles, and Cæsar doth not change. 24

Cas.

Trebonius knows his time; for, look you, Brutus,

He draws Mark Antony out of the way.

[Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Cæsar and the Senators take their seats.

Dec.

Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go,

And presently prefer his suit to Cæsar. 28

Bru.

He is address’d; press near and second him.

Cin.

Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.

Casca.

Are we all ready? What is now amiss,

That Cæsar and his senate must redress? 32

Met.

Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Cæsar,

Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat

A humble heart,—

[Kneeling.

Cæs.

I must prevent thee, Cimber.

These couchings and these lowly courtesies, 36

Might fire the blood of ordinary men,

And turn pre-ordinance and first decree

Into the law of children. Be not fond,

To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood 40

That will be thaw’d from the true quality

With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words,

Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning.

Thy brother by decree is banished: 44

If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him,

I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.

Know, Cæsar doth not wrong, nor without cause

Will he be satisfied. 48

Met.

Is there no voice more worthy than my own,

To sound more sweetly in great Cæsar’s ear

For the repealing of my banish’d brother?

Bru.

I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Cæsar; 52

Desiring thee, that Publius Cimber may

Have an immediate freedom of repeal.

Cæs.

What, Brutus!

Cas.

Pardon, Cæsar; Cæsar, pardon:

As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, 56

To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.

Cæs.

I could be well mov’d if I were as you;

If I could pray to move, prayers would move me;

But I am constant as the northern star, 60

Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality

There is no fellow in the firmament.

The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,

They are all fire and every one doth shine, 64

But there’s but one in all doth hold his place:

So, in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men,

And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;

Yet in the number I do know but one 68

That unassailable holds on his rank,

Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he,

Let me a little show it, even in this,

That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d,

And constant do remain to keep him so. 73

Cin.

O Cæsar,—

Cæs.

Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olympus!

Dec.

Great Cæsar,—

Cæs.

Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Casca.

Speak, hands, for me! 76

[They stab Cæsar.

Cæs.

Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Cæsar!

[Dies.

Cin.

Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!

Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.

Cas.

Some to the common pulpits, and cry out, 80

‘Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!’

Bru.

People and senators be not affrighted;

Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid.

Casca.

Go to the pulpit, Brutus.

Dec.

And Cassius too. 84

Bru.

Where’s Publius?

Cin.

Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.

Met.

Stand fast together, lest some friend of Cæsar’s

Should chance— 88

Bru.

Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer;

There is no harm intended to your person,

Nor to no Roman else; so tell them, Publius.

Cas.

And leave us, Publius; lest that the people, 92

Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.

Bru.

Do so; and let no man abide this deed

But we the doers.

Re-enter Trebonius.

Cas.

Where’s Antony?

Tre.

Fled to his house amaz’d. 96

Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run

As it were doomsday.

Bru.

Fates, we will know your pleasures.

That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time

And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 100

Casca.

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life

Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

Bru.

Grant that, and then is death a benefit:

So are we Cæsar’s friends, that have abridg’d 104

His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,

And let us bathe our hands in Cæsar’s blood

Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords:

Then walk we forth, even to the market-place;

And waving our red weapons o’er our heads, 109

Let’s all cry, ‘Peace, freedom, and liberty!’

Cas.

Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence

Shall this our lofty scene be acted o’er, 112

In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

Bru.

How many times shall Cæsar bleed in sport,

That now on Pompey’s basis lies along

No worthier than the dust!

Cas.

So oft as that shall be, 116

So often shall the knot of us be call’d

The men that gave their country liberty.

Dec.

What! shall we forth?

Cas.

Ay, every man away:

Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels

With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. 121

Enter a Servant.

Bru.

Soft! who comes here? A friend of Antony’s.

Serv.

Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel;

Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down; 124

And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:

Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;

Cæsar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving:

Say I love Brutus, and I honour him; 128

Say I fear’d Cæsar, honour’d him, and lov’d him.

If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony

May safely come to him, and be resolv’d

How Cæsar hath deserv’d to lie in death, 132

Mark Antony shall not love Cæsar dead

So well as Brutus living; but will follow

The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus

Thorough the hazards of this untrod state 136

With all true faith. So says my master Antony.

Bru.

Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;

I never thought him worse.

Tell him, so please him come unto this place,

He shall be satisfied; and, by my honour, 141

Depart untouch’d.

Serv.

I’ll fetch him presently.

[Exit.

Bru.

I know that we shall have him well to friend.

Cas.

I wish we may: but yet have I a mind

That fears him much; and my misgiving still

Falls shrewdly to the purpose. 146

Re-enter Antony.

Bru.

But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony.

Ant.

O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low?

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,

Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.

I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, 151

Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:

If I myself, there is no hour so fit

As Cæsar’s death’s hour, nor no instrument

Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich

With the most noble blood of all this world. 156

I do beseech ye, if ye bear me hard,

Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,

Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,

I shall not find myself so apt to die: 160

No place will please me so, no mean of death,

As here by Cæsar, and by you cut off,

The choice and master spirits of this age.

Bru.

O Antony! beg not your death of us.

Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, 165

As, by our hands and this our present act,

You see we do, yet see you but our hands

And this the bleeding business they have done:

Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; 169

And pity to the general wrong of Rome—

As fire drives out fire, so pity pity—

Hath done this deed on Cæsar. For your part,

To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; 173

Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts

Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in

With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. 176

Cas.

Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s

In the disposing of new dignities.

Bru.

Only be patient till we have appeas’d

The multitude, beside themselves with fear, 180

And then we will deliver you the cause

Why I, that did love Cæsar when I struck him,

Have thus proceeded.

Ant.

I doubt not of your wisdom.

Let each man render me his bloody hand: 184

First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;

Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand;

Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus;

Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; 188

Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius.

Gentlemen all,—alas! what shall I say?

My credit now stands on such slippery ground,

That one of two bad ways you must conceit me,

Either a coward or a flatterer. 193

That I did love thee, Cæsar, O! ’tis true:

If then thy spirit look upon us now,

Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,

To see thy Antony making his peace, 197

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,

Most noble! in the presence of thy corse?

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, 200

Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,

It would become me better than to close

In terms of friendship with thine enemies.

Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart; 204

Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,

Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy leth

O world! thou wast the forest to this hart;

And this, indeed, O world! the heart of thee. 208

How like a deer, strucken by many princes,

Dost thou here lie!

Cas.

Mark Antony,—

Ant.

Pardon me, Caius Cassius:

The enemies of Cæsar shall say this; 212

Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.

Cas.

I blame you not for praising Cæsar so;

But what compact mean you to have with us?

Will you be prick’d in number of our friends, 216

Or shall we on, and not depend on you?

Ant.

Therefore I took your hands, but was indeed

Sway’d from the point by looking down on Cæsar.

Friends am I with you all, and love you all, 220

Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons

Why and wherein Cæsar was dangerous.

Bru.

Or else were this a savage spectacle.

Our reasons are so full of good regard 224

That were you, Antony, the son of Cæsar,

You should be satisfied.

Ant.

That’s all I seek:

And am moreover suitor that I may

Produce his body to the market place; 228

And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,

Speak in the order of his funeral.

Bru.

You shall, Mark Antony.

Cas.

Brutus, a word with you.

[Aside to Brutus.] You know not what you do; do not consent 232

That Antony speak in his funeral:

Know you how much the people may be mov’d

By that which he will utter?

Bru.

By your pardon;

I will myself into the pulpit first, 236

And show the reason of our Cæsar’s death:

What Antony shall speak, I will protest

He speaks by leave and by permission,

And that we are contented Cæsar shall 240

Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies.

It shall advantage more than do us wrong.

Cas.

I know not what may fall; I like it not.

Bru.

Mark Antony, here, take you Cæsar’s body. 244

You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,

But speak all good you can devise of Cæsar,

And say you do ’t by our permission;

Else shall you not have any hand at all 248

About his funeral; and you shall speak

In the same pulpit whereto I am going,

After my speech is ended.

Ant.

Be it so;

I do desire no more. 252

Bru.

Prepare the body then, and follow us.

[Exeunt all but Antony.

Ant.

O! pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,

That I am meek and gentle with these butchers;

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 256

That ever lived in the tide of times.

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!

Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,

Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips, 260

To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,

A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;

Domestic fury and fierce civil strife

Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; 264

Blood and destruction shall be so in use,

And dreadful objects so familiar,

That mothers shall but smile when they behold

Their infants quarter’d with the hands of war;

All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds: 269

And Cæsar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,

With Ate by his side come hot from hell,

Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice

Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war; 273

That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Enter a Servant.

You serve Octavius Cæsar, do you not? 276

Serv.

I do, Mark Antony.

Ant.

Cæsar did write for him to come to Rome.

Serv.

He did receive his letters, and is coming;

And bid me say to you by word of mouth— 280

[Seeing the body.

O Cæsar!—

Ant.

Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.

Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,

Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, 284

Began to water. Is thy master coming?

Serv.

He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome.

Ant.

Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d:

Hare is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,

No Rome of safety for Octavius yet; 289

Hie hence and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile;

Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corpse

Into the market-place; there shall I try, 292

In my oration, how the people take

The cruel issue of these bloody men;

According to the which thou shalt discourse

To young Octavius of the state of things. 296

Lead me your hand.

[Exeunt, with Cæsar’s body.

Scene II.— The Same. The Forum.

Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens.

Citizens.

We will be satisfied: let us be satisfied.

Bru.

Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.

Cassius, go you into the other street,

And part the numbers. 4

Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here;

Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;

And public reasons shall be rendered

Of Cæsar’s death.

First Cit.

I will hear Brutus speak. 8

Sec. Cit.

I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons,

When severally we hear them rendered.

[Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens; Brutus goes into the pulpit.

Third Cit.

The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!

Bru.

Be patient till the last. 12

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than that Cæsar were dead, to live all free men? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 37

Citizens.

None, Brutus, none.

Bru.

Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Cæsar, than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. 44

Enter Antony and Others, with Cæsar’s body.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart: that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. 52

Citizens.

Live, Brutus! live! live!

First Cit.

Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

Sec. Cit.

Give him a statue with his ancestors.

Third Cit.

Let him be Cæsar.

Fourth Cit.

Cæsar’s better parts

Shall be crown’d in Brutus. 57

First Cit.

We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours.

Bru.

My countrymen,—

Sec. Cit.

Peace! silence! Brutus speaks.

First Cit.

Peace, ho! 60

Bru.

Good countrymen, let me depart alone,

And, for my sake, stay here with Antony.

Do grace to Cæsar’s corpse, and grace his speech

Tending to Cæsar’s glories, which Mark Antony,

By our permission, is allow’d to make. 65

I do entreat you, not a man depart,

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.

[Exit.

First Cit.

Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony. 68

Third Cit.

Let him go up into the public chair;

We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.

Ant.

For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.

[Goes up.

Fourth Cit.

What does he say of Brutus?

Third Cit.

He says, for Brutus’ sake,

He finds himself beholding to us all. 73

Fourth Cit.

’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.

First Cit.

This Cæsar was a tyrant.

Third Cit.

Nay, that’s certain:

We are bless’d that Rome is rid of him. 76

Sec. Cit.

Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.

Ant.

You gentle Romans,—

Citizens.

Peace, ho! let us hear him.

Ant.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. 80

The evil that men do lives after them,

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious; 84

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Cæsar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,—

For Brutus is an honourable man; 88

So are they all, all honourable men,—

Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious; 92

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? 96

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept;

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man. 100

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 104

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know,

You all did love him once, not without cause:

What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? 109

O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, 112

And I must pause till it come back to me.

First Cit.

Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

Sec. Cit.

If thou consider rightly of the matter,

Cæsar has had great wrong.

Third Cit.

Has he, masters? 116

I fear there will a worse come in his place.

Fourth Cit.

Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown;

Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.

First Cit.

If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 120

Sec. Cit.

Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

Third Cit.

There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

Fourth Cit.

Now mark him; he begins again to speak.

Ant.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might

Have stood against the world; now lies he there,

And none so poor to do him reverence.

O masters! if I were dispos’d to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 128

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,

Who, you all know, are honourable men.

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,

Than I will wrong such honourable men 133

But here’s a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;

I found it in his closet, ’tis his will.

Let but the commons hear this testament— 136

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read—

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar’s wounds,

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 140

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it as a rich legacy

Unto their issue.

Fourth Cit.

We’ll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony. 144

Citizens.

The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar’s will.

Ant.

Have patience, gentle friends; I must not read it:

It is not meet you know how Cæsar lov’d you.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;

And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar, 149

It will inflame you, it will make you mad.

’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;

For if you should, O! what would come of it.

Fourth Cit.

Read the will! we’ll hear it, Antony; 153

You shall read us the will, Cæsar’s will.

Ant.

Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?

I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. 156

I fear I wrong the honourable men

Whose daggers have stabb’d Cæsar; I do fear it.

Fourth Cit.

They were traitors: honourable men!

Citizens.

The will! the testament! 160

Sec. Cit.

They were villains, murderers. The will! read the will.

Ant.

You will compel me then to read the will?

Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,

And let me show you him that made the will. 164

Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?

Citizens.

Come down.

Sec. Cit.

Descend.

[Antony comes down.

Third Cit.

You shall have leave. 168

Fourth Cit.

A ring; stand round.

First Cit.

Stand from the hearse; stand from the body.

Sec. Cit.

Room for Antony; most noble Antony.

Ant.

Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. 172

Citizens.

Stand back! room! bear back!

Ant.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on; 176

’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent,

That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:

See what a rent the envious Casca made: 180

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;

And, as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,

Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow’d it,

As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d 184

If Brutus so unkindly knock’d or no;

For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar’s angel:

Judge, O you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov’d him.

This was the most unkindest cut of all; 188

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,

Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;

And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 192

Even at the base of Pompey’s status,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

O! what a fall was there, my countrymen;

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 196

Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.

O! now you weep, and I perceive you feel

The dint of pity; these are gracious drops.

Kind souls, what! weep you when you but behold 200

Our Cæsar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,

Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.

First Cit.

O piteous spectacle!

Sec. Cit.

O noble Cæsar! 204

Third Cit.

O woeful day!

Fourth Cit.

O traitors! villains!

First Cit.

O most bloody sight!

Sec. Cit.

We will be revenged. 208

Citizens.

Revenge!—About!—Seek!—Burn!

Fire!—Kill!—Slay! Let not a traitor live.

Ant.

Stay, countrymen!

First Citizen.

Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. 212

Sec. Cit.

We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.

Ant.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

They that have done this deed are honourable:

What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, 217

That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:

I am no orator, as Brutus is; 221

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

That love my friend; and that they know full well

That gave me public leave to speak of him. 224

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,

To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;

I tell you that which you yourselves do know,

Show you sweet Cæsar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, 229

And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue

In every wound of Cæsar, that should move 233

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

Citizens.

We’ll mutiny.

First Cit.

We’ll burn the house of Brutus.

Third Cit.

Away, then! come, seek the conspirators. 237

Ant.

Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

Citizens.

Peace, ho!—Hear Antony,—most noble Antony.

Ant.

Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. 240

Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserv’d your loves?

Alas! you know not: I must tell you then.

You have forgot the will I told you of.

Citizens.

Most true. The will! let’s stay and hear the will. 244

Ant.

Here is the will, and under Cæsar’s seal.

To every Roman citizen he gives,

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.

Sec. Cit.

Most noble Cæsar! we’ll revenge his death. 248

Third Cit.

O royal Cæsar!

Ant.

Hear me with patience.

Citizens.

Peace, ho!

Ant.

Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,

His private arbours, and new-planted orchards,

On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,

And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures,

To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 256

Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?

First Cit.

Never, never! Come, away, away!

We’ll burn his body in the holy place,

And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses.

Take up the body. 261

Sec. Cit.

Go fetch fire.

Third Cit.

Pluck down benches.

Fourth Cit.

Pluck down forms, windows, any thing.

[Exeunt Citizens, with the body.

Ant.

Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot, 265

Take thou what course thou wilt!

Enter a Servant.

How now, fellow!

Serv.

Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.

Ant.

Where is he? 268

Serv.

He and Lepidus are at Cæsar’s house.

Ant.

And thither will I straight to visit him.

He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,

And in this mood will give us any thing. 272

Serv.

I heard him say Brutus and Cassius

Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.

Ant.

Belike they had some notice of the people, 275

How I had mov’d them. Bring me to Octavius.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Cinna, the Poet.

Cin.

I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Cæsar,

And things unlucky charge my fantasy:

I have no will to wander forth of doors,

Yet something leads me forth. 4

Enter Citizens.

First Cit.

What is your name?

Sec. Cit.

Whither are you going?

Third Cit.

Where do you dwell?

Fourth Cit.

Are you a married man, or a bachelor? 9

Sec. Cit.

Answer every man directly.

First Cit.

Ay, and briefly.

Fourth Cit.

Ay, and wisely. 12

Third Cit.

Ay, and truly, you were best.

Cin.

What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man, or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor. 18

Sec. Cit.

That’s as much as to say, they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly. 21

Cin.

Directly, I am going to Cæsar’s funeral.

First Cit.

As a friend or an enemy?

Cin.

As a friend. 24

Sec. Cit.

That matter is answered directly.

Fourth Cit.

For your dwelling, briefly.

Cin.

Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.

Third Cit.

Your name, sir, truly. 28

Cin.

Truly, my name is Cinna.

Sec. Cit.

Tear him to pieces; he’s a conspirator.

Cin.

I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. 33

Fourth Cit.

Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.

Cin.

I am not Cinna the conspirator.

Sec. Cit.

It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. 39

Third Cit.

Tear him, tear him! Come, brands, ho! firebrands! To Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s; some to Ligarius’. Away! go! 43

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Rome. A Room in Antony’s House.

Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, seated at a table.

Ant.

These many then shall die; their names are prick’d.

Oct.

Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus?

Lep.

I do consent.

Oct.

Prick him down, Antony.

Lep.

Upon condition Publius shall not live, 4

Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony.

Ant.

He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.

But, Lepidus, go you to Cæsar’s house;

Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine 8

How to cut off some charge in legacies.

Lep.

What! shall I find you here?

Oct.

Or here or at the Capitol.

[Exit Lepidus.

Ant.

This is a slight unmeritable man, 12

Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit,

The three-fold world divided, he should stand

One of the three to share it?

Oct.

So you thought him;

And took his voice who should be prick’d to die,

In our black sentence and proscription. 17

Ant.

Octavius, I have seen more days than you:

And though we lay these honours on this man,

To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 20

He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,

To groan and sweat under the business,

Either led or driven, as we point the way; 23

And having brought our treasure where we will,

Then take we down his load, and turn him off,

Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears,

And graze in commons.

Oct.

You may do your will;

But he’s a tried and valiant soldier. 28

Ant.

So is my horse, Octavius; and for that

I do appoint him store of provender.

It is a creature that I teach to fight,

To wind, to stop, to run directly on, 32

His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit.

And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so;

He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth;

A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds 36

On abject orts, and imitations,

Which, out of use and stal’d by other men,

Begin his fashion: do not talk of him

But as a property. And now, Octavius, 40

Listen great things: Brutus and Cassius

Are levying powers; we must straight make head;

Therefore let our alliance be combin’d,

Our best friends made, and our best means stretch’d out; 44

And let us presently go sit in council,

How covert matters may be best disclos’d,

And open perils surest answered.

Oct.

Let us do so: for we are at the stake, 48

And bay’d about with many enemies;

And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear,

Millions of mischiefs.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Camp near Sardis. Before Brutus’ Tent.

Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Soldiers: Titinius and Pindarus meet them.

Bru.

Stand, ho!

Lucil.

Give the word, ho! and stand.

Bru.

What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near?

Lucil.

He is at hand; and Pindarus is come 4

To do you salutation from his master.

[Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus.

Bru.

He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus,

In his own change, or by ill officers,

Hath given me some worthy cause to wish 8

Things done, undone; but, if he be at hand,

I shall be satisfied.

Pin.

I do not doubt

But that my noble master will appear

Such as he is, full of regard and honour. 12

Bru.

He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius;

How he receiv’d you, let me be resolv’d.

Lucil.

With courtesy and with respect enough;

But not with such familiar instances, 16

Nor with such free and friendly conference,

As he hath us’d of old.

Bru.

Thou hast describ’d

A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius,

When love begins to sicken and decay, 20

It useth an enforced ceremony.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith;

But hollow men, like horses hot at hand,

Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; 24

But when they should endure the bloody spur,

They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,

Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?

Lucil.

They mean this night in Sardis to be quarter’d; 28

The greater part, the horse in general,

Are come with Cassius.

Bru.

Hark! he is arriv’d.

[Low march within.

March gently on to meet him.

Enter Cassius and Soldiers.

Cas.

Stand, ho! 32

Bru.

Stand, ho! Speak the word along.

First Sold.

Stand!

Sec. Sold.

Stand!

Third Sold.

Stand! 36

Cas.

Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.

Bru.

Judge me, you gods! Wrong I mine enemies?

And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother?

Cas.

Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs; 40

And when you do them—

Bru.

Cassius, be content;

Speak your griefs softly: I do know you well.

Before the eyes of both our armies here,

Which should perceive nothing but love from us, 44

Let us not wrangle: bid them move away;

Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,

And I will give you audience.

Cas.

Pindarus,

Bid our commanders lead their charges off 48

A little from this ground.

Bru.

Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man

Come to our tent till we have done our conference.

Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. 52

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Within the Tent of Brutus.

Enter Brutus and Cassius.

Cas.

That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this:

You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella

For taking bribes here of the Sardians;

Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 4

Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Bru.

You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case.

Cas.

In such a time as this it is not meet

That every nice offence should bear his comment. 8

Bru.

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself

Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm;

To sell and mart your offices for gold

To undeservera.

Cas.

I an itching palm! 12

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,

Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Bru.

The name of Cassius honours this corruption,

And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas.

Chastisement! 17

Bru.

Remember March, the ides of March remember:

Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake?

What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, 20

And not for justice? What! shall one of us,

That struck the foremost man of all this world

But for supporting robbers, shall we now

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 24

And sell the mighty space of our large honours

For so much trash as may be grasped thus?

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a Roman.

Cas.

Brutus, bay not me; 28

I’ll not endure it: you forget yourself,

To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I,

Older in practice, abler than yourself

To make conditions.

Bru.

Go to; you are not, Cassius. 32

Cas.

I am.

Bru.

I say you are not.

Cas.

Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health; tempt me no further. 36

Bru.

Away, slight man!

Cas.

Is ’t possible?

Bru.

Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? 40

Cas.

O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?

Bru.

All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;

Go show your slaves how choleric you are,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? 44

Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch

Under your testy humour? By the gods,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,

Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,

I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,

When you are waspish.

Cas.

Is it come to this?

Bru.

You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, 52

And it shall please me well. For mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas.

You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;

I said an elder soldier, not a better: 56

Did I say, ‘better?’

Bru.

If you did, I care not.

Cas.

When Cæsar liv’d, he durst not thus have mov’d me.

Bru.

Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

Cas.

I durst not! 60

Bru.

No.

Cas.

What! durst not tempt him!

Bru.

For your life you durst not.

Cas.

Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for. 64

Bru.

You have done that you should be sorry for.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;

For I am arm’d so strong in honesty

That they pass by me as the idle wind, 68

Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;

For I can raise no money by vile means:

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 72

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring

From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash

By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions, 76

Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?

Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 80

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;

Dash him to pieces!

Cas.

I denied you not.

Bru.

You did.

Cas.

I did not: he was but a fool

That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. 84

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities,

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru.

I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cas.

You love me not.

Bru.

I do not like your faults. 88

Cas.

A friendly eye could never see such faults.

Bru.

A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear

As huge as high Olympus.

Cas.

Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 92

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world;

Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother;

Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observ’d,

Set in a note-book, learn’d, and conn’d by rote,

To cast into my teeth. O! I could weep

My spirit from mine eyes. There is my dagger,

And here my naked breast; within, a heart 100

Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold:

If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth;

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:

Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know, 104

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov’dst him better

Than ever thou lov’dst Cassius.

Bru.

Sheathe your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;

Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.

O Cassius! you are yoked with a lamb 109

That carries anger as the flint bears fire,

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,

And straight is cold again.

Cas.

Hath Cassius liv’d 112

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him?

Bru.

When I spoke that I was ill-temper’d too.

Cas.

Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. 116

Bru.

And my heart too.

Cas.

O Brutus!

Bru.

What’s the matter?

Cas.

Have not you love enough to bear with me,

When that rash humour which my mother gave me

Makes me forgetful?

Bru.

Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 121

He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

[Noise within.

Poet.

[Within.] Let me go in to see the generals;

There is some grudge between ’em, ’tis not meet

They be alone. 125

Lucil.

[Within.] You shall not come to them.

Poet.

[Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.

Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius.

Cas.

How now! What’s the matter? 128

Poet.

For shame, you generals! What do you mean?

Love, and be friends, as two such men should be;

For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye.

Cas.

Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rime!

Bru.

Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence! 133

Cas.

Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion.

Bru.

I’ll know his humour, when he knows his time:

What should the wars do with these jigging fools? 136

Companion, hence!

Cas.

Away, away! be gone.

[Exit Poet.

Bru.

Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders

Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.

Cas.

And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you, 140

Immediately to us.

[Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius.

Bru.

Lucius, a bowl of wine!

[Exit Lucius.

Cas.

I did not think you could have been so angry.

Bru.

O Cassius! I am sick of many griefs.

Cas.

Of your philosophy you make no use 144

If you give place to accidental evils.

Bru.

No man bears sorrow better: Portia is dead.

Cas.

Ha! Portia!

Bru.

She is dead. 148

Cas.

How ’scap’d I killing when I cross’d you so?

O insupportable and touching loss!

Upon what sickness?

Bru.

Impatient of my absence,

And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 152

Have made themselves so strong;—for with her death

That tidings came:—with this she fell distract,

And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire.

Cas.

And died so?

Bru.

Even so.

Cas.

O ye immortal gods! 156

Enter Lucius, with wine and tapers.

Bru.

Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

[Drinks.

Cas.

My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup; 160

I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.

[Drinks.

Bru.

Come in, Titinius.

[Exit Lucius.

Re-enter Titinius, with Messala.

Welcome, good Messala.

Now sit we close about this taper here,

And call in question our necessities. 164

Cas.

Portia, art thou gone?

Bru.

No more, I pray you.

Messala, I have here received letters,

That young Octavius and Mark Antony

Come down upon us with a mighty power, 168

Bending their expedition towards Philippi.

Mes.

Myself have letters of the self-same tenour.

Bru.

With what addition?

Mes.

That by proscription and bills of outlawry, 172

Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Bru.

Therein our letters do not well agree;

Mine speak of seventy senators that died 176

By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

Cas.

Cicero one!

Mes.

Cicero is dead,

And by that order of proscription.

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Bru.

No, Messala. 181

Mes.

Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Bru.

Nothing, Messala.

Mes.

That, methinks, is strange.

Bru.

Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours? 184

Mes.

No, my lord.

Bru.

Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Mes.

Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Bru.

Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala: 189

With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

Mes.

Even so great men great losses should endure. 192

Cas.

I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Bru.

Well, to our work alive. What do you think

Of marching to Philippi presently? 196

Cas.

I do not think it good.

Bru.

Your reason?

Cas.

This is it:

’Tis better that the enemy seek us:

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,

Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still, 200

Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

Bru.

Good reasons must, of force, give place to better,

The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground

Do stand but in a forc’d affection; 204

For they have grudg’d us contribution:

The enemy, marching along by them,

By them shall make a fuller number up,

Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d;

From which advantage shall we cut him off, 209

If at Philippi we do face him there,

These people at our back.

Cas.

Hear me, good brother.

Bru.

Under your pardon. You must note beside, 212

That we have tried the utmost of our friends,

Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe:

The enemy increaseth every day;

We, at the height, are ready to decline. 216

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 220

On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Cas.

Then, with your will, go on;

We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. 224

Bru.

The deep of night is crept upon our talk,

And nature must obey necessity,

Which we will niggard with a little rest.

There is no more to say?

Cas.

No more. Good-night: 228

Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence.

Bru.

Lucius!

Re-enter Lucius.

My gown.

[Exit Lucius.

Farewell, good Messala:

Good-night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius,

Good-night, and good repose.

Cas.

O my dear brother! 232

This was an ill beginning of the night:

Never come such division ’tween our souls!

Let it not, Brutus.

Bru.

Every thing is well.

Cas.

Good-night, my lord.

Bru.

Good-night, good brother. 236

Tit.

Good-night, Lord Brutus.

Mes.

Good-night, Lord Brutus.

Bru.

Farewell, every one.

[Exeunt Cassius, Titinius, and Messala.

Re-enter Lucius, with the gown.

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument?

Luc.

Here in the tent.

Bru.

What! thou speak’st drowsily?

Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o’erwatch’d. 240

Call Claudius and some other of my men;

I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Luc.

Varro! and Claudius!

Enter Varro and Claudius.

Var.

Calls my lord? 244

Bru.

I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep:

It may be I shall raise you by and by

On business to my brother Cassius.

Var.

So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure. 248

Bru.

I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs;

It may be I shall otherwise bethink me.

Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so;

I put it in the pocket of my gown. 252

[Varro and Claudius lie down.

Luc.

I was sure your lordship did not give it me.

Bru.

Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.

Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,

And touch thy instrument a strain or two? 256

Luc.

Ay, my lord, an ’t please you.

Bru.

It does, my boy:

I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

Luc.

It is my duty, sir.

Bru.

I should not urge thy duty past thy might; 260

I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

Luc.

I have slept, my lord, already.

Bru.

It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again;

I will not hold thee long: if I do live, 264

I will be good to thee.

[Music, and a Song.

This is a sleepy tune: O murderous slumber!

Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,

That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; 268

I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.

If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument;

I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good-night.

Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down 272

Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

Enter the Ghost of Cæsar.

How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes

That shapes this monstrous apparition. 276

It comes upon me. Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,

That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to stare?

Speak to me what thou art. 280

Ghost.

Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

Bru.

Why com’st thou?

Ghost.

To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Bru.

Well; then I shall see thee again?

Ghost.

Ay, at Philippi.

Bru.

Why, I will see thee at Philippi then.

[Ghost vanishes.

Now I have taken heart thou vanishest: 285

Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.

Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake!

Claudius! 288

Luc.

The strings, my lord, are false.

Bru.

He thinks he still is at his instrument.

Lucius, awake!

Luc.

My lord! 292

Bru.

Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?

Luc.

My lord, I do not know that I did cry.

Bru.

Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see any thing?

Luc.

Nothing, my lord. 296

Bru.

Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah, Claudius!

Fellow thou! awake!

Var.

My lord!

Clau.

My lord! 300

Bru.

Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?

Var.

Did we, my lord?

Clau.

Did we, my lord?

Bru.

Ay: saw you any thing?

Var.

No, my lord, I saw nothing.

Clau.

Nor I, my lord.

Bru.

Go, and commend me to my brother Cassius. 304

Bid him set on his powers betimes before,

And we will follow.

Var.

It shall be done, my lord.

Clau.

It shall be done, my lord.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Plains of Philippi.

Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army.

Oct.

Now, Antony, our hopes are answered:

You said the enemy would not come down,

But keep the hills and upper regions;

It proves not so; their battles are at hand; 4

They mean to warn us at Philippi here,

Answering before we do demand of them.

Ant.

Tut! I am in their bosoms, and I know

Wherefore they do it: they could be content 8

To visit other places; and come down

With fearful bravery, thinking by this face

To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;

But ’tis not so.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Prepare you, generals: 12

The enemy comes on in gallant show;

Their bloody sign of battle is hung out,

And something to be done immediately.

Ant.

Octavius, lead your battle softly on, 16

Upon the left hand of the even field.

Oct.

Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left.

Ant.

Why do you cross me in this exigent?

Oct.

I do not cross you; but I will do so. 20

[March.

Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and Others.

Bru.

They stand, and would have parley.

Cas.

Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk.

Oct.

Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?

Ant.

No, Cæsar, we will answer on their charge. 24

Make forth; the generals would have some words.

Oct.

Stir not until the signal.

Bru.

Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?

Oct.

Not that we love words better, as you do.

Bru.

Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. 29

Ant.

In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words:

Witness the hole you made in Cæsar’s heart,

Crying, ‘Long live! hail, Cæsar!’

Cas.

Antony, 32

The posture of your blows are yet unknown;

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,

And leave them honeyless.

Ant.

Not stingless too.

Bru.

O! yes, and soundless too; 36

For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony,

And very wisely threat before you sting.

Ant.

Villains! you did not so when your vile daggers

Hack’d one another in the sides of Cæsar: 40

How show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds,

And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Cæsar’s feet;

Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind

Struck Cæsar on the neck. O you flatterers! 44

Cas.

Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself:

This tongue had not offended so to-day,

If Cassius might have rul’d.

Oct.

Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us sweat, 48

The proof of it will turn to redder drops.

Look;

I draw a sword against conspirators;

When think you that the sword goes up again?

Never, till Cæsar’s three-and-thirty wounds 53

Be well aveng’d; or till another Cæsar

Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Bru.

Cæsar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands, 56

Unless thou bring’st them with thee.

Oct.

So I hope;

I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword.

Bru.

O! if thou wert the noblest of thy strain,

Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. 60

Cas.

A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour,

Join’d with a masquer and a reveller.

Ant.

Old Cassius still!

Oct.

Come, Antony; away!

Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. 64

If you dare fight to-day, come to the field;

If not, when you have stomachs.

[Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their Army.

Cas.

Why now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark!

The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 68

Bru.

Ho!

Lucilius! hark, a word with you.

Lucil.

My lord?

[Brutus and Lucilius talk apart.

Cas.

Messala!

Mes.

What says my general?

Cas.

Messala,

This is my birth-day; as this very day 72

Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala:

Be thou my witness that against my will,

As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set

Upon one battle all our liberties. 76

You know that I held Epicurus strong,

And his opinion; now I change my mind,

And partly credit things that do presage.

Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign 80

Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d,

Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands;

Who to Philippi here consorted us:

This morning are they fled away and gone, 84

And in their stead do ravens, crows, and kites

Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us,

As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem

A canopy most fatal, under which 88

Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.

Mes.

Believe not so.

Cas.

I but believe it partly,

For I am fresh of spirit and resolv’d

To meet all perils very constantly. 92

Bru.

Even so, Lucilius.

Cas.

Now, most noble Brutus,

The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may,

Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age!

But since the affairs of men rest still incertain,

Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. 97

If we do lose this battle, then is this

The very last time we shall speak together:

What are you then, determined to do? 100

Bru.

Even by the rule of that philosophy

By which I did blame Cato for the death

Which he did give himself; I know not how,

But I do find it cowardly and vile, 104

For fear of what might fall, so to prevent

The time of life: arming myself with patience,

To stay the providence of some high powers

That govern us below.

Cas.

Then, if we lose this battle, 108

You are contented to be led in triumph

Thorough the streets of Rome?

Bru.

No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,

That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; 112

He bears too great a mind: but this same day

Must end that work the ides of March begun;

And whether we shall meet again I know not.

Therefore our everlasting farewell take: 116

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius!

If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;

If not, why then, this parting was well made.

Cas.

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus!

If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; 121

If not, ’tis true this parting was well made.

Bru.

Why, then, lead on. O! that a man might know

The end of this day’s business, ere it come; 124

But it sufficeth that the day will end,

And then the end is known. Come, ho! away!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The Field of Battle.

Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala.

Bru.

Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills

Unto the legions on the other side.

[Loud alarum.

Let them set on at once, for I perceive

But cold demeanour in Octavius’ wing, 4

And sudden push gives them the overthrow.

Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius.

Cas.

O! look, Titinius, look, the villains fly:

Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy;

This ensign here of mine was turning back;

I slew the coward, and did take it from him. 4

Tit.

O Cassius! Brutus gave the word too early;

Who, having some advantage on Octavius,

Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,

Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d. 8

Enter Pindarus.

Pin.

Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;

Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord:

Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.

Cas.

This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius; 12

Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?

Tit.

They are, my lord.

Cas.

Titinius, if thou lov’st me,

Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him,

Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops

And here again; that I may rest assur’d 17

Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.

Tit.

I will be here again, even with a thought.

[Exit.

Cas.

Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill;

My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius, 21

And tell me what thou not’st about the field.

[Pindarus ascends the hill.

This day I breathed first; time is come round,

And where I did begin, there shall I end; 24

My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?

Pin.

[Above.] O my lord!

Cas.

What news?

Pin.

Titinius is enclosed round about 28

With horsemen, that make to him on the spur;

Yet he spurs on: now they are almost on him;

Now, Titinius! now some light; O! he lights too:

He’s ta’en; [Shout.] and, hark! they shout for joy. 32

Cas.

Come down; behold no more.

O, coward that I am, to live so long,

To see my best friend ta’en before my face!

Pindarus descends.

Come hither, sirrah: 36

In Parthia did I take thee prisoner;

And then I swore thee, saving of thy life,

That whatsoever I did bid thee do,

Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath; 40

Now be a freeman; and with this good sword,

That ran through Cæsar’s bowels, search this bosom.

Stand not to answer; here, take thou the hilts;

And, when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now, 44

Guide thou the sword. Cæsar, thou art reveng’d,

Even with the sword that kill’d thee.

[Dies.

Pin.

So, I am free; yet would not so have been;

Durst I have done my will. O Cassius, 48

Far from this country Pindarus shall run,

Where never Roman shall take note of him.

[Exit.

Re-enter Titinius with Messala.

Mes.

It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius

Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, 52

As Cassius’ legions are by Antony.

Tit.

These tidings will well comfort Cassius.

Mes.

Where did you leave him?

Tit.

All disconsolate,

With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. 56

Mes.

Is not that he that lies upon the ground?

Tit.

He lies not like the living. O my heart!

Mes.

Is not that he?

Tit.

No, this was he, Messala,

But Cassius is no more. O setting sun! 60

As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night,

So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set;

The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone;

Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done. 64

Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.

Mes.

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.

O hateful error, melancholy’s child!

Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men 68

The things that are not? O error! soon conceiv’d,

Thou never com’st unto a happy birth,

But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee.

Tit.

What, Pindarus! Where art thou, Pindarus? 72

Mes.

Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet

The noble Brutus, thrusting this report

Into his ears; I may say, thrusting it;

For piercing steel and darts envenomed 76

Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus

As tidings of this sight.

Tit.

Hie you, Messala,

And I will seek for Pindarus the while.

[Exit Messala.

Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius?

Did I not meet thy friends? and did not they 81

Put on my brows this wreath of victory,

And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?

Alas! thou hast misconstru’d every thing. 84

But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;

Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I

Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace,

And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. 88

By your leave, gods: this is a Roman’s part:

Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart.

[Kills himself.

Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, Young Cato, Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius.

Bru.

Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? 91

Mes.

Lo, yonder: and Titinius mourning it.

Bru.

Titinius’ face is upward.

Cato.

He is slain.

Bru.

O Julius Cæsar! thou art mighty yet!

Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords

In our own proper entrails.

[Low alarums.

Cato.

Brave Titinius! 96

Look whe’r he have not crown’d dead Cassius!

Bru.

Are yet two Romans living such as these?

The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!

It is impossible that ever Rome 100

Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears

To this dead man than you shall see me pay.—

I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.—

Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body: 104

His funerals shall not be in our camp,

Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come;

And come, young Cato;—let us to the field.

Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on:— 108

’Tis three o’clock; and, Romans, yet ere night

We shall try fortune in a second fight.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Young Cato, Lucilius, and Others.

Bru.

Yet, countrymen, O! yet hold up your heads!

Cato.

What bastard doth not? Who will go with me?

I will proclaim my name about the field:

I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! 4

A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend;

I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!

Bru.

And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I;

Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus!

[Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls.

Lucil.

O young and noble Cato, art thou down? 9

Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius,

And mayst be honour’d being Cato’s son.

First Sold.

Yield, or thou diest.

Lucil.

Only I yield to die: 12

There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight.

[Offering money.

Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death.

First Sold.

We must not. A noble prisoner!

Sec. Sold.

Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en. 16

First Sold

I’ll tell the news: here comes the general.

Enter Antony.

Brutus is ta’en, my lord.

Ant.

Where is he?

Lucil.

Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough:

I dare assure thee that no enemy 21

Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:

The gods defend him from so great a shame!

When you do find him, or alive or dead, 24

He will be found like Brutus, like himself.

Ant.

This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you,

A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe,

Give him all kindness: I had rather have 28

Such men my friends than enemies. Go on,

And see whe’r Brutus be alive or dead;

And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent,

How every thing is chanc’d.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius.

Bru.

Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.

Cli.

Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord,

He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.

Bru.

Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word; 4

It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.

[Whispers.

Cli.

What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.

Bru.

Peace, then! no words.

Cli.

I’ll rather kill myself.

Bru.

Hark thee, Dardanius.

[Whispers.

Dar.

Shall I do such a deed? 8

Cli.

O, Dardanius!

Dar

O, Clitus!

Cli.

What ill request did Brutus make to thee?

Dar.

To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.

Cli.

Now is that noble vessel full of grief, 13

That it runs over even at his eyes.

Bru.

Come hither, good Volumnius: list a word.

Vol.

What says my lord?

Bru.

Why this, Volumnius: 16

The ghost of Cæsar hath appear’d to me

Two several times by night; at Sardis once,

And this last night here in Philippi fields.

I know my hour is come.

Vol.

Not so, my lord. 20

Bru.

Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.

Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;

Our enemies have beat us to the pit:

It is more worthy to leap in ourselves, 24

Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,

Thou know’st that we two went to school together:

Even for that our love of old, I prithee,

Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. 28

Vol.

That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.

[Alarum still.

Cli.

Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here.

Bru.

Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius.

Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; 32

Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen,

My heart doth joy that yet, in all my life,

I found no man but he was true to me.

I shall have glory by this losing day, 36

More than Octavius and Mark Antony

By this vile conquest shall attain unto.

So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue

Hath almost ended his life’s history: 40

Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,

That have but labour’d to attain this hour.

[Alarum. Cry within, ‘Fly, fly, fly!’

Cli.

Fly, my lord, fly.

Bru.

Hence! I will follow.

[Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius.

I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: 44

Thou art a fellow of a good respect;

Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:

Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,

While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? 48

Stra.

Give me your hand first: fare you well, my lord.

Bru.

Farewell, good Strato.—[He runs on his sword.] Cæsar, now be still;

I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.

[Dies.

Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and Army.

Oct.

What man is that? 52

Mes.

My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?

Stra.

Free from the bondage you are in, Messala;

The conquerors can but make a fire of him;

For Brutus only overcame himself, 56

And no man else hath honour by his death.

Lucil.

So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus,

That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true.

Oct.

All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. 60

Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?

Stra.

Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.

Oct.

Do so, good Messala.

Mes.

How died my master, Strato? 64

Stra.

I held the sword, and he did run on it.

Mes.

Octavius, then take him to follow thee,

That did the latest service to my master.

Ant.

This was the noblest Roman of them all; 68

All the conspirators save only he

Did that they did in envy of great Cæsar;

He only, in a general honest thought

And common good to all, made one of them. 72

His life was gentle, and the elements

So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up

And say to all the world, ‘This was a man!’

Oct.

According to his virtue let us use him,

With all respect and rites of burial. 77

Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie,

Most like a soldier, order’d honourably.

So, call the field to rest; and let’s away, 80

To part the glories of this happy day.

[Exeunt.

MACBETH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duncan,	King of Scotland.
Malcolm, }	his Sons.
Donalbain, }	his Sons.
Macbeth, }	Generals of the King’s Army.
Banquo, }	Generals of the King’s Army.
Macduff, }	Noblemen of Scotland.
Lennox, }
Ross, }
Menteith, }
Angus, }
Caithness, }
Fleance,	Son to Banquo.
Siward,	Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces.
Young Siward,	his Son.
Seyton,	an Officer attending Macbeth.
Boy, Son to Macduff.
An English Doctor.
A Scotch Doctor.
A Sergeant.
A Porter.
An Old Man.
Lady Macbeth.
Lady Macduff.
Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth.
Hecate and Three Witches.
Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants, and Messengers. The Ghost of Banquo, and other Apparitions.

Scene.—Scotland; England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A desert Heath.

Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches.

First Witch.

When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Sec. Witch.

When the hurlyburly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won. 4

Third Witch.

That will be ere the set of sun.

First Witch.

Where the place?

Sec. Witch.

Upon the heath.

Third Witch.

There to meet with Macbeth.

First Witch.

I come, Graymalkin! 8

Sec. Witch.

Paddock calls.

Third Witch.

Anon.

All.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

Hover through the fog and filthy air.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Camp near Forres.

Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant.

Dun.

What bloody man is that? He can report,

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

The newest state.

Mal.

This is the sergeant

Who, like a good and hardy soldier fought 4

’Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!

Say to the king the knowledge of the broil

As thou didst leave it.

Serg.

Doubtful it stood;

As two spent swimmers, that do cling together 8

And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald—

Worthy to be a rebel, for to that

The multiplying villanies of nature

Do swarm upon him—from the western isles 12

Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied;

And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,

Show’d like a rebel’s whore: but all’s too weak;

For brave Macbeth,—well he deserves that name,— 16

Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel,

Which smok’d with bloody execution,

Like valour’s minion carv’d out his passage

Till he fac’d the slave; 20

Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,

Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps,

And fix’d his head upon our battlements. 23

Dun.

O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

Serg.

As whence the sun ’gins his reflection

Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break,

So from that spring whence comfort seem’d to come

Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: 28

No sooner justice had with valour arm’d

Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels,

But the Norweyan lord surveying vantage,

With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men 32

Began a fresh assault.

Dun.

Dismay’d not this

Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Serg.

Yes;

As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.

If I say sooth, I must report they were 36

As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks;

So they

Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:

Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,

Or memorize another Golgotha, 41

I cannot tell—

But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.

Dun.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; 44

They smack of honour both. Go, get him surgeons.

[Exit Sergeant, attended.

Enter Ross.

Who comes here?

Mal.

The worthy Thane of Ross.

Len.

What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look

That seems to speak things strange.

Ross.

God save the king! 48

Dun.

Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane?

Ross.

From Fife, great king;

Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky

And fan our people cold. Norway himself,

With terrible numbers, 52

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor,

The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;

Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof,

Confronted him with self-comparisons, 56

Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm,

Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,

The victory fell on us.—

Dun.

Great happiness!

Ross.

That now 60

Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition;

Nor would we deign him burial of his men

Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme’s Inch,

Ten thousand dollars to our general use. 64

Dun.

No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive

Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death,

And with his former title greet Macbeth.

Ross.

I’ll see it done. 68

Dun.

What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches.

First Witch.

Where hast thou been, sister?

Sec. Witch.

Killing swine.

Third Witch.

Sister, where thou?

First Witch.

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, 4

And munch’d, and munch’d, and munch’d: ‘Give me,’ quoth I:

‘Aroint thee, witch!’ the rump-fed ronyon cries.

Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ the Tiger:

But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, 8

And, like a rat without a tail,

I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

Sec. Witch.

I’ll give thee a wind.

First Witch.

Thou’rt kind. 12

Third Witch.

And I another.

First Witch.

I myself have all the other;

And the very ports they blow,

All the quarters that they know 16

I’ the shipman’s card.

I’ll drain him dry as hay:

Sleep shall neither night nor day

Hang upon his pent-house lid; 20

He shall live a man forbid.

Weary se’nnights nine times nine

Shall he dwindle, peak and pine:

Though his bark cannot be lost, 24

Yet it shall be tempest-tost.

Look what I have.

Sec. Witch.

Show me, show me.

First Witch.

Here I have a pilot’s thumb, 28

Wrack’d as homeward he did come.

[Drum within.

Third Witch.

A drum! a drum!

Macbeth doth come.

All.

The weird sisters, hand in hand, 32

Posters of the sea and land,

Thus do go about, about:

Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,

And thrice again, to make up nine. 36

Peace! the charm’s wound up.

Enter Macbeth and Banquo.

Macb.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Ban.

How far is ’t call’d to Forres? What are these,

So wither’d and so wild in their attire, 40

That look not like th’ inhabitants o’ the earth,

And yet are on ’t? Live you? or are you aught

That man may question? You seem to understand me,

By each at once her choppy finger laying 44

Upon her skinny lips: you should be women,

And yet your beards forbid me to interpret

That you are so.

Macb.

Speak, if you can: what are you?

First Witch.

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! 48

Sec. Witch.

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!

Third Witch.

All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.

Ban.

Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear

Things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth, 52

Are ye fantastical, or that indeed

Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner

You greet with present grace and great prediction

Of noble having and of royal hope, 56

That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.

If you can look into the seeds of time,

And say which grain will grow and which will not,

Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear 60

Your favours nor your hate.

First Witch.

Hail!

Sec. Witch.

Hail!

Third Witch.

Hail! 64

First Witch.

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

Sec. Witch.

Not so happy, yet much happier.

Third Witch.

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:

So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! 68

First Witch.

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Macb.

Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more:

By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis;

But how of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor lives,

A prosperous gentleman; and to be king 73

Stands not within the prospect of belief

No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence

You owe this strange intelligence? or why 76

Upon this blasted heath you stop our way

With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.

[Witches vanish.

Ban.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,

And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d? 80

Macb.

Into the air, and what seem’d corporal melted

As breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!

Ban.

Were such things here as we do speak about?

Or have we eaten on the insane root 84

That takes the reason prisoner?

Macb.

Your children shall be kings.

Ban.

You shall be king.

Macb

And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?

Ban.

To the self-same tune and words. Who’s here? 88

Enter Ross and Angus.

Ross.

The king hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth,

The news of thy success; and when he reads

Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight,

His wonders and his praises do contend 92

Which should be thine or his. Silenc’d with that,

In viewing o’er the rest o’ the self-same day,

He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,

Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, 96

Strange images of death. As thick as hail

Came post with post, and every one did bear

Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence,

And pour’d them down before him.

Ang.

We are sent 100

To give thee from our royal master thanks;

Only to herald thee into his sight,

Not pay thee.

Ross.

And, for an earnest of a greater honour,

He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: 105

In which addition, hail, most worthy thane!

For it is thine.

Ban.

What! can the devil speak true?

Macb.

The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me 108

In borrow’d robes?

Ang.

Who was the thane lives yet;

But under heavy judgment bears that life

Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d

With those of Norway, or did line the rebel 112

With hidden help or vantage, or that with both

He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not;

But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d,

Have overthrown him.

Macb.

[Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor:

The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus.] Thanks for your pains. 117

[To Banquo.] Do you not hope your children shall be kings,

When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me

Promis’d no less to them?

Ban.

That, trusted home, 120

Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,

Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange:

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths, 124

Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s

In deepest consequence.

Cousins, a word, I pray you.

Macb.

[Aside.] Two truths are told,

As happy prologues to the swelling act 128

Of the imperial theme. I thank you, gentlemen.

[Aside.] This supernatural soliciting

Cannot be ill, cannot be good; if ill,

Why hath it given me earnest of success, 132

Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor:

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

Against the use of nature? Present fears 137

Are less than horrible imaginings;

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,

Shakes so my single state of man that function

Is smother’d in surmise, and nothing is 141

But what is not.

Ban.

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

Macb.

[Aside] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me,

Without my stir.

Ban.

New honours come upon him, 144

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould

But with the aid of use.

Macb.

[Aside.] Come what come may,

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Ban.

Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. 148

Macb.

Give me your favour: my dull brain was wrought

With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains

Are register’d where every day I turn

The leaf to read them. Let us toward the king.

Think upon what hath chanc’d; and, at more time, 153

The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak

Our free hearts each to other.

Ban.

Very gladly.

Macb.

Till then, enough. Come, friends. 156

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants.

Dun.

Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not

Those in commission yet return’d?

Mal.

My liege,

They are not yet come back; but I have spoke

With one that saw him die; who did report 4

That very frankly he confess’d his treasons,

Implor’d your highness’ pardon and set forth

A deep repentance. Nothing in his life

Became him like the leaving it; he died 8

As one that had been studied in his death

To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d,

As ’twere a careless trifle.

Dun.

There’s no art

To find the mind’s construction in the face: 12

He was a gentleman on whom I built

An absolute trust.

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus.

O worthiest cousin!

The sin of my ingratitude even now

Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before 16

That swiftest wing of recompense is slow

To overtake thee; would thou hadst less deserv’d,

That the proportion both of thanks and payment

Might have been mine! only I have left to say, 20

More is thy due than more than all can pay.

Macb.

The service and the loyalty I owe,

In doing it, pays itself. Your highness’ part

Is to receive our duties: and our duties 24

Are to your throne and state, children and servants;

Which do but what they should, by doing everything

Safe toward your love and honour.

Dun.

Welcome hither:

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour 28

To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,

That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known

No less to have done so, let me infold thee

And hold thee to my heart.

Ban.

There if I grow, 32

The harvest is your own.

Dun.

My plenteous joys

Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves

In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,

And you whose places are the nearest, know 36

We will establish our estate upon

Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter

The Prince of Cumberland; which honour must

Not unaccompanied invest him only, 40

But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine

On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you.

Macb.

The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you: 44

I’ll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful

The hearing of my wife with your approach;

So, humbly take my leave.

Dun.

My worthy Cawdor!

Macb.

[Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step 48

On which I must fall down, or else o’er-leap,

For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!

Let not light see my black and deep desires;

The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be 52

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

[Exit.

Dun.

True, worthy Banquo; he is full so valiant,

And in his commendations I am fed;

It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, 56

Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome:

It is a peerless kinsman.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene V.— Inverness. Macbeth’s Castle.

Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.

They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor;’ by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with, ‘Hail, king that shall be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightest not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 16

What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness

To catch the nearest way; thou wouldst be great,

Art not without ambition, but without 20

The illness should attend it; what thou wouldst highly,

That thou wouldst holily; wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win; thou’dst have, great Glamis,

That which cries, ‘Thus thou must do, if thou have it;’ 24

And that which rather thou dost fear to do

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,

And chastise with the valour of my tongue 28

All that impedes thee from the golden round,

Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem

To have thee crown’d withal.

Enter a Messenger.

What is your tidings?

Mess.

The king comes here to-night.

Lady M.

Thou’rt mad to say it. 32

Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so,

Would have inform’d for preparation.

Mess.

So please you, it is true: our thane is coming;

One of my fellows had the speed of him, 36

Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more

Than would make up his message.

Lady M.

Give him tending;

He brings great news.—[Exit Messenger.] The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 40

Under my battlements. Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts! unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top full

Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, 44

Stop up the access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts,

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 49

Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 52

That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,

To cry, ‘Hold, hold!’

Enter Macbeth.

Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!

Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! 56

Thy letters have transported me beyond

This ignorant present, and I feel now

The future in the instant.

Macb.

My dearest love,

Duncan comes here to-night.

Lady M.

And when goes hence? 60

Macb.

To-morrow, as he purposes.

Lady M.

O! never

Shall sun that morrow see.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men

May read strange matters. To beguile the time,

Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming

Must be provided for; and you shall put 68

This night’s great business into my dispatch;

Which shall to all our nights and days to come

Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

Macb.

We will speak further.

Lady M.

Only look up clear; 72

To alter favour ever is to fear.

Leave all the rest to me.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same. Before the Castle.

Hautboys and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants.

Dun.

This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses.

Ban.

This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve 4

By his lov’d mansionry that the heaven’s breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird

Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle: 8

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d

The air is delicate.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

Dun.

See, see, our honour’d hostess!

The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,

Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you 12

How you shall bid God ’eyld us for your pains,

And thank us for your trouble.

Lady M.

All our service,

In every point twice done, and then done double,

Were poor and single business, to contend 16

Against those honours deep and broad wherewith

Your majesty loads our house: for those of old,

And the late dignities heap’d up to them,

We rest your hermits.

Dun.

Where’s the Thane of Cawdor? 20

We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose

To be his purveyor; but he rides well,

And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him

To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess,

We are your guest to-night.

Lady M.

Your servants ever 25

Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,

To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,

Still to return your own.

Dun.

Give me your hand; 28

Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly,

And shall continue our graces towards him.

By your leave, hostess.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The Same. A Room in the Castle.

Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over the stage, a Sewer, and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then, enter Macbeth.

Macb.

If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well

It were done quickly; if the assassination

Could trammel up the consequence, and catch

With his surcease success; that but this blow 4

Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

We’d jump the life to come. But in these cases

We still have judgment here; that we but teach

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 9

To plague the inventor; this even-handed justice

Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice

To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: 12

First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,

Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,

Who should against his murderer shut the door,

Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 17

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will plead like angels trumpet-tongu’d against

The deep damnation of his taking-off; 20

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d

Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 24

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o’er-leaps itself

And falls on the other.—

Enter Lady Macbeth.

How now! what news? 28

Lady M.

He has almost supp’d: why have you left the chamber?

Macb.

Hath he ask’d for me?

Lady M.

Know you not he has?

Macb.

We will proceed no further in this business:

He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought 32

Golden opinions from all sorts of people,

Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,

Not cast aside so soon.

Lady M.

Was the hope drunk,

Wherein you dress’d yourself? hath it slept since, 36

And wakes it now, to look so green and pale

At what it did so freely? From this time

Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard

To be the same in thine own act and valour 40

As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that

Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life,

And live a coward in thine own esteem,

Letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would,’ 44

Like the poor cat i’ the adage?

Macb.

Prithee, peace.

I dare do all that may become a man;

Who dares do more is none.

Lady M.

What beast was’t, then,

That made you break this enterprise to me? 48

When you durst do it then you were a man;

And, to be more than what you were, you would

Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place

Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: 52

They have made themselves, and that their fitness now

Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know

How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me:

I would, while it was smiling in my face, 56

Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums,

And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you

Have done to this.

Macb.

If we should fail,—

Lady M.

We fail!

But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 60

And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep,

Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey

Soundly invite him, his two chamberlains

Will I with wine and wassail so convince 64

That memory, the warder of the brain,

Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason

A limbeck only; when in swinish sleep

Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 68

What cannot you and I perform upon

The unguarded Duncan? what not put upon

His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt

Of our great quell?

Macb.

Bring forth men-children only; 72

For thy undaunted mettle should compose

Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d,

When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two 75

Of his own chamber and us’d their very daggers,

That they have done’t?

Lady M.

Who dares receive it other,

As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar

Upon his death?

Macb.

I am settled, and bend up

Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 80

Away, and mock the time with fairest show:

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Inverness. Court within the Castle.

Enter Banquo and Fleance, with a Servant bearing a torch before him

Ban.

How goes the night, boy?

Fle.

The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.

Ban.

And she goes down at twelve.

Fle.

I take’t, ’tis later, sir.

Ban.

Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry in heaven; 4

Their candles are all out. Take thee that too.

A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,

And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers!

Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature

Gives way to in repose.

Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.

Give me my sword.— 9

Who’s there?

Macb.

A friend.

Ban.

What, sir! not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed: 12

He hath been in unusual pleasure, and

Sent forth great largess to your offices.

This diamond he greets your wife withal,

By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up

In measureless content.

Macb.

Being unprepar’d, 17

Our will became the servant to defect,

Which else should free have wrought.

Ban.

All’s well.

I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: 20

To you they have show’d some truth.

Macb.

I think not of them:

Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,

We would spend it in some words upon that business,

If you would grant the time.

Ban.

At your kind’st leisure. 24

Macb.

If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis,

It shall make honour for you.

Ban.

So I lose none

In seeking to augment it, but still keep

My bosom franchis’d and allegiance clear, 28

I shall be counsell’d.

Macb.

Good repose the while!

Ban.

Thanks, sir: the like to you.

[Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.

Macb.

Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. 32

[Exit Servant.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 36

To feeling as to sight? or art thou but

A dagger of the mind, a false creation,

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

I see thee yet, in form as palpable 40

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going;

And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, 44

Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;

And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,

Which was not so before. There’s no such thing:

It is the bloody business which informs 48

Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one half-world

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates

Pale Hecate’s offerings; and wither’d murder, 52

Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,

With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, toward his design

Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 56

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear

Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,

And take the present horror from the time,

Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat he lives: 60

Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

[A bell rings.

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.

Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That summons thee to heaven or to hell. 64

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady M.

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold,

What hath quench’d them hath given me fire. Hark!

Peace!

It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, 4

Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is about it:

The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms

Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live or die. 9

Macb.

[Within.] Who’s there? what, ho!

Lady M.

Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d,

And ’tis not done; the attempt and not the deed

Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; 13

He could not miss them. Had he not resembled

My father as he slept I had done ’t. My husband!

Enter Macbeth.

Macb.

I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? 16

Lady M.

I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.

Did not you speak?

Macb.

When?

Lady M.

Now.

Macb.

As I descended?

Lady M.

Ay.

Macb.

Hark! 20

Who lies i’ the second chamber?

Lady M.

Donalbain.

Macb.

[Looking on his hands] This is a sorry sight.

Lady M.

A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.

Macb.

There’s one did laugh in ’s sleep, and one cried ‘Murder!’ 24

That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them;

But they did say their prayers, and address’d them

Again to sleep.

Lady M.

There are two lodg’d together.

Macb.

One cried ‘God bless us!’ and ‘Amen’ the other: 28

As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.

Listening their fear, I could not say ‘Amen,’

When they did say ‘God bless us!’

Lady M.

Consider it not so deeply.

Macb.

But wherefore could not I pronounce ‘Amen?’ 32

I had most need of blessing, and ‘Amen’

Stuck in my throat.

Lady M.

These deeds must not be thought

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macb.

Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more! 36

Macbeth does murder sleep,’ the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, 40

Chief nourisher in life’s feast,—

Lady M.

What do you mean?

Macb.

Still it cried, ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house:

‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor

Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!’ 44

Lady M.

Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,

You do unbend your noble strength to think

So brainsickly of things. Go get some water,

And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 48

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?

They must lie there: go carry them, and smear

The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macb.

I’ll go no more:

I am afraid to think what I have done; 52

Look on ’t again I dare not.

Lady M.

Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures; ’tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 56

I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal;

For it must seem their guilt.

[Exit. Knocking within.

Macb.

Whence is that knocking?

How is’t with me, when every noise appals me?

What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes. 60

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red. 64

Re-enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady M.

My hands are of your colour, but I shame

To wear a heart so white.—[Knocking within.] I hear a knocking

At the south entry; retire we to our chamber;

A little water clears us of this deed; 68

How easy is it, then! Your constancy

Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark! more knocking.

Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost 72

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macb.

To know my deed ’twere best not know myself.

[Knocking within.

Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Knocking within. Enter a Porter.

Porter.

Here’s a knocking, indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ the name of Beelzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enough about you; here you’ll sweat for ’t. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Who’s there i’ the other devil’s name! Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O! come in, equivocator. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking within.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. 24

[Opens the gate.

Enter Macduff and Lennox.

Macd.

Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,

That you do lie so late?

Port.

Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. 29

Macd.

What three things does drink especially provoke?

Port.

Marry, sir, mose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery; it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him. 41

Macd.

I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.

Port.

That it did, sir, i’ the very throat o’ me: but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.

Macd.

Is thy master stirring? 48

Enter Macbeth.

Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.

Len.

Good morrow, noble sir.

Macb.

Good morrow, both.

Macd.

Is the king stirring, worthy thane?

Macb.

Not yet.

Macd.

He did command me to call timely on him: 52

I have almost slipp’d the hour.

Macb.

I’ll bring you to him.

Macd.

I know this is a joyful trouble to you;

But yet ’tis one.

Macb.

The labour we delight in physics pain.

This is the door.

Macd.

I’ll make so bold to call, 57

For ’tis my limited service.

[Exit.

Len.

Goes the king hence to-day?

Macb.

He does: he did appoint so.

Len.

The night has been unruly: where we lay, 60

Ourchimneys were blown down; and, as they say,

Lamentings heard i’ the air; strange screams of death,

And prophesying with accents terrible

Of dire combustion and confus’d events 64

New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird

Clamour’d the livelong night: some say the earth

Was feverous and did shake.

Macb.

’Twas a rough night.

Len.

My young remembrance cannot parallel

A fellow to it. 69

Re-enter Macduff.

Macd.

O horror! horror! horror! Tongue nor heart

Cannot conceive nor name thee!

Macb.

What’s the matter?

Len.

What’s the matter?

Macd.

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! 72

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence

The life o’ the building!

Macb.

What is ’t you say? the life? 76

Len.

Mean you his majesty?

Macd.

Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight

With a new Gorgon: do not bid me speak;

See, and then speak yourselves.

[Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.

Awake! awake! 80

Ring the alarum-bell. Murder and treason!

Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake!

Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit,

And look on death itself! up, up, and see 84

The great doom’s image! Malcolm! Banquo!

As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites,

To countenance this horror! Ring the bell.

[Bell rings.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady M.

What’s the business, 88

That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley

The sleepers of the house? speak, speak!

Macd.

O gentle lady!

’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak;

The repetition in a woman’s ear 92

Would murder as it fell.

Enter Banquo.

O Banquo! Banquo!

Our royal master’s murder’d!

Lady M.

Woe, alas!

What! in our house?

Ban.

Too cruel any where.

Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, 96

And say it is not so.

Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox.

Macb.

Had I but died an hour before this chance

I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant,

There’s nothing serious in mortality, 100

All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,

The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees

Is left this vault to brag of.

Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.

Don.

What is amiss?

Macb.

You are, and do not know ’t:

The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood

Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

Macd.

Your royal father’s murder’d.

Mal.

O! by whom?

Len.

Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done ’t: 108

Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood;

So were their daggers, which unwip’d we found

Upon their pillows: they star’d, and were distracted; no man’s life

Was to be trusted with them. 112

Macb.

O! yet I do repent me of my fury,

That I did kill them.

Macd.

Wherefore did you so?

Macb.

Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate and furious,

Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: 116

The expedition of my violent love

Outran the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,

His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood;

And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature 120

For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,

Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers

Unmannerly breech’d with gore: who could refrain,

That had a heart to love, and in that heart 124

Courage to make ’s love known?

Lady M.

Help me hence, ho!

Macd.

Look to the lady.

Mal.

[Aside to Donalbain.] Why do we hold our tongues,

That most may claim this argument for ours:

Don.

[Aside to Malcolm.] What should be spoken 128

Here where our fate, hid in an auger-hole,

May rush and seize us? Let’s away: our tears

Are not yet brew’d.

Mal.

[Aside to Donalbain.] Nor our strong sorrow

Upon the foot of motion.

Ban.

Look to the lady: 132

[Lady Macbeth is carried out.

And when we have our naked frailties hid,

That suffer in exposure, let us meet,

And question this most bloody piece of work,

To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us:

In the great hand of God I stand, and thence 137

Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight

Of treasonous malice.

Macd.

And so do I.

All.

So all.

Macb.

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,

And meet i’ the hall together.

All.

Well contented. 141

[Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.

Mal.

What will you do? Let’s not consort with them:

To show an unfelt sorrow is an office

Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.

Don.

To Ireland, I; our separated fortune

Shall keep us both the safer: where we are,

There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood,

The nearer bloody.

Mal.

This murderous shaft that’s shot

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 149

Is to avoid the aim: therefore, to horse;

And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,

But shift away: there’s warrant in that theft

Which steals itself when there’s no mercy left.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Without the Castle.

Enter Ross and an Old Man.

Old Man.

Threescore and ten I can remember well;

Within the volume of which time I have seen

Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night

Hath trifled former knowings.

Ross.

Ah! good father, 4

Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act,

Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day,

And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.

Is ’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,

That darkness does the face of earth entomb, 9

When living light should kiss it?

Old Man.

’Tis unnatural,

Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,

A falcon, towering in her pride of place, 12

Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

Ross.

And Duncan’s horses,—a thing most strange and certain,—

Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,

Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, 16

Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would

Make war with mankind.

Old Man.

’Tis said they eat each other.

Ross.

They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes,

That look’d upon ’t. Here comes the good Macduff. 20

Enter Macduff.

How goes the world, sir, now?

Macd.

Why, see you not?

Ross.

Is ’t known who did this more than bloody deed?

Macd.

Those that Macbeth hath slain.

Ross.

Alas, the day!

What good could they pretend?

Macd.

They were suborn’d. 24

Malcolm and Donalbain, the king’s two sons,

Are stol’n away and fled, which puts upon them

Suspicion of the deed.

Ross.

’Gainst nature still!

Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up 28

Thine own life’s means! Then ’tis most like

The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.

Macd.

He is already nam’d, and gone to Scone

To be invested.

Ross.

Where is Duncan’s body? 32

Macd.

Carried to Colmekill;

The sacred storehouse of his predecessors

And guardian of their bones.

Ross.

Will you to Scone?

Macd.

No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.

Ross.

Well, I will thither. 36

Macd.

Well, may you see things well done there: adieu!

Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!

Ross.

Farewell, father.

Old Man.

God’s benison go with you; and with those 40

That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Banquo.

Ban.

Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,

As the weird women promis’d; and, I fear,

Thou play’dst most foully for ’t; yet it was said

It should not stand in thy posterity, 4

But that myself should be the root and father

Of many kings. If there come truth from them,—

As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,—

Why, by the verities on thee made good, 8

May they not be my oracles as well,

And set me up in hope? But, hush! no more.

Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth, as king; Lady Macbeth, as queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants.

Macb.

Here’s our chief guest.

Lady M.

If he had been forgotten

It had been as a gap in our great feast, 12

And all-thing unbecoming.

Macb.

To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir,

And I’ll request your presence.

Ban.

Let your highness

Command upon me; to the which my duties 16

Are with a most indissoluble tie

For ever knit.

Macb.

Ride you this afternoon?

Ban.

Ay, my good lord. 20

Macb.

We should have else desir’d your good advice—

Which still hath been both grave and prosperous—

In this day’s council; but we’ll take to-morrow.

Is ’t far you ride? 24

Ban.

As far, my lord, as will fill up the time

’Twixt this and supper; go not my horse the better,

I must become a borrower of the night

For a dark hour or twain.

Macb.

Fail not our feast. 28

Ban.

My lord, I will not.

Macb.

We hear our bloody cousins are bestow’d

In England and in Ireland, not confessing

Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers 32

With strange invention; but of that to-morrow,

When therewithal we shall have cause of state

Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse; adieu

Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?

Ban.

Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon ’s. 37

Macb.

I wish your horses swift and sure of foot;

And so I do commend you to their backs.

Farewell.

[Exit Banquo.

Let every man be master of his time 41

Till seven at night; to make society

The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself

Till supper-time alone; while then, God be with you!

[Exeunt all but Macbeth and an Attendant.

Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men 45

Our pleasure?

Atten.

They are, my lord, without the palace gate.

Macb.

Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.] To be thus is nothing; 48

But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo

Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature

Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares,

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 52

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour

To act in safety. There is none but he

Whose being I do fear; and under him

My genius is rebuk’d, as it is said 56

Mark Antony’s was by Cæsar. He chid the sisters

When first they put the name of king upon me,

And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like,

They hail’d him father to a line of kings. 60

Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown,

And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,

Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand,

No son of mine succeeding. If ’t be so, 64

For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind;

For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d;

Put rancours in the vessel of my peace

Only for them; and mine eternal jewel 68

Given to the common enemy of man,

To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!

Rather than so, come fate into the list,

And champion me to the utterance! Who’s there? 72

Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.

Now go to the door, and stay there till we call.

[Exit Attendant.

Was it not yesterday we spoke together?

First Mur.

It was, so please your highness.

Macb.

Well then, now

Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know 76

That it was he in the times past which held you

So under fortune, which you thought had been

Our innocent self. This I made good to you

In our last conference, pass’d in probation with you, 80

How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the instruments,

Who wrought with them, and all things else that might

To half a soul and to a notion craz’d

Say, ‘Thus did Banquo.’

First Mur.

You made it known to us. 84

Macb.

I did so; and went further, which is now

Our point of second meeting. Do you find

Your patience so predominant in your nature

That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d

To pray for this good man and for his issue, 89

Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave

And beggar’d yours for ever?

First Mur.

We are men, my liege.

Macb.

Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; 92

As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,

Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are clept

All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file

Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, 96

The housekeeper, the hunter, every one

According to the gift which bounteous nature

Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive

Particular addition, from the bill 100

That writes them all alike: and so of men.

Now, if you have a station in the file,

Not i’ the worst rank of manhood, say it;

And I will put that business in your bosoms, 104

Whose execution takes your enemy off,

Grapples you to the heart and love of us,

Who wear our health but sickly in his life,

Which in his death were perfect.

Sec. Mur.

I am one, my liege, 108

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world

Have so incens’d that I am reckless what

I do to spite the world.

First Mur.

And I another,

So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, 112

That I would set my life on any chance,

To mend it or be rid on ’t.

Macb.

Both of you

Know Banquo was your enemy.

Sec. Mur.

True, my lord.

Macb.

So is he mine; and in such bloody distance 116

That every minute of his being thrusts

Against my near’st of life: and though I could

With bare-fac’d power sweep him from my sight

And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, 120

For certain friends that are both his and mine,

Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall

Whom I myself struck down; and thence it is

That I to your assistance do make love, 124

Masking the business from the common eye

For sundry weighty reasons.

Sec. Mur.

We shall, my lord,

Perform what you command us.

First Mur.

Though our lives—

Macb.

Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most 128

I will advise you where to plant yourselves,

Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,

The moment on ’t; for ’t must be done to-night,

And something from the palace; always thought

That I require a clearness: and with him— 133

To leave no rubs nor botches in the work—

Fleance his son, that keeps him company,

Whose absence is no less material to me 136

Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate

Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart;

I’ll come to you anon.

Sec. Mur.

We are resolv’d, my lord.

Macb.

I’ll call upon you straight: abide within.

[Exeunt Murderers.

It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul’s flight, 141

If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.

Lady M.

Is Banquo gone from court?

Serv.

Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.

Lady M.

Say to the king, I would attend his leisure

For a few words.

Serv.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Lady M.

Nought’s had, all’s spent, 4

Where our desire is got without content:

’Tis safer to be that which we destroy

Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Enter Macbeth.

How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, 8

Of sorriest fancies your companions making,

Using those thoughts which should indeed have died

With them they think on? Things without all remedy

Should be without regard: what’s done is done.

Macb.

We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it: 13

She’ll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice

Remains in danger of her former tooth.

But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, 16

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep

In the affliction of these terrible dreams

That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,

Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,

Than on the torture of the mind to lie 21

In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;

After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, 24

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing

Can touch him further.

Lady M.

Come on;

Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks;

Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.

Macb.

So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you.

Let your remembrance apply to Banquo;

Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:

Unsafe the while, that we 32

Must lave our honours in these flattering streams,

And make our faces vizards to our hearts,

Disguising what they are.

Lady M.

You must leave this.

Macb.

O! full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife; 36

Thou know’st that Banquo and his Fleance lives.

Lady M.

But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.

Macb.

There’s comfort yet; they are assailable;

Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown 40

His cloister’d flight, ere, to black Hecate’s summons

The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums

Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done

A deed of dreadful note.

Lady M.

What’s to be done? 44

Macb.

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,

Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,

Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,

And with thy bloody and invisible hand 48

Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond

Which keeps me pale! Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood;

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,

Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. 53

Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still;

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill:

So, prithee, go with me.

[Exeunt.

Scene III — The Same. A Park, with a Road leading to the Palace.

Enter three Murderers.

First Mur.

But who did bid thee join with us?

Third Mur.

Macbeth.

Sec. Mur.

He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers

Our offices and what we have to do

To the direction just.

First Mur.

Then stand with us. 4

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:

Now spurs the lated traveller apace

To gain the timely inn; and near approaches

The subject of our watch.

Third Mur.

Hark! I hear horses. 8

Ban.

[Within.] Give us a light there, ho!

Sec. Mur.

Then ’tis he: the rest

That are within the note of expectation

Already are i’ the court.

First Mur

His horses go about.

Third Mur.

Almost a mile; but he does usually, 12

So all men do, from hence to the palace gate

Make it their walk.

Sec. Mur.

A light, a light!

Third Mur.

’Tis he.

First Mur.

Stand to ’t.

Enter Banquo and Fleance, with a torch.

Ban.

It will be rain to-night.

First Mur.

Let it come down. 16

[They set upon Banquo.

Ban.

O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!

Thou mayst revenge. O slave!

[Dies. Fleance escapes.

Third Mur

Who did strike out the light?

First Mur.

Was ’t not the way?

Third Mur.

There’s but one down; the son is fled.

Sec. Mur.

We have lost 20

Best half of our affair.

First Mur.

Well, let’s away, and say how much is done.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

A Banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants.

Macb.

You know your own degrees; sit down: at first and last,

The hearty welcome.

Lords.

Thanks to your majesty.

Macb.

Ourself will mingle with society

And play the humble host. 4

Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time

We will require her welcome.

Lady M.

Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends;

For my heart speaks they are welcome. 8

Enter First Murderer, to the door.

Macb.

See, they encounter thee with their hearts’ thanks;

Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ the midst:

Be large in mirth; anon, we’ll drink a measure

The table round. [Approaching the door.] There’s blood upon thy face. 12

Mur.

’Tis Banquo’s, then.

Macb.

’Tis better thee without than he within.

Is he dispatch’d?

Mur.

My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. 16

Macb.

Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats; yet he’s good

That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it,

Thou art the nonpareil.

Mur.

Most royal sir,

Fleance is ’scap’d. 20

Macb.

Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect;

Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,

As broad and general as the casing air:

But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in 24

To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe?

Mur.

Ay, my good lord; safe in a ditch he bides,

With twenty trenched gashes on his head;

The least a death to nature.

Macb.

Thanks for that. 28

There the grown serpent lies: the worm that’s fled

Hath nature that in time will venom breed,

No teeth for the present. Get thee gone; to-morrow

We’ll hear ourselves again.

[Exit Murderer.

Lady M.

My royal lord, 32

You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold

That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making,

’Tis given with welcome: to feed were best at home;

From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony; 36

Meeting were bare without it.

Macb.

Sweet remembrancer!

Now good digestion wait on appetite,

And health on both!

Len.

May it please your highness sit?

[The Ghost of Banquo enters, and sits in Macbeth’s place.

Macb.

Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d, 40

Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present;

Who may I rather challenge for unkindness

Than pity for mischance!

Ross.

His absence, sir,

Lays blame upon his promise. Please ’t your highness 44

To grace us with your royal company.

Macb.

The table’s full.

Len.

Here is a place reserv’d, sir.

Macb.

Where?

Len.

Here, my good lord. What is ’t that moves your highness? 48

Macb.

Which of you have done this?

Lords.

What, my good lord?

Macb.

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake

Thy gory locks at me.

Ross.

Gentlemen, rise; his highness is not well. 52

Lady M.

Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus,

And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;

The fit is momentary; upon a thought

He will again be well. If much you note him 56

You shall offend him and extend his passion:

Feed and regard him not. Are you a man?

Macb.

Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that

Which might appal the devil.

Lady M.

O proper stuff! 60

This is the very painting of your fear;

This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,

Led you to Duncan. O! these flaws and starts—

Impostors to true fear—would well become 64

A woman’s story at a winter’s fire,

Authoriz’d by her grandam. Shame itself!

Why do you make such faces? When all’s done

You look but on a stool. 68

Macb.

Prithee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?

Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.

If charnel-houses and our graves must send

Those that we bury back, our monuments 72

Shall be the maws of kites.

[Ghost disappears.

Lady M.

What! quite unmann’d in folly?

Macb.

If I stand here, I saw him.

Lady M.

Fie, for shame!

Macb.

Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the olden time,

Ere human statute purg’d the gentle weal; 76

Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d

Too terrible for the ear: the times have been,

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,

And there an end; but now they rise again, 80

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

And push us from our stools: this is more strange

Than such a murder is.

Lady M.

My worthy lord,

Your noble friends do lack you.

Macb.

I do forget. 84

Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends;

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing

To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;

Then, I’ll sit down. Give me some wine; fill full.

I drink to the general joy of the whole table, 89

And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss;

Would he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,

And all to all.

Lords.

Our duties, and the pledge. 92

Re-enter Ghost.

Macb.

Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in those eyes

Which thou dost glare with.

Lady M.

Think of this, good peers,

But as a thing of custom: ’tis no other; 97

Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

Macb.

What man dare, I dare:

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,

The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 101

Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves

Shall never tremble: or be alive again,

And dare me to the desart with thy sword; 104

If trembling I inhabit then, protest me

The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence!

[Ghost vanishes.

Why, so; being gone,

I am a man again. Pray you, sit still. 108

Lady M.

You have displac’d the mirth, broke the good meeting,

With most admir’d disorder.

Macb.

Can such things be

And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,

Without our special wonder? You make me strange 112

Even to the disposition that I owe,

When now I think you can behold such sights,

And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,

When mine are blanch’d with fear.

Ross.

What sights, my lord? 116

Lady M.

I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse;

Question enrages him. At once, good-night:

Stand not upon the order of your going,

But go at once.

Len.

Good-night; and better health 120

Attend his majesty!

Lady M.

A kind good-night to all!

[Exeunt Lords and Attendants.

Macb.

It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood:

Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;

Augurs and understood relations have 124

By maggot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth

The secret’st man of blood. What is the night?

Lady M.

Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

Macb.

How sayst thou, that Macduff denies his person 128

At our great bidding?

Lady M.

Did you send to him, sir?

Macb.

I hear it by the way; but I will send.

There’s not a one of them but in his house

I keep a servant fee’d. I will to-morrow— 132

And betimes I will—to the weird sisters:

More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know,

By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good

All causes shall give way: I am in blood 136

Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

Strange things I have in head that will to hand,

Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.

Lady M.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep. 141

Macb.

Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse

Is the initiate fear that wants hard use:

We are yet but young in deed.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate.

First Witch.

Why, how now, Hecate! you look angerly.

Hec.

Have I not reason, beldams as you are,

Saucy and overbold? How did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth 4

In riddles and affairs of death;

And I, the mistress of your charms,

The close contriver of all harms,

Was never call’d to bear my part, 8

Or show the glory of our art?

And, which is worse, all you have done

Hath been but for a wayward son,

Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, 12

Loves for his own ends, not for you.

But make amends now: get you gone,

And at the pit of Acheron

Meet me i’ the morning: thither he 16

Will come to know his destiny:

Your vessels and your spells provide,

Your charms and every thing beside.

I am for the air; this night I’ll spend 20

Unto a dismal and a fatal end:

Great business must be wrought ere noon:

Upon the corner of the moon

There hangs a vaporous drop profound; 24

I’ll catch it ere it come to ground:

And that distill’d by magic sleights

Shall raise such artificial sprites

As by the strength of their illusion 28

Shall draw him on to his confusion:

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear

His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear;

And you all know security 32

Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.

[Song within, ‘Come away, come away,’ &c.

Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see,

Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.

[Exit.

First Witch.

Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Lennox and another Lord.

Len.

My former speeches have but hit your thoughts,

Which can interpret further: only, I say,

Things have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan

Was pitied of Macbeth: marry, he was dead: 4

And the right-valiant Banquo walk’d too late;

Whom, you may say, if ’t please you, Fleance kill’d,

For Fleance fled: men must not walk too late.

Who cannot want the thought how monstrous 8

It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain

To kill their gracious father? damned fact!

How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight

In pious rage the two delinquents tear, 12

That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep?

Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too;

For ’twould have anger’d any heart alive

To hear the men deny ’t. So that, I say, 16

He has borne all things well; and I do think

That, had he Duncan’s sons under his key,—

As, an ’t please heaven, he shall not,—they should find

What ’twere to kill a father; so should Fleance.

But, peace! for from broad words, and ’cause he fail’d. 21

His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear,

Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell

Where he bestows himself?

Lord.

The son of Duncan, 24

From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth,

Lives in the English court, and is receiv’d

Of the most pious Edward with such grace

That the malevolence of fortune nothing 28

Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff

Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid

To wake Northumberland and war-like Siward:

That, by the help of these—with him above 32

To ratify the work—we may again

Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights,

Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives,

Do faithful homage and receive free honours;

All which we pine for now. And this report 37

Hath so exasperate the king that he

Prepares for some attempt at war.

Len.

Sent he to Macduff?

Lord.

He did: and with an absolute, ‘Sir, not I,’ 40

The cloudy messenger turns me his back,

And hums, as who should say, ‘You’ll rue the time

That clogs me with this answer.’

Len.

And that well might

Advise him to a caution to hold what distance

His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel 45

Fly to the court of England and unfold

His message ere he come, that a swift blessing

May soon return to this our suffering country 48

Under a hand accurs’d!

Lord.

I’ll send my prayers with him!

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Cavern. In the middle, a boiling Cauldron.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches.

First Witch.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

Sec. Witch.

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whin’d.

Third Witch.

Harper cries: ’Tis time, ’tis time.

First Witch.

Round about the cauldron go, 4

In the poison’d entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights hast thirty-one

Swelter’d venom sleeping got, 8

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

All.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Sec. Witch.

Fillet of a fenny snake, 12

In the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, 16

Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

All.

Double, double toil and trouble; 20

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Third Witch.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,  24

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew

Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,  28

Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,

Make the gruel thick and slab:  32

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,

For the ingredients of our cauldron.

All.

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble. 36

Sec. Witch.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,

Then the charm is firm and good.

Enter Hecate.

Hec.

O! well done! I commend your pains,

And every one shall share i’ the gains. 40

And now about the cauldron sing,

Like elves and fairies in a ring,

Enchanting all that you put in.

[Music and a song, ‘Black Spirits,’ &c.

Sec. Witch.

By the pricking of my thumbs, 44

Something wicked this way comes.

Open, locks,

Whoever knocks.

Enter Macbeth.

Macb.

How now, you secret, black, and mid-night hags! 48

What is ’t you do?

All.

A deed without a name.

Macb.

I conjure you, by that which you profess,—

Howe’er you come to know it,—answer me:

Though you untie the winds and let them fight 52

Against the churches; though the yesty waves

Confound and swallow navigation up;

Though bladed corn be lodg’d and trees blown down;

Though castles topple on their warders’ heads;

Though palaces and pyramids do slope 57

Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure

Of Nature’s germens tumble all together,

Even till destruction sicken; answer me 60

To what I ask you.

First Witch.

Speak.

Sec. Witch.

Demand.

Third Witch.

We’ll answer.

First Witch.

Say if thou’dst rather hear it from our mouths,

Or from our masters’?

Macb.

Call ’em: let me see ’em.

First Witch.

Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten 64

Her nine farrow; grease, that’s sweaten

From the murderer’s gibbet throw

Into the flame.

All.

Come, high or low;

Thyself and office deftly show. 68

Thunder. First Apparition of an armed Head.

Macb.

Tell me, thou unknown power,—

First Witch.

He knows thy thought:

Hear his speech, but say thou nought.

First App.

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff;

Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.

[Descends.

Macb.

Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution thanks; 73

Thou hast harp’d my fear aright. But one word more,—

First Witch.

He will not be commanded: here’s another,

More potent than the first. 76

Thunder. Second Apparition, a bloody Child.

Sec. App.

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!—

Macb.

Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.

Sec. App.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn

The power of man, for none of woman born 80

Shall harm Macbeth.

[Descends.

Macb.

Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee?

But yet I’ll make assurance double sure,

And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live; 84

That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,

And sleep in spite of thunder.

Thunder. Third Apparition, a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand.

What is this,

That rises like the issue of a king,

And wears upon his baby brow the round 88

And top of sovereignty?

All.

Listen, but speak not to ’t.

Third App.

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care

Who chafes, who frets or where conspirers are:

Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until 92

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him.

[Descends.

Macb.

That will never be:

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree

Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements! good! 96

Rebellion’s head, rise never till the wood

Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d Macbeth

Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath

To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart 100

Throbs to know one thing: tell me—if your art

Can tell so much,—shall Banquo’s issue ever

Reign in this kingdom?

All.

Seek to know no more.

Macb.

I will be satisfied: deny me this, 104

And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.

Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?

[Hautboys.

First Witch.

Show!

Sec. Witch.

Show! 108

Third Witch.

Show!

All.

Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;

Come like shadows, so depart.

A show of Eight Kings; the last with a glass in his hand: Banquo’s Ghost following.

Macb.

Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo; down! 112

Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs: and thy hair,

Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first:

A third is like the former. Filthy hags!

Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes! 116

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

Another yet? A seventh! I’ll see no more:

And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass

Which shows me many more; and some I see

That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry. 121

Horrible sight! Now, I see, ’tis true;

For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me,

And points at them for his.

[Apparitions vanish.

What! is this so? 124

First Witch.

Ay, sir, all this is so: but why

Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?

Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,

And show the best of our delights. 128

I’ll charm the air to give a sound,

While you perform your antick round,

That this great king may kindly say,

Our duties did his welcome pay. 132

[Music. The Witches dance, and then vanish with Hecate.

Macb.

Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour

Stand aye accursed in the calendar!

Come in, without there!

Enter Lennox.

Len.

What’s your Grace’s will?

Macb.

Saw you the weird sisters?

Len.

No, my lord. 136

Macb.

Came they not by you?

Len.

No indeed, my lord.

Macb.

Infected be the air whereon they ride,

And damn’d all those that trust them! I did hear

The galloping of horse: who was ’t came by? 140

Len.

’Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word

Macduff is fled to England.

Macb.

Fled to England!

Len.

Ay, my good lord.

Macb.

Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits; 144

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook

Unless the deed go with it; from this moment

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand. And even now, 148

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:

The castle of Macduff I will surprise;

Seize upon Fife; give to the edge of the sword

His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 152

That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;

This deed I’ll do, before this purpose cool:

But no moresights! Where are these gentlemen?

Come, bring me where they are.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Fife. Macduff’s Castle.

Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross.

L. Macd.

What had he done to make him fly the land?

Ross.

You must have patience, madam.

L. Macd.

He had none:

His flight was madness: when our actions do not,

Our fears do make us traitors.

Ross.

You know not 4

Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.

L. Macd.

Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes,

His mansion and his titles in a place

From whence himself does fly? He loves us not; 8

He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren,

The most diminutive of birds, will fight—

Her young ones in her nest—against the owl.

All is the fear and nothing is the love; 12

As little is the wisdom, where the flight

So runs against all reason.

Ross.

My dearest coz,

I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband,

He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows 16

The fits o’ the season. I dare not speak much further:

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors

And do not know ourselves, when we hold rumour

From what we fear, yet know not what we fear,

But float upon a wild and violent sea 21

Each way and move. I take my leave of you:

Shall not be long but I’ll be here again.

Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward 24

To what they were before. My pretty cousin,

Blessing upon you!

L. Macd.

Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless.

Ross.

I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, 28

It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort:

I take my leave at once.

[Exit.

L. Macd.

Sirrah, your father’s dead:

And what will you do now? How will you live?

Son.

As birds do, mother.

L. Macd.

What! with worms and flies? 32

Son.

With what I get, I mean; and so do they.

L. Macd.

Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime,

The pit-fall nor the gin.

Son.

Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. 36

My father is not dead, for all your saying.

L. Macd.

Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a father?

Son.

Nay, how will you do for a husband?

L. Macd.

Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. 40

Son.

Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again.

L. Macd.

Thou speak’st with all thy wit; and yet, i’ faith,

With wit enough for thee.

Son.

Was my father a traitor, mother? 44

L. Macd.

Ay, that he was.

Son.

What is a traitor?

L. Macd.

Why, one that swears and lies.

Son.

And be all traitors that do so? 48

L. Macd.

Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.

Son.

And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?

L. Macd.

Every one.

Son.

Who must hang them? 52

L. Macd.

Why, the honest men.

Son.

Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men, and hang up them. 56

L. Macd.

Now God help thee, poor monkey!

But how wilt thou do for a father?

Son.

If he were dead, you’d weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. 61

L. Macd.

Poor prattler, how thou talk’st!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,

Though in your state of honour I am perfect. 64

I doubt some danger does approach you nearly:

If you will take a homely man’s advice,

Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.

To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage;

To do worse to you were fell cruelty, 69

Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!

I dare abide no longer.

[Exit.

L. Macd.

Whither should I fly?

I have done no harm. But I remember now 72

I am in this earthly world, where, to do harm

Is often laudable, to do good sometime

Accounted dangerous folly; why then, alas!

Do I put up that womanly defence, 76

To say I have done no harm?

Enter Murderers.

What are these faces?

Mur.

Where is your husband?

L. Macd.

I hope in no place so unsanctified

Where such as thou mayst find him.

Mur.

He’s a traitor. 80

Son.

Thou liest, thou shag-hair’d villain.

Mur.

What! you egg.

Young fry of treachery!

[Stabbing him.

Son.

He has killed me, mother:

Run away, I pray you!

[Dies.

[Exit Lady Macduff, crying ‘Murder,’ and pursued by the Murderers.

Scene III.— England. Before the King’s Palace.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

Mal.

Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there

Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macd.

Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men

Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom; each new morn 4

New widowshowl, new orphans cry, new sorrows

Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds

As if it felt with Scotland and yell’d out

Like syllable of dolour.

Mal.

What I believe I’ll wail, 8

What know believe, and what I can redress,

As I shall find the time to friend, I will.

What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.

This tyrant, whosesole name blisters our tongues,

Was once thought honest: you have lov’d him well; 13

He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something

You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom

To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb 16

To appease an angry god.

Macd.

I am not treacherous.

Mal.

But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil

In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; 20

That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose;

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell;

Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,

Yet grace must still look so.

Macd.

I have lost my hopes. 24

Mal.

Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and child—

Those precious motives, those strong knots of love—

Without leave-taking? I pray you, 28

Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,

But mine own safeties: you may be rightly just,

Whatever I shall think.

Macd.

Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, 32

For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs;

The title is affeer’d! Fare thee well, lord:

I would not be the villain that thou think’st

For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp,

And the rich East to boot.

Mal.

Be not offended: 37

I speak not as in absolute fear of you.

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;

It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash 40

Is added to her wounds: I think withal,

There would be hands uplifted in my right;

And here from gracious England have I offer

Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, 44

When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head,

Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country

Shall have more vices than it had before,

More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, 48

By him that shall succeed.

Macd.

What should he be?

Mal.

It is myself I mean; in whom I know

All the particulars of vice so grafted,

That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth

Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state 53

Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d

With my confineless harms.

Macd.

Not in the legions

Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d 56

In evils to top Macbeth.

Mal.

I grant him bloody,

Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,

Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin

That has a name; but there’s no bottom, none,

In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, 61

Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up

The cistern of my lust; and my desire

All continent impediments would o’erbear 64

That did oppose my will; better Macbeth

Than such an one to reign.

Macd.

Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny; it hath been

Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne, 68

And fall of many kings. But fear not yet

To take upon you what is yours; you may

Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,

And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. 72

We have willing dames enough; there cannot be

That vulture in you, to devour so many

As will to greatness dedicate themselves,

Finding it so inclin’d.

Mal.

With this there grows 76

In my most ill-compos’d affection such

A stanchless avarice that, were I king,

I should cut off the nobles for their lands,

Desire his jewels and this other’s house; 80

And my more-having would be as a sauce

To make me hunger more, that I should forge

Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,

Destroying them for wealth.

Macd.

This avarice 84

Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root

Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been

The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear;

Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, 88

Of your mere own; all these are portable,

With other graces weigh’d.

Mal.

But I have none: the king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, 92

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime, 96

Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should

Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,

Uproar the universal peace, confound

All unity on earth.

Macd.

O Scotland, Scotland! 100

Mal.

If such a one be fit to govern, speak:

I am as I have spoken.

Macd.

Fit to govern!

No, not to live. O nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, 104

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,

Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accurs’d,

And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father 108

Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,

Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day she liv’d. Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself 112

Have banish’d me from Scotland. O my breast,

Thy hope ends here!

Mal.

Macduff, this noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul

Wip’d the black scruples, reconcil’d my thoughts

To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth 117

By many of these trains hath sought to win me

Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me

From over-credulous haste; but God above 120

Deal between thee and me! for even now

I put myself to thy direction, and

Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure

The taints and blames I laid upon myself, 124

For strangers to my nature. I am yet

Unknown to woman, never was forsworn,

Scarcely have coveted what was mine own;

At no time broke my faith, would not betray 128

The devil to his fellow, and delight

No less in truth than life; my first false speaking

Was this upon myself. What I am truly,

Is thine and my poor country’s to command; 132

Whither indeed, before thy here-approach,

Old Siward, with ten thousand war-like men,

Already at a point, was setting forth.

Now we’ll together, and the chance of goodness

Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent? 137

Macd.

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

’Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Mal.

Well; more anon. Comes the king forth, I pray you? 140

Doct.

Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls

That stay his cure; their malady convinces

The great assay of art; but, at his touch,

Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, 144

They presently amend.

Mal.

I thank you, doctor.

[Exit Doctor.

Macd.

What’s the disease he means?

Mal.

’Tis call’d the evil:

A most miraculous work in this good king,

Which often, since my here-remain in England,

I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, 149

Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,

All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,

The mere despair of surgery, he cures; 152

Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,

Put on with holy prayers; and ’tis spoken

To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, 156

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,

And sundry blessings hang about his throne

That speak him full of grace.

Macd.

See, who comes here?

Mal.

My countryman; but yet I know him not. 160

Enter Ross.

Macd.

My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

Mal.

I know him now. Good God, betimes remove

The means that make us strangers!

Ross.

Sir, amen.

Macd.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Ross.

Alas! poor country; 164

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call’d our mother, but our grave; where nothing,

But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;

Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rent the air 168

Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems

A modern ecstasy; the dead man’s knell

Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives

Expire before the flowers in their caps, 172

Dying or ere they sicken.

Macd.

O! relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal.

What’s the newest grief?

Ross.

That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker;

Each minute teems a new one.

Macd.

How does my wife? 176

Ross.

Why, well.

Macd.

And all my children?

Ross.

Well too.

Macd.

The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?

Ross.

No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.

Macd.

Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes ’t? 180

Ross.

When I came hither to transport the tidings,

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour

Of many worthy fellows that were out;

Which was to my belief witness’d the rather 184

For that I saw the tyrant’s power a-foot.

Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland

Would create soldiers, make our women fight,

To doff their dire distresses.

Mal.

Be ’t their comfort, 188

We are coming thither. Gracious England hath

Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;

An older and a better soldier none

That Christendom gives out.

Ross.

Would I could answer 192

This comfort with the like! But I have words

That would be howl’d out in the desert air,

Where hearing should not latch them.

Macd.

What concern they?

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief 196

Due to some single breast?

Ross.

No mind that’s honest

But in it shares some woe, though the main part

Pertains to you alone.

Macd.

If it be mine

Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it. 200

Ross.

Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,

Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound

That ever yet they heard.

Macd.

Hum! I guess at it.

Ross.

Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes 204

Savagely slaughter’d; to relate the manner,

Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer,

To add the death of you.

Mal.

Merciful heaven!

What! man; ne’er pull your hat upon your brows; 208

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak

Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.

Macd.

My children too?

Ross.

Wife, children, servants, all

That could be found.

Macd.

And I must be from thence! 212

My wife kill’d too?

Ross.

I have said.

Mal.

Be comforted:

Let’s make us medicine of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

Macd.

He has no children. All my pretty ones? 216

Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?

What! all my pretty chickens and their dam

At one fell swoop?

Mal.

Dispute it like a man.

Macd.

I shall do so;

But I must also feel it as a man: 220

I cannot but remember such things were,

That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on,

And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff!

They were all struck for thee. Naught that I am, 224

Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!

Mal.

Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 228

Macd.

O! I could play the woman with mine eyes,

And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle heavens,

Cut short all intermission; front to front 231

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;

Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape,

Heaven forgive him too!

Mal.

This tune goes manly.

Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;

Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth 236

Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may;

The night is long that never finds the day.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentle-woman.

Doct.

I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? 3

Gen.

Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon ’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. 9

Doct.

A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gen.

That, sir, which I will not report after her. 16

Doct.

You may to me, and ’tis most meet you should.

Gen.

Neither to you nor any one, having no witness to confirm my speech. 20

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.

Lo you! here she comes. This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doct.

How came she by that light? 24

Gen.

Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.

Doct.

You see, her eyes are open.

Gen.

Ay, but their sense is shut. 28

Doct.

What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gen.

It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her to continue in this a quarter of an hour. 33

Lady M.

Yet here’s a spot.

Doct.

Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 37

Lady M.

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two: why, then, ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? 44

Doct.

Do you mark that?

Lady M.

The Thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? What! will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting. 49

Doct.

Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gen.

She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: Heaven knows what she has known. 54

Lady M.

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh! oh! 57

Doct.

What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gen.

I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. 61

Doct.

Well, well, well.

Gen.

Pray God it be, sir.

Doct.

This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. 66

Lady M.

Wash your hands, put on your night-gown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on ’s grave.

Doct.

Even so? 71

Lady M.

To bed, to bed: there’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.

To bed, to bed, to bed.

[Exit.

Doct.

Will she go now to bed? 76

Gen.

Directly.

Doct.

Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds

Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds

To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets;

More needs she the divine than the physician. 81

God, God forgive us all! Look after her;

Remove from her the means of all annoyance,

And still keep eyes upon her. So, good-night:

My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight.

I think, but dare not speak.

Gen.

Good-night, good doctor.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Country near Dunsinane.

Enter, with drum and colours, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers.

Ment.

The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,

His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff.

Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes

Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm 4

Excite the mortified man.

Ang.

Near Birnam wood

Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.

Caith.

Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?

Len.

For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file

Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son, 9

And many unrough youths that even now

Protest their first of manhood.

Ment.

What does the tyrant?

Caith.

Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.

Some say he’s mad; others that lesser hate him

Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain,

He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause

Within the belt of rule.

Ang.

Now does he feel 16

His secret murders sticking on his hands;

Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;

Those he commands move only in command,

Nothing in love; now does he feel his title 20

Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe

Upon a dwarfish thief.

Ment.

Who then shall blame

His pester’d senses to recoil and start,

When all that is within him does condemn 24

Itself for being there?

Caith.

Well, march we on,

To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d;

Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,

And with him pour we in our country’s purge 28

Each drop of us.

Len.

Or so much as it needs

To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds.

Make we our march towards Birnam.

[Exeunt, marching.

Scene III.— Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.

Macb.

Bring me no more reports; let them fly all:

Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane

I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm?

Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know 4

All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus:

‘Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman

Shall e’er have power upon thee.’ Then fly, false thanes,

And mingle with the English epicures: 8

The mind I sway by and the heart I bear

Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.

Enter a Servant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon!

Where gott’st thou that goose look? 12

Serv

There is ten thousand—

Macb.

Geese, villain?

Serv.

Soldiers, sir.

Macb.

Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,

Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch?

Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine

Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, wheyface? 17

Serv.

The English force, so please you.

Macb.

Take thy face hence. [Exit Servant.] Seyton!—I am sick at heart

When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push 20

Will cheer me ever or disseat me now.

I have liv’d long enough: my way of life

Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age, 24

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not look to have; but, in their stead,

Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. 28

Seyton!

Enter Seyton.

Sey.

What is your gracious pleasure?

Macb.

What news more?

Sey.

All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.

Macb.

I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. 32

Give me my armour.

Sey.

’Tis not needed yet.

Macb.

I’ll put it on.

Send out more horses, skirr the country round;

Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour. 36

How does your patient, doctor?

Doct.

Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Macb.

Cure her of that:

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, 40

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

And with some sweet oblivious antidote

Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the heart?

Doct.

Therein the patient 45

Must minister to himself.

Macb.

Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it.

Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff.

Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the thanes fly from me.— 49

Come, sir, dispatch.—If thou couldst, doctor, cast

The water of my land, find her disease,

And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 52

I would applaud thee to the very echo,

That should applaud again.—Pull ’t off, I say.—

What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug

Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them? 56

Doct.

Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation

Makes us hear something.

Macb.

Bring it after me.

I will not be afraid of death and bane

Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. 60

Doct.

[Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,

Profit again should hardly draw me here.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Country near Birnam Wood.

Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, Old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Catthness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers marching.

Mal.

Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand

That chambers will be safe.

Men.

We doubt it nothing.

Siw.

What wood is this before us?

Men.

The wood of Birnam. 4

Mal.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough

And bear ’t before him: thereby shall we shadow

The numbers of our host, and make discovery

Err in report of us.

Sold.

It shall be done. 8

Siw.

We learn no other but the confident tyrant

Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure

Our setting down before ’t.

Mal.

’Tis his main hope;

For where there is advantage to be given, 12

Both more and less have given him the revolt,

And none serve with him but constrained things

Whose hearts are absent too.

Macd.

Let our just censures

Attend the true event, and put we on 16

Industrious soldiership.

Siw.

The time approaches

That will with due decision make us know

What we shall say we have and what we owe.

Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,

But certain issue strokes must arbitrate, 21

Towards which advance the war.

[Exeunt, marching.

Scene V.— Dunsinane. Within the Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers.

Macb.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

The cry is still, ‘They come;’ our castle’s strength

Will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie

Till famine and the ague eat them up; 4

Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours,

We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,

And beat them backward home.

[A cry of women within.

What is that noise?

Sey.

It is the cry of women, my good lord. 8

[Exit.

Macb.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears.

The time has been my senses would have cool’d

To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair

Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir 12

As life were in ’t. I have supp’d full with horrors;

Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,

Cannot once start me.

Re-enter Seyton.

Wherefore was that cry?

Sey.

The queen, my lord, is dead. 16

Macb.

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 20

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player 24

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing. 28

Enter a Messenger.

Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Mess.

Gracious my lord,

I should report that which I say I saw,

But know not how to do it.

Macb.

Well, say, sir. 32

Mess.

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,

I look’d towards Birnam, and anon, methought,

The wood began to move.

Macb.

Liar and slave!

Mess.

Let me endure your wrath if’t be not so:

Within this three mile may you see it coming;

I say, a moving grove.

Macb.

If thou speak’st false,

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,

Till famine cling thee; if thy speech be sooth,

I care not if thou dost for me as much. 41

I pull in resolution and begin

To doubt the equivocation of the fiend

That lies like truth; ‘Fear not, till Birnam wood

Do come to Dunsinane;’ and now a wood 45

Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. 48

I ’gin to be aweary of the sun,

And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!

At least we’ll die with harness on our back. 52

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Plain before the Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, Old Siward, Macduff, &c., and their Army, with boughs.

Mal.

Now near enough; your leavy screens throw down,

And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle,

Shall, with my cousin, your right-noble son,

Lead our first battle; worthy Macduff and we 4

Shall take upon ’s what else remains to do,

According to our order.

Siw.

Fare you well.

Do we but find the tyrant’s power to-night,

Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. 8

Macd.

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,

Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The Same. Another Part of the Plain.

Alarums. Enter Macbeth.

Macb.

They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,

But bear-like I must fight the course. What’s he

That was not born of woman? Such a one

Am I to fear, or none. 4

Enter Young Siward.

Young Siw.

What is thy name?

Macb.

Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.

Young Siw.

No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name

Than any is in hell.

Macb.

My name’s Macbeth.

Young Siw.

The devil himself could not pronounce a title 8

More hateful to mine ear.

Macb.

No, nor more fearful.

Young Siw.

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword

I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.

[They fight and Young Siward is slain.

Macb.

Thou wast born of woman:

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,

Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. 13

[Exit.

Alarums. Enter Macduff.

Macd.

That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face:

If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine,

My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. 16

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

Are hir’d to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword with an unbatter’d edge

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; 20

By this great clatter, one of greatest note

Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!

And more I beg not.

[Exit. Alarums.

Enter Malcolm and Old Siward.

Siw

This way, my lord; the castle’s gently render’d: 24

The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight;

The noble thanes do bravely in the war;

The day almost itself professes yours,

And little is to do.

Mal.

We have met with foes 28

That strike beside us.

Siw.

Enter, sir, the castle.

[Exeunt. Alarums.

Re-enter Macbeth.

Macb.

Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes

Do better upon them.

Re-enter Macduff.

Macd.

Turn, hell-hound, turn! 32

Macb.

Of all men else I have avoided thee:

But get thee back, my soul is too much charg’d

With blood of thine already.

Macd.

I have no words;

My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain 36

Than terms can give thee out!

[They fight.

Macb.

Thou losest labour:

As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed:

Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; 40

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield

To one of woman born.

Macd.

Despair thy charm;

And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d

Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb

Untimely ripp’d. 45

Macb.

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,

For it hath cow’d my better part of man:

And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, 48

That palter with us in a double sense;

That keep the word of promise to our ear,

And break it to our hope. I’ll not fight with thee.

Macd.

Then yield thee, coward, 52

And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time:

We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,

Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,

‘Here may you see the tyrant.’

Macb.

I will not yield, 56

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,

And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.

Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,

And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, 60

Yet I will try the last: before my body

I throw my war-like shield. Lay on, Macduff,

And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’

[Exeunt, fighting.

Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, Old Siward, Ross, Thanes, and Soldiers.

Mal.

I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d. 64

Siw.

Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Mal.

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Ross.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt: 68

He only liv’d but till he was a man;

The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d

In the unshrinking station where he fought,

But like a man he died.

Siw.

Then he is dead? 72

Ross.

Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow

Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Siw.

Had he his hurts before?

Ross.

Ay, on the front.

Siw.

Why then, God’s soldier be he! 76

Had I as many sons as I have hairs,

I would not wish them to a fairer death:

And so, his knell is knoll’d.

Mal.

He’s worth more sorrow,

And that I’ll spend for him.

Siw.

He’s worth no more; 80

They say, he parted well, and paid his score:

And so, God be with him! Here comes newer comfort.

Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth’s head.

Macd.

Hail, king! for so thou art. Behold, where stands

The usurper’s cursed head: the time is free: 84

I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl,

That speak my salutation in their minds;

Whose voices I desire aloud with mine;

Hail, King of Scotland!

All.

Hail, King of Scotland! 88

[Flourish.

Mal.

We shall not spend a large expense of time

Before we reckon with your several loves,

And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen,

Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland

In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to do, 93

Which would be planted newly with the time,

As calling home our exil’d friends abroad

That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; 96

Producing forth the cruel ministers

Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,

Who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands

Took off her life; this, and what needful else 100

That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace

We will perform in measure, time, and place:

So, thanks to all at once and to each one,

Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone. 104

[Flourish. Exeunt.

HAMLET PRINCE OF DENMARK

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Claudius,	King of Denmark.
Hamlet,	Son to the late, and Nephew to the present King.
Fortinbras,	Prince of Norway.
Horatio,	Friend to Hamlet.
Polonius,	Lord Chamberlain.
Laertes,	his Son.
Voltimand,	Courtiers.
Cornelius,
Rosencrantz,
Guildenstern,
Osric,
A Gentleman,
A Priest.
Marcellus,	Officers.
Bernardo,	Officers.
Francisco,	a Soldier.
Reynaldo,	Servant to Polonius.
A Captain.
English Ambassadors.
Players. Two Clowns, Grave-diggers.
Gertrude,	Queen of Denmark and Mother to Hamlet.
Ophelia,	Daughter to Polonius.
Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and Attendants.

Ghost of Hamlet’s Father.

Scene.—Elsinore.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Elsinore. A Platform before the Castle.

Francisco at his post. Enter to him Bernardo.

Ber.

Who’s there?

Fran.

Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself.

Ber.

Long live the king!

Fran.

Bernardo? 4

Ber.

He.

Fran.

You come most carefully upon your hour.

Ber.

’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

Fran.

For this relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold, 8

And I am sick at heart.

Ber.

Have you had quiet guard?

Fran.

Not a mouse stirring.

Ber.

Well, good-night.

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, 12

The rivals of my watch, bid them make hasie.

Fran.

I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s there?

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Hor.

Friends to this ground.

Mar.

And liegemen to the Dane.

Fran.

Give you good-night.

Mar.

O! farewell, honest soldier: 16

Who hath reliev’d you?

Fran.

Bernardo has my place.

Give you good-night.

[Exit.

Mar.

Holla! Bernardo!

Ber.

Say,

What! is Horatio there?

Hor.

A piece of him.

Ber.

Welcome, Horatio; welcome, good Marcellus. 20

Mar.

What! has this thing appear’d again to-night?

Ber.

I have seen nothing.

Mar.

Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,

And will not let belief take hold of him 24

Touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us:

Therefore I have entreated him along

With us to watch the minutes of this night;

That if again this apparition come, 28

He may approve our eyes and speak to it.

Hor.

Tush, tush! ’twill not appear.

Ber.

Sit down awhile,

And let us once again assail your ears,

That are so fortified against our story, 32

What we two nights have seen.

Hor.

Well, sit we down,

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Ber.

Last night of all,

When yond same star that’s westward from the pole 36

Had made his course to illume that part of heaven

Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,

The bell then beating one,—

Mar.

Peace! break thee off; look, where it comes again! 40

Enter Ghost.

Ber.

In the same figure, like the king that’s dead.

Mar.

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

Ber.

Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio.

Hor.

Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder. 44

Ber.

It would be spoke to.

Mar.

Question it, Horatio.

Hor.

What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,

Together with that fair and war-like form

In which the majesty of buried Denmark 48

Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!

Mar.

It is offended.

Ber.

See! it stalks away.

Hor.

Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!

[Exit Ghost.

Mar.

’Tis gone, and will not answer. 52

Ber.

How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale:

Is not this something more than fantasy?

What think you on ’t?

Hor.

Before my God, I might not this believe 56

Without the sensible and true avouch

Of mine own eyes.

Mar.

Is it not like the king?

Hor.

As thou-art to thyself:

Such was the very armour he had on 60

When he the ambitious Norway combated;

So frown’d he once, when, in an angry parle,

He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.

’Tis strange. 64

Mar.

Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,

With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Hor.

In what particular thought to work I know not;

But in the gross and scope of my opinion, 68

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Mar.

Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows,

Why this same strict and most observant watch

So nightly toils the subject of the land; 72

And why such daily cast of brazen cannon,

And foreign mart for implements of war;

Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task

Does not divide the Sunday from the week; 76

What might be toward, that this sweaty haste

Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day:

Who is ’t that can inform me?

Hor.

That can I;

At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, 80

Whose image even but now appear’d to us,

Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,

Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride,

Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet— 84

For so this side of our known world esteem’d him—

Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal’d compact,

Well ratified by law and heraldry,

Did forfeit with his life all those his lands 88

Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror;

Against the which, a moiety competent

Was gaged by our king; which had return’d

To the inheritance of Fortinbras, 92

Had he been vanquisher; as, by the same covenant,

And carriage of the article design’d,

His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,

Of unimproved mettle hot and full, 96

Hath in the skirts of Norway here and there

Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes,

For food and diet, to some enterprise

That hath a stomach in ’t; which is no other—

As it doth well appear unto our state— 101

But to recover of us, by strong hand

And terms compulsative, those foresaid lands

So by his father lost. And this, I take it, 104

Is the main motive of our preparations,

The source of this our watch and the chief head

Of this post-haste and romage in the land.

Ber

I think it be no other but e’en so; 108

Well may it sort that this portentous figure

Comes armed through our watch, so like the king

That was and is the question of these wars.

Hor.

A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. 112

In the most high and palmy state of Rome,

A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; 116

As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,

Disasters in the sun; and the moist star

Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands

Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse; 120

And even the like precurse of fierce events,

As harbingers preceding still the fates

And prologue to the omen coming on,

Have heaven and earth together demonstrated

Unto our climatures and countrymen. 125

But, soft! behold! lo! where it comes again.

Re-enter Ghost.

I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion!

If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 128

Speak to me:

If there be any good thing to be done,

That may to thee do ease and grace to me,

Speak to me: 132

If thou art privy to thy country’s fate,

Which happily foreknowing may avoid,

O! speak;

Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 136

Extorted treasure in the womb of earth,

For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death,

[Cock crows.

Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcellus. 139

Mar.

Shall I strike at it with my partisan?

Hor.

Do, if it will not stand.

Ber.

’Tis here!

Her.

’Tis here!

[Exit Ghost.

Mar.

’Tis gone!

We do it wrong, being so majestical,

To offer it the show of violence; 144

For it is, as the air, invulnerable,

And our vain blows malicious mockery.

Ber.

It was about to speak when the cock crew.

Hor.

And then it started like a guilty thing

Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 149

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,

Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat

Awake the god of day; and at his warning, 152

Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine; and of the truth herein

This present object made probation. 156

Mar.

It faded on the crowing of the cock.

Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

The bird of dawning singeth all night long; 160

And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad;

The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. 164

Hor.

So have I heard and do in part believe it.

But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad,

Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill;

Break we our watch up; and by my advice 168

Let us impart what we have seen to-night

Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,

This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.

Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,

As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? 173

Mar.

Let’s do’t, I pray; and I this morning know

Where we shall find him most conveniently.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room of State in the Castle.

Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants.

King.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death

The memory be green, and that it us befitted

To bear our hearts in grief and our whole kingdom

To be contracted in one brow of woe, 4

Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature

That we with wisest sorrow think on him,

Together with remembrance of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,

The imperial jointress of this war-like state, 9

Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy,

With one auspicious and one dropping eye,

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, 12

In equal scale weighing delight and dole,

Taken to wife: nor have we herein barr’d

Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone

With this affair along: for all, our thanks. 16

Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,

Holding a weak supposal of our worth,

Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death

Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 20

Colleagued with the dream of his advantage,

He hath not fail’d to pester us with message,

Importing the surrender of those lands

Lost by his father, with all bands of law, 24

To our most valiant brother. So much for him.

Now for ourself and for this time of meeting.

Thus much the business is: we have here writ

To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, 28

Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears

Of this his nephew’s purpose, to suppress

His further gait herein; in that the levies,

The lists and full proportions, are all made 32

Out of his subject; and we here dispatch

You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand,

For bearers of this greeting to old Norway,

Giving to you no further personal power 36

To business with the king more than the scope

Of these delated articles allow.

Farewell and let your haste commend your duty.

Cor.

In that and all things will we show our duty. 40

Vol.

In that and all things will we show our duty. 40

King.

We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.

[Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.

And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you?

You told us of some suit; what is’t, Laertes?

You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, 44

And lose your voice; what wouldst thou beg, Laertes,

That shall not be my offer, not thy asking?

The head is not more native to the heart,

The hand more instrumental to the mouth, 48

Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

Laer.

Dread my lord,

Your leave and favour to return to France;

From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, 52

To show my duty in your coronation,

Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,

My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France

And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. 56

King.

Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?

Pol.

He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave

By laboursome petition, and at last

Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent: 60

I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

King.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine,

And thy best graces spend it at thy will.

But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,— 64

Ham.

[Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind.

King.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Ham.

Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun.

Queen.

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, 68

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.

Do not for ever with thy vailed lids

Seek for thy noble father in the dust:

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that live must die, 72

Passing through nature to eternity.

Ham.

Ay, madam, it is common.

Queen.

If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee?

Ham.

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not ‘seems.’ 76

’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath,

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 80

Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,

Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,

That can denote me truly; these indeed seem,

For they are actions that a man might play: 84

But I have that within which passeth show;

These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

King.

’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,

To give these mourning duties to your father: 88

But, you must know, your father lost a father;

That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound

In filial obligation for some term

To do obsequious sorrow; but to persever 92

In obstinate condolement is a course

Of impious stubbornness; ’tis unmanly grief:

It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,

A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, 96

An understanding simple and unschool’d:

For what we know must be and is as common

As any the most vulgar thing to sense,

Why should we in our peevish opposition 100

Take it to heart? Fie! ’tis a fault to heaven,

A fault against the dead, a fault to nature,

To reason most absurd, whose common theme

Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, 104

From the first corse till he that died to-day,

‘This must be so.’ We pray you, throw to earth

This unprevailing woe, and think of us

As of a father; for let the world take note, 108

You are the most immediate to our throne;

And with no less nobility of love

Than that which dearest father bears his son

Do I impart toward you. For your intent 112

In going back to school in Wittenberg,

It is most retrograde to our desire;

And we beseech you, bend you to remain

Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 116

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

Queen.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:

I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

Ham.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

King.

Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply:

Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;

This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet

Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, 124

No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day,

But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,

And the king’s rouse the heavens shall bruit again,

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. 128

[Exeunt all except Hamlet.

Ham.

O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,

Thaw and resolve itself into a dew;

Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d

His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! 132

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world.

Fie on ’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature 136

Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:

So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother 140

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!

Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,

As if increase of appetite had grown 144

By what it fed on; and yet, within a month,

Let me not think on’t: Frailty, thy name is woman!

A little month; or ere those shoes were old

With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,

Like Niobe, all tears; why she, even she,— 149

O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,

Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle,

My father’s brother, but no more like my father

Than I to Hercules: within a month, 153

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears

Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,

She married. O! most wicked speed, to post

With such dexterity to incestuous sheets. 157

It is not nor it cannot come to good;

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue!

Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.

Hor.

Hail to your lordship!

Ham.

I am glad to see you well: 160

Horatio, or I do forget myself.

Hor.

The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Ham.

Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you.

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?

Marcellus? 165

Mar.

My good lord,—

Ham.

I am very glad to see you. [To Bernardo.] Good even, sir.

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

Hor.

A truant disposition, good my lord. 169

Ham.

I would not hear your enemy say so,

Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,

To make it truster of your own report 172

Against yourself; I know you are no truant.

But what is your affair in Elsinore?

We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

Hor.

My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. 176

Ham.

I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;

I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.

Hor.

Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.

Ham.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak’d meats 180

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven

Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio!

My father, methinks I see my father. 184

Hor.

O! where, my lord?

Ham.

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

Hor.

I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

Ham.

He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again. 188

Hor.

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Ham.

Saw who?

Hor.

My lord, the king your father.

Ham.

The king, my father!

Hor.

Season your admiration for a while 192

With an attent ear, till I may deliver,

Upon the witness of these gentlemen,

This marvel to you.

Ham.

For God’s love, let me hear.

Hor.

Two nights together had these gentlemen, 196

Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch,

In the dead vast and middle of the night,

Been thus encounter’d: a figure like your father,

Armed at points exactly, cap-a-pe, 200

Appears before them, and with solemn march

Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d

By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes,

Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d 204

Almost to jelly with the act of fear,

Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me

In dreadful secrecy impart they did,

And I with them the third night kept the watch;

Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, 209

Form of the thing, each word made true and good,

The apparition comes. I knew your father;

These hands are not more like.

Ham.

But where was this?

Mar.

My lord, upon the platform where we watch’d. 213

Ham.

Did you not speak to it?

Hor.

My lord, I did;

But answer made it none; yet once methought

It lifted up its head and did address 216

Itself to motion, like as it would speak;

But even then the morning cock crew loud,

And at the sound it shrunk in haste away

And vanish’d from our sight.

Ham.

’Tis very strange. 220

Hor.

As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis true;

And we did think it writ down in our duty

To let you know of it.

Ham.

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. 224

Hold you the watch to-night?

Mar.

We do, my lord.

Ber.

We do, my lord.

Ham.

Arm’d, say you?

Mar.

Arm’d, my lord.

Ber.

Arm’d, my lord.

Ham.

From top to toe?

Mar.

My lord, from head to foot.

Ber.

My lord, from head to foot.

Ham.

Then saw you not his face? 228

Hor.

O yes! my lord; he wore his beaver up.

Ham.

What! look’d he frowningly?

Hor.

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Ham.

Pale or red? 232

Hor.

Nay, very pale.

Ham.

And fix’d his eyes upon you?

Hor.

Most constantly.

Ham.

I would I had been there.

Hor.

It would have much amaz’d you.

Ham.

Very like, very like. Stay’d it long? 236

Hor

While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Mar.

Longer, longer.

Ber.

Longer, longer.

Hor.

Not when I saw it.

Ham.

His beard was grizzled, no?

Hor.

It was, as I have seen it in his life, 240

A sable silver’d.

Ham.

I will watch to-night;

Perchance ’twill walk again.

Hor.

I warrant it will.

Ham.

If it assume my noble father’s person,

I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape 244

And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,

If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight,

Let it be tenable in your silence still;

And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 248

Give it an understanding, but no tongue:

I will requite your loves. So, fare you well.

Upon the platform, ’twixt eleven and twelve,

I’ll visit you.

All.

Our duty to your honour. 252

Ham.

Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.

[Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.

My father’s spirit in arms! all is not well;

I doubt some foul play: would the night were come!

Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, 256

Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in Polonius’ House.

Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

Laer.

My necessaries are embark’d; farewell:

And, sister, as the winds give benefit

And convoy is assistant, do not sleep,

But let me hear from you.

Oph.

Do you doubt that? 4

Laer.

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour,

Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,

A violet in the youth of primy nature,

Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, 8

The perfume and suppliance of a minute;

No more.

Oph.

No more but so?

Laer.

Think it no more:

For nature, crescent, does not grow alone

In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes, 12

The inward service of the mind and soul

Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now,

And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch

The virtue of his will; but you must fear, 16

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own,

For he himself is subject to his birth;

He may not, as unvalu’d persons do,

Carve for himself, for on his choice depends 20

The safety and the health of the whole state;

And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d

Unto the voice and yielding of that body

Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, 24

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it

As he in his particular act and place

May give his saying deed; which is no further

Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. 28

Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain,

If with too credent ear you list his songs,

Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open

To his unmaster’d importunity. 32

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister;

And keep you in the rear of your affection,

Out of the shot and danger of desire.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough 36

If she unmask her beauty to the moon;

Virtue herself ’scapes not calumnious strokes;

The canker galls the infants of the spring

Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, 40

And in the morn and liquid dew of youth

Contagious blastments are most imminent.

Be wary then; best safety lies in fear:

Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. 44

Oph.

I shall th’ effect of this good lesson keep,

As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,

Whiles, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, 49

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,

And recks not his own rede.

Laer.

O! fear me not.

I stay too long; but here my father comes. 52

Enter Polonius.

A double blessing is a double grace;

Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Pol.

Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, 56

And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. 60

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar;

The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 64

Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware

Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in,

Bear ’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; 68

Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;

For the apparel oft proclaims the man, 72

And they in France of the best rank and station

Are most select and generous, chief in that.

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend, 76

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man. 80

Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!

Laer.

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Pol.

The time invites you; go, your servants tend.

Laer.

Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well

What I have said to you.

Oph.

’Tis in my memory lock’d,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 86

Laer.

Farewell.

[Exit.

Pol.

What is ’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

Oph.

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Pol.

Marry, well bethought:

’Tis told me, he hath very oft of late

Given private time to you; and you yourself 92

Have of your audience been most free and bounteous.

If it be so,—as so ’tis put on me,

And that in way of caution,—I must tell you,

You do not understand yourself so clearly 96

As it behoves my daughter and your honour.

What is between you? give me up the truth.

Oph.

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders

Of his affection to me. 100

Pol.

Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl,

Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

Oph.

I do not know, my lord, what I should think. 104

Pol.

Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby,

That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay,

Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly;

Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,

Running it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool. 109

Oph.

My lord, he hath importun’d me with love

In honourable fashion.

Pol.

Ay, fashion you may call it: go to, go to.

Oph.

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, 113

With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Pol.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,

When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul 116

Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,

Giving more light than heat, extinct in both,

Even in their promise, as it is a-making,

You must not take for fire. From this time 120

Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence;

Set your entreatments at a higher rate

Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,

Believe so much in him, that he is young, 124

And with a larger tether may he walk

Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia,

Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers,

Not of that dye which their investments show,

But mere implorators of unholy suits, 129

Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,

The better to beguile. This is for all:

I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,

Have you so slander any moment’s leisure, 133

As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to ’t, I charge you; come your ways.

Oph.

I shall obey, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Platform.

Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.

Ham.

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

Hor.

It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham.

What hour now?

Hor.

I think it lacks of twelve.

Mar.

No, it is struck. 4

Hor.

Indeed? I heard it not: then it draws near the season

Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

[A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off, within.

What does this mean, my lord?

Ham.

The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, 8

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels;

And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

The triumph of his pledge.

Hor.

Is it a custom? 12

Ham.

Ay, marry, is ’t:

But to my mind,—though I am native here

And to the manner born,—it is a custom

More honour’d in the breach than the observance. 16

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations;

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

Soil our addition; and indeed it takes 20

From our achievements, though perform’d at height,

The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So, oft it chances in particular men,

That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 24

As, in their birth,—wherein they are not guilty,

Since nature cannot choose his origin,—

By the o’ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,

Or by some habit that too much o’er-leavens 29

The form of plausive manners; that these men,

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star, 32

Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault: the dram of eale 36

Doth all the noble substance of a doubt,

To his own scandal.

Enter Ghost.

Hor.

Look, my lord, it comes.

Ham.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, 40

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com’st in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet,

King, father; royal Dane, O! answer me: 45

Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell

Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death,

Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, 49

Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws,

To cast thee up again. What may this mean,

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 52

Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,

Making night hideous; and we fools of nature

So horridly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? 56

Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?

[The Ghost beckons Hamlet.

Hor.

It beckons you to go away with it,

As if it some impartment did desire

To you alone.

Mar.

Look, with what courteous action 60

It waves you to a more removed ground:

But do not go with it.

Hor.

No, by no means.

Ham.

It will not speak; then, will I follow it.

Hor.

Do not, my lord.

Ham.

Why, what should be the fear? 64

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee;

And for my soul, what can it do to that,

Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again; I’ll follow it. 68

Hor.

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,

Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff

That beetles o’er his base into the sea,

And there assume some other horrible form, 72

Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason

And draw you into madness? think of it;

The very place puts toys of desperation,

Without more motive, into every brain 76

That looks so many fathoms to the sea

And hears it roar beneath.

Ham.

It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee.

Mar.

You shall not go, my lord.

Ham.

Hold off your hands! 80

Hor.

Be rul’d; you shall not go.

Ham.

My fate cries out,

And makes each petty artery in this body

As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

[Ghost beckons.

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen, 84

[Breaking from them.

By heaven! I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me:

I say, away! Go on, I’ll follow thee.

[Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.

Hor.

He wares desperate with imagination.

Mar.

Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him. 88

Hor.

Have after. To what issue will this come?

Mar.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Hor.

Heaven will direct it.

Mar.

Nay, let’s follow him.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Platform.

Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

Ham.

Whither wilt thou lead me? speak; I’ll go no further.

Ghost.

Mark me.

Ham.

I will.

Ghost.

My hour is almost come,

When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames

Must render up myself.

Ham.

Alas! poor ghost. 4

Ghost.

Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

To what I shall unfold.

Ham

Speak; I am bound to hear.

Ghost.

So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

Ham.

What? 8

Ghost.

I am thy father’s spirit;

Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day confin’d to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid 13

To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 16

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,

Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand an end,

Like quills upon the fretful porpentine: 20

But this eternal blazon must not be

To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!

If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

Ham.

O God! 24

Ghost.

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Ham.

Murder!

Ghost.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 28

Ham.

Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

As meditation or the thoughts of love,

May sweep to my revenge.

Ghost.

I find thee apt;

And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed

That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 33

Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:

’Tis given out that, sleeping in mine orchard,

A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark 36

Is by a forged process of my death

Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth,

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life

Now wears his crown.

Ham.

O my prophetic soul! 40

My uncle!

Ghost.

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,—

O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power 44

So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust

The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.

O Hamlet! what a falling-off was there;

From me, whose love was of that dignity 48

That it went hand in hand even with the vow

I made to her in marriage; and to decline

Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor

To those of mine! 52

But virtue, as it never will be mov’d,

Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,

So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,

Will sate itself in a celestial bed, 56

And prey on garbage.

But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;

Brief let me be. Sleeping within mine orchard,

My custom always in the afternoon, 60

Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,

With juice of cursed hebona in a vial,

And in the porches of mine ears did pour

The leperous distilment; whose effect 64

Holds such an enmity with blood of man

That swift as quicksilver it courses through

The natural gates and alleys of the body,

And with a sudden vigour it doth posset 68

And curd, like eager droppings into milk,

The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine;

And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,

All my smooth body. 73

Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand,

Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch’d;

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 76

Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d,

No reckoning made, but sent to my account

With all my imperfections on my head:

O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! 80

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be

A couch for luxury and damned incest.

But, howsoever thou pursu’st this act, 84

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive

Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven,

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once!

The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 89

And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire;

Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me.

[Exit.

Ham.

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? 92

And shall I couple hell? O fie! Hold, hold, my heart!

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,

But bear me stiffly up! Remember thee!

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe. Remember thee! 97

Yea, from the table of my memory

I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

That youth and observation copied there; 101

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven! 104

O most pernicious woman!

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!

My tables,—meet it is I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;

At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark: 109

[Writing.

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;

It is, ‘Adieu, adieu! remember me.

I have sworn ’t. 112

Hor.

[Within.] My lord! my lord!

Mar.

[Within.] Lord Hamlet!

Hor.

[Within.] Heaven secure him!

Mar.

[Within.] So be it!

Hor.

[Within.] Hillo, ho, ho, my lord!

Ham.

Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

Mar.

How is’t, my noble lord?

Hor.

What news, my lord? 117

Ham.

O! wonderful.

Hor.

Good my lord, tell it.

Ham.

No; you will reveal it.

Hor.

Not I, my lord, by heaven!

Mar

Nor I, my lord. 120

Ham.

How say you, then; would heart of man once think it?

But you’ll be secret?

Hor.

Ay, by heaven, my lord.

Mar.

Ay, by heaven, my lord.

Ham.

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark,

But he’s an arrant knave. 124

Hor.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave,

To tell us this.

Ham.

Why, right; you are i’ the right;

And so, without more circumstance at all,

I hold it fit that we shake hands and part; 128

You, as your business and desire shall point you,—

For every man hath business and desire,

Such as it is,—and, for mine own poor part,

Look you, I’ll go pray. 132

Hor.

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

Ham.

I am sorry they offend you, heartily;

Yes, faith, heartily.

Hor.

There’s no offence, my lord.

Ham.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, 136

And much offence, too. Touching this vision here,

It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you;

For your desire to know what is between us,

O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, 140

As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,

Give me one poor request.

Hor.

What is’t, my lord? we will.

Ham.

Never make known what you have seen to-night. 144

Hor.

My lord, we will not.

Mar.

My lord, we will not.

Ham.

Nay, but swear’t.

Hor.

In faith,

My lord, not I.

Mar.

Nor I, my lord, in faith.

Ham.

Upon my sword.

Mar.

We have sworn, my lord, already.

Ham.

Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. 148

Ghost.

[Beneath.] Swear.

Ham.

Ah, ha, boy! sayst thou so? art thou there, true-penny?

Come on,—you hear this fellow in the cellar-age,—

Consent to swear.

Hor.

Propose the oath, my lord. 152

Ham.

Never to speak of this that you have seen,

Swear by my sword.

Ghost.

[Beneath.] Swear.

Ham.

Hic et ubique? then we’ll shift our ground. 156

Come hither, gentlemen,

And lay your hands again upon my sword:

Never to speak of this that you have heard,

Swear by my sword. 160

Ghost.

[Beneath.] Swear.

Ham.

Well said, old mole! canst work i’ the earth so fast?

A worthy pioner! once more remove, good friends.

Hor.

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! 164

Ham.

And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

But come; 168

Here, as before, never, so help you mercy,

How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,

As I perchance hereafter shall think meet

To put an antic disposition on, 172

That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,

With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake,

Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,

As, ‘Well, well, we know,’ or, ‘We could, an if we would;’ 176

Or, ‘If we list to speak,’ or, ‘There be, an if they might;’

Or such ambiguous giving out, to note

That you know aught of me: this not to do,

So grace and mercy at your most need help you,

Swear. 180

Ghost.

[Beneath.] Swear.

[They swear.

Ham.

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen,

With all my love I do commend me to you:

And what so poor a man as Hamlet is 184

May do, to express his love and friending to you,

God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;

And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, 188

That ever I was born to set it right!

Nay, come, let’s go together.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Room in Polonius’ House

Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.

Pol.

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

Rey.

I will, my lord.

Pol.

You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,

Before you visit him, to make inquiry 4

Of his behaviour.

Rey.

My lord, I did intend it.

Pol.

Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir,

Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;

And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, 8

What company, at what expense; and finding

By this encompassment and drift of question

That they do know my son, come you more nearer

Than your particular demands will touch it: 12

Take you, as ’twere, some distant knowledge of him;

As thus, ‘I know his father, and his friends,

And, in part, him;’ do you mark this, Reynaldo?

Rey.

Ay, very well, my lord. 16

Pol.

‘And, in part, him; but,’ you may say, ‘not well:

But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild,

Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him

What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank

As may dishonour him; take heed of that; 21

But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips

As are companions noted and most known

To youth and liberty.

Rey.

As gaming, my lord? 24

Pol.

Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,

Drabbing; you may go so far.

Rey.

My lord, that would dishonour him.

Pol.

Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge. 28

You must not put another scandal on him,

That he is open to incontinency;

That’s not my meaning; but breathe his faults so quaintly

That they may seem the taints of liberty, 32

The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,

A savageness in unreclaimed blood,

Of general assault.

Rey.

But, my good lord,—

Pol.

Wherefore should you do this?

Rey.

Ay, my lord, 36

I would know that.

Pol.

Marry, sir, here’s my drift;

And, I believe, it is a fetch of warrant:

You laying these slight sullies on my son,

As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, 40

Mark you,

Your party in converse, him you would sound,

Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes

The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d, 44

He closes with you in this consequence;

‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman,’

According to the phrase or the addition

Of man and country.

Rey.

Very good, my lord. 48

Pol.

And then, sir, does he this,—he does,—what was I about to say? By the mass I was about to say something: where did I leave?

Rey.

At ‘closes in the consequence.’ 52

At ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’

Pol.

At ‘closes in the consequence,’ ay, marry;

He closes with you thus: ‘I know the gentleman;

I saw him yesterday, or t’ other day, 56

Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you say,

There was a’ gaming; there o’ertook in ’s rouse;

There falling out at tennis;’ or perchance,

‘I saw him enter such a house of sale,’ 60

Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth.

See you now;

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth;

And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, 64

With windlasses, and with assays of bias,

By indirections find directions out:

So by my former lecture and advice

Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

Rey.

My lord, I have.

Pol.

God be wi’ you; fare you well. 69

Rey.

Good my lord!

Pol.

Observe his inclination in yourself.

Rey.

I shall, my lord. 72

Pol.

And let him ply his music.

Rey.

Well, my lord.

Pol.

Farewell!

[Exit Reynaldo.

Enter Ophelia.

How now, Ophelia! what’s the matter?

Oph.

Alas! my lord, I have been so affrighted.

Pol.

With what, in the name of God? 76

Oph.

My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,

Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d;

No hat upon his head; his stockings foul’d,

Ungarter’d, and down-gyved to his ancle; 80

Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other;

And with a look so piteous in purport

As if he had been loosed out of hell

To speak of horrors, he comes before me. 84

Pol.

Mad for thy love?

Oph.

My lord, I do not know;

But truly I do fear it.

Pol.

What said he?

Oph.

He took me by the wrist and held me hard,

Then goes he to the length of all his arm, 88

And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,

He falls to such perusal of my face

As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so;

At last, a little shaking of mine arm, 92

And thrice his head thus waving up and down,

He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound

That it did seem to shatter all his bulk

And end his being. That done, he lets me go, 96

And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d,

He seem’d to find his way without his eyes;

For out o’ doors he went without their help,

And to the last bended their light on me. 100

Pol.

Come, go with me; I will go seek the king.

This is the very ecstasy of love,

Whose violent property fordoes itself

And leads the will to desperate undertakings

As oft as any passion under heaven 105

That does afflict our natures. I am sorry.

What! have you given him any hard words of late?

Oph.

No, my good lord; but, as you did command, 108

I did repel his letters and denied

His access to me.

Pol.

That hath made him mad.

I am sorry that with better heed and judgment

I had not quoted him; I fear’d he did but trifle,

And meant to wrack thee; but, beshrew my jealousy! 113

By heaven, it is as proper to our age

To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions

As it is common for the younger sort 116

To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king:

This must be known; which, being kept close, might move

More grief to hide than hate to utter love.

Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants.

King.

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

Moreover that we much did long to see you,

The need we have to use you did provoke

Our hasty sending. Something have you heard

Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, 5

Since nor the exterior nor the inward man

Resembles that it was. What it should be

More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him 8

So much from the understanding of himself,

I cannot dream of: I entreat you both,

That, being of so young days brought up with him,

And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour, 12

That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court

Some little time; so by your companies

To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather,

So much as from occasion you may glean, 16

Whe’r aught to us unknown afflicts him thus,

That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

Queen.

Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you;

And sure I am two men there are not living 20

To whom he more adheres. If it will please you

To show us so much gentry and good will

As to expend your time with us awhile,

For the supply and profit of our hope, 24

Your visitation shall receive such thanks

As fits a king’s remembrance.

Ros.

Both your majesties

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,

Put your dread pleasures more into command

Than to entreaty.

Guil.

But we both obey, 29

And here give up ourselves, in the full bent,

To lay our service freely at your feet,

To be commanded. 32

King.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Queen.

Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz;

And I beseech you instantly to visit

My too much changed son. Go, some of you, 36

And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Guil.

Heavens make our presence, and our practices

Pleasant and helpful to him!

Queen.

Ay, amen!

[Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some Attendants.

Enter Polonius.

Pol.

The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, 40

Are joyfully return’d.

King.

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

Pol.

Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,

I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, 44

Both to my God and to my gracious king;

And I do think—or else this brain of mine

Hunts not the trail of policy so sure

As it hath us’d to do—that I have found 48

The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

King.

O! speak of that; that do I long to hear.

Pol.

Give first admittance to the ambassadors;

My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. 52

King.

Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.

[Exit Polonius.

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found

The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

Queen.

I doubt it is no-other but the main;

His father’s death, and our o’erhasty marriage.

King.

Well, we shall sift him.

Re-enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cornelius.

Welcome, my good friends!

Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway?

Volt.

Most fair return of greetings, and desires. 60

Upon our first, he sent out to suppress

His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d

To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack;

But, better look’d into, he truly found 64

It was against your highness: whereat griev’d,

That so his sickness, age, and impotence

Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests

On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, 68

Receives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine,

Makes vow before his uncle never more

To give the assay of arms against your majesty.

Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, 72

Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee,

And his commission to employ those soldiers,

So levied as before, against the Polack;

With an entreaty, herein further shown, 76

[Giving a paper.

That it might please you to give quiet pass

Through your dominions for this enterprise,

On such regards of safety and allowance

As therein are set down.

King.

It likes us well; 80

And at our more consider’d time we’ll read,

Answer, and think upon this business:

Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour.

Go to your rest; at night we’ll feast together:

Most welcome home.

[Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.

Pol.

This business is well ended. 85

My liege, and madam, to expostulate

What majesty should be, what duty is,

Why day is day, night night, and time is time,

Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,

And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad: 92

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,

What is ’t but to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

Queen.

More matter, with less art.

Pol

Madam, I swear I use no art at all. 96

That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity;

And pity ’tis ’tis true: a foolish figure;

But farewell it, for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains

That we find out the cause of this effect, 101

Or rather say, the cause of this defect,

For this effect defective comes by cause;

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Perpend. 105

I have a daughter, have while she is mine;

Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,

Hath given me this: now, gather, and surmise.

To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia.— 109

That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’

is a vile phrase; but you shall hear. Thus:

In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.— 112

Queen.

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Pol.

Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.

Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move; 116

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

O dear Ophelia! I am ill at these numbers: I have not art to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best! believe it. Adieu.

Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,

Hamlet.

This in obedience hath my daughter shown me;

And more above, hath his solicitings,

As they fell out by time, by means, and place,

All given to mine ear.

King.

But how hath she 128

Receiv’d his love?

Pol.

What do you think of me?

King.

As of a man faithful and honourable.

Pol.

I would fain prove so. But what might you think, 131

When I had seen this hot love on the wing,—

As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that,

Before my daughter told me,—what might you,

Or my dear majesty, your queen here, think,

If I had play’d the desk or table-book, 136

Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb,

Or look’d upon this love with idle sight;

What might you think? No, I went round to work,

And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: 140

‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star;

This must not be:’ and then I precepts gave her,

That she should lock herself from his resort,

Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 144

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice;

And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make,—

Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,

Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, 148

Thence to a lightness; and by this declension

Into the madness wherein now he raves,

And all we wail for.

King.

Do you think ’tis this?

Queen.

It may be, very likely. 152

Pol.

Hath there been such a time,—I’d fain know that,—

That I have positively said, ‘’Tis so,’

When it prov’d otherwise?

King.

Not that I know.

Pol.

Take this from this, if this be otherwise:

[Pointing to his head and shoulder.

If circumstances lead me, I will find

Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed

Within the centre.

King.

How may we try it further?

Pol.

You know sometimes he walks four hours together 160

Here in the lobby.

Queen.

So he does indeed.

Pol.

At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him;

Be you and I behind an arras then;

Mark the encounter; if he love her not, 164

And be not from his reason fallen thereon,

Let me be no assistant for a state,

But keep a farm, and carters.

King.

We will try it.

Queen.

But look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. 168

Pol.

Away! I do beseech you, both away.

I’ll board him presently.

[Exeunt King, Queen, and Attendants.

Enter Hamlet, reading.

O! give me leave.

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Ham.

Well, God a-mercy. 172

Pol.

Do you know me, my lord?

Ham.

Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

Pol.

Not I, my lord.

Ham.

Then I would you were so honest a man. 177

Pol.

Honest, my lord!

Ham.

Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. 181

Pol.

That’s very true, my lord.

Ham.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter? 185

Pol.

I have, my lord.

Ham.

Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to ’t. 189

Pol.

[Aside.] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again. What do you read, my lord?

Ham.

Words, words, words. 196

Pol.

What is the matter, my lord?

Ham.

Between who?

Pol.

I mean the matter that you read, my lord. 200

Ham.

Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward. 210

Pol.

[Aside.] Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t. Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Ham.

Into my grave? 214

Pol.

Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [Aside.] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. 222

Ham.

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life.

Pol.

Fare you well, my lord.

[Going.

Ham.

These tedious old fools!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Pol.

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is. 228

Ros.

[To Polonius.] God save you, sir!

[Exit Polonius.

Guil.

Mine honoured lord!

Ros.

My most dear lord!

Ham.

My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both? 234

Ros.

As the indifferent children of the earth.

Guil.

Happy in that we are not over happy; On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

Ham.

Nor the soles of her shoe? 238

Ros.

Neither, my lord.

Ham.

Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? 241

Guil.

Faith, her privates we.

Ham.

In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true; she is a strumpet. What news? 244

Ros.

None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.

Ham.

Then is doomsday near; but your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?

Guil.

Prison, my lord! 252

Ham.

Denmark’s a prison.

Ros.

Then is the world one.

Ham.

A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ the worst. 257

Ros

We think not so, my lord.

Ham.

Why, then, ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. 261

Ros.

Why, then your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind.

Ham.

O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

Guil.

Which dreams, indeed, are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. 269

Ham.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

Ros.

Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. 273

Ham.

Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. 277

Ros.

We’ll wait upon you.

Guil.

We’ll wait upon you.

Ham.

No such matter; I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

Ros.

To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. 285

Ham.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.

Guil.

What should we say, my lord? 292

Ham.

Why anything, but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you. 297

Ros.

To what end, my lord?

Ham.

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no! 305

Ros.

[Aside to Guildenstern.] What say you?

Ham.

[Aside.] Nay, then, I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off. 309

Guil.

My lord, we were sent for.

Ham.

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so. 331

Ros.

My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

Ham.

Why did you laugh then, when I said, ‘man delights not me?’ 335

Ros.

To think, my lord; if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they coming, to offer you service. 340

Ham.

He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’ the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they? 349

Ros.

Even those you were wont to take delight in, the tragedians of the city.

Ham.

How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. 354

Ros.

I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.

Ham.

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

Ros.

No, indeed they are not. 359

Ham.

How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

Ros.

Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t: these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages,—so they call them,—that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither. 368

Ham.

What! are they children? who maintains ’em? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players,—as it is most like, if their means are no better,—their writers do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession? 376

Ros.

Faith, there has been much to-do on both sides: and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy: there was, for a while, no money bid for argument, unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. 381

Ham.

Is it possible?

Guil.

O! there has been much throwing about of brains. 384

Ham.

Do the boys carry it away?

Ros.

Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too. 387

Ham.

It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

[Flourish of trumpets within.

Guil.

There are the players. 395

Ham.

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then; the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players—which, I tell you, must show fairly outward—should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome; but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

Guil.

In what, my dear lord? 404

Ham.

I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Enter Polonius.

Pol.

Well be with you, gentlemen! 408

Ham.

Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too; at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts. 411

Ros.

Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

Ham.

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it. You say right, sir; o’ Monday morning; ’twas so indeed. 416

Pol.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

Ham.

My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome,—

Pol.

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Ham.

Buzz, buzz! 421

Pol.

Upon my honour,—

Ham.

Then came each actor on his ass,—

Pol.

The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.

Ham.

O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! 432

Pol.

What a treasure had he, my lord?

Ham.

Why

One fair daughter and no more,

The which he loved passing well. 436

Pol.

[Aside.] Still on my daughter.

Ham.

Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah?

Pol.

If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well. 440

Ham.

Nay, that follows not.

Pol.

What follows, then, my lord?

Ham.

Why,

As by lot, God wot. 444

And then, you know,

It came to pass, as most like it was.—

The first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgment comes.

Enter four or five Players.

You are welcome, masters; welcome, all. I am glad to see thee well: welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last: comest thou to beard me in Denmark? What! my young lady and mistress! By ’r lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see: we’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech. 461

First Play.

What speech, my good lord?

Ham.

I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; ’twas caviare to the general: but it was—as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I chiefly loved; ’twas Æneas’ tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line: let me see, let me see:— 480

Therugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,—

’tis not so, it begins with Pyrrhus:—

The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arm,

Black as his purpose, did the night resemble

When he lay couched in the ominous horse, 485

Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d

With heraldry more dismal; head to foot

Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d 488

With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,

Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets,

That lend a tyrannous and damned light

To their vile murders: rousted in wrath and fire, 492

And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore,

With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus

Old grandsire Priam seeks.

So proceed you. 496

Pol.

’Fore God, my lord, well spoken; with good accent and good discretion.

First Play.

Anon, he finds him

Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, 500

Repugnant to command. Unequal match’d,

Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide;

But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword

The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, 504

Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top

Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: for lo! his sword,

Which was declining on the milky head 508

Of rever end Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick:

So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood,

And like a neutral to his will and matter,

Did nothing. 512

But, as we often see, against some storm,

A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still,

The bold winds speechless and the orb below

As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder 516

Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus’ pause,

Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work;

And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall

On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne, 520

With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword

Now falls on Priam.

Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods,

In general synod, take away her power; 524

Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,

And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven,

As low as to the fiends!

Pol.

This is too long. 528

Ham.

It shall to the barber’s, with your beard. Prithee, say on: he’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. 532

First Play.

But who, O! who had seen the mobled queen—

Ham.

‘The mobled queen?’—

Pol.

That’s good; ‘mobled queen’ is good.

First Play.

Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning the flames 536

With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head

Where late the diadem stood; and, for a robe,

About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins,

A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up; 540

Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d,

’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d:

But if the gods themselves did see her then,

When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport

In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, 545

The instant burst of clamour that she made—

Unless things mortal move them not at all—

Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, 548

And passion in the gods.

Pol.

Look! wh’er he has not turned his colour and has tears in’s eyes. Prithee, no more. 551

Ham.

’Tis well; I’ll have thee speak out the rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Pol.

My lord, I will use them according to their desert. 560

Ham.

God’s bodikins, man, much better; use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. 565

Pol.

Come, sirs.

Ham.

Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-morrow. [Exit Polonius, with all the Players but the First.] Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the Murder of Gonzago? 570

First Play.

Ay, my lord.

Ham.

We’ll ha’t to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?

First Play.

Ay, my lord. 576

Ham.

Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player.] [To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] My good friends, I’ll leave you till night; you are welcome to Elsinore. 581

Ros.

Good my lord!

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Ham.

Ay, so, God be wi’ ye! Now I am alone.

O! what a rogue and peasant slave am I: 584

Is it not monstrous that this player here,

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,

Could force his soul so to his own conceit 587

That from her working all his visage wann’d,

Tears in his eyes, distraction in ’s aspect,

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting

With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!

For Hecuba! 592

What ’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba

That he should weep for her? What would he do

Had he the motive and the cue for passion

That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, 596

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,

Make mad the guilty and appal the free,

Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed

The very faculties of eyes and ears. 600

Yet I,

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,

Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,

And can say nothing; no, not for a king, 604

Upon whose property and most dear life

A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward?

Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?

Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? 608

Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the throat,

As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?

Ha!

Swounds, I should take it, for it cannot be 612

But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall

To make oppression bitter, or ere this

I should have fatted all the region kites

With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain!

Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! 617

O! vengeance!

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave

That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, 620

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,

And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion! 624

Fie upon’t! foh! About, my brain! I have heard,

That guilty creatures sitting at a play

Have by the very cunning of the scene

Been struck so to the soul that presently 628

They have proclaim’d their malefactions;

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak

With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players

Play something like the murder of my father 632

Before mine uncle; I’ll observe his looks;

I’ll tent him to the quick: if he but blench

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen

May be the devil: and the devil hath power 636

To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps

Out of my weakness and my melancholy—

As he is very potent with such spirits—

Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds 640

More relative than this: the play ’s the thing

Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

King.

And can you, by no drift of circumstance,

Get from him why he puts on this confusion,

Grating so harshly all his days of quiet

With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? 4

Ros.

He does confess he feels himself distracted;

But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Guil

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,

But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof, 8

When we would bring him on to some confession

Of his true state.

Queen.

Did he receive you well?

Ros.

Most like a gentleman.

Guil.

But with much forcing of his disposition. 12

Ros.

Niggard of question, but of our demands

Most free in his reply.

Queen.

Did you assay him

To any pastime?

Ros.

Madam, it so fell out that certain players 16

We o’er-raught on the way; of these we told him,

And there did seem in him a kind of joy

To hear of it: they are about the court,

And, as I think, they have already order 20

This night to play before him.

Pol.

’Tis most true;

And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties

To hear and see the matter.

King.

With all my heart; and it doth much content me 24

To hear him so inclin’d.

Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,

And drive his purpose on to these delights.

Ros.

We shall, my lord.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

King.

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;

For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, 29

That he, as ’twere by accident, may here

Affront Ophelia.

Her father and myself, lawful espials, 32

Will so bestow ourselves, that, seeing, unseen,

We may of their encounter frankly judge,

And gather by him, as he is behav’d,

If ’t be the affliction of his love or no 36

That thus he suffers for.

Queen.

I shall obey you.

And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish

That your good beauties be the happy cause

Of Hamlet’s wildness; so shall I hope your virtues 40

Will bring him to his wonted way again,

To both your honours.

Oph.

Madam, I wish it may.

[Exit Queen.

Pol.

Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you,

We will bestow ourselves. [To Ophelia.] Read on this book; 44

That show of such an exercise may colour

Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this,

’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage

And pious action we do sugar o’er 48

The devil himself.

King.

[Aside.] O! ’tis too true;

How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!

The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art,

Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it 52

Than is my deed to my most painted word:

O heavy burden!

Pol.

I hear him coming; let’s withdraw, my lord.

[Exeunt King and Polonius.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: 56

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and, by a sleep to say we end 61

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; 64

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There’s the respect 68

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay, 72

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, 76

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will, 80

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution 84

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action. Soft you now! 88

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.

Oph.

Good my lord,

How does your honour for this many a day?

Ham.

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

Oph.

My lord, I have remembrances of yours,

That I have longed long to re-deliver;

I pray you, now receive them.

Ham.

No, not I;

I never gave you aught. 96

Oph.

My honour’d lord, you know right well you did;

And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos’d

As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,

Take these again; for to the noble mind 100

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

There, my lord.

Ham.

Ha, ha! are you honest?

Oph.

My lord! 104

Ham.

Are you fair?

Oph.

What means your lordship?

Ham.

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. 109

Oph.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Ham.

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love thee once. 117

Oph.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Ham.

You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not.

Oph.

I was the more deceived. 123

Ham.

Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father? 135

Oph.

At home, my lord.

Ham.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.

Oph.

O! help him, you sweet heavens! 140

Ham.

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go; farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell. 148

Oph.

O heavenly powers, restore him!

Ham.

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages; those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

[Exit.

Oph.

O! what a noble mind is here o’erthrown:

The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword; 160

The expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion and the mould of form,

The observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 164

That suck’d the honey of his music vows,

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,

Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;

That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth 168

Blasted with ecstasy: O! woe is me,

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Re-enter King and Polonius.

King.

Love! his affections do not that way tend;

Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, 172

Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul

O’er which his melancholy sits on brood;

And, I do doubt, the hatch and the disclose

Will be some danger; which for to prevent, 176

I have in quick determination

Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England,

For the demand of our neglected tribute:

Haply the seas and countries different 180

With variable objects shall expel

This something-settled matter in his heart,

Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus

From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?

Pol.

It shall do well: but yet do I believe 185

The origin and commencement of his grief

Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia!

You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said;

We heard it all. My lord, do as you please; 189

But, if you hold it fit, after the play,

Let his queen mother all alone entreat him

To show his griefs: let her be round with him; 192

And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear

Of all their conference. If she find him not,

To England send him, or confine him where

Your wisdom best shall think.

King.

It shall be so: 196

Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Hall in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet and certain Players.

Ham.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and—as I may say—whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O! it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwigpated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rage, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’er-doing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. 17

First Play.

I warrant your honour.

Ham.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O! there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 40

First Play

I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us.

Ham.

O! reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered; that’s villanous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready.

[Exeunt Players.

Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

How now, my lord! will the king hear this piece of work? 52

Pol.

And the queen too, and that presently.

Ham.

Bid the players make haste.

[Exit Polonius.

Will you two help to hasten them?

Ros.

We will, my lord. 56

Guil.

We will, my lord. 56

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Ham.

What, ho! Horatio!

Enter Horatio.

Hor.

Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Ham.

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man

As e’er my conversation cop’d withal. 60

Hor.

O! my dear lord,—

Ham.

Nay, do not think I flatter;

For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That no revenue hast but thy good spirits

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? 64

No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice

And could of men distinguish, her election 69

Hath seal’d thee for herself; for thou hast been

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,

A man that fortune’s buffets and rewards 72

Hast ta’en with equal thanks; and bless’d are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well comingled

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger

To sound what stop she please. Give me that man 76

That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him

In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,

As I do thee. Something too much of this.

There is a play to-night before the king; 80

One scene of it comes near the circumstance

Which I have told thee of my father’s death:

I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,

Even with the very comment of thy soul 84

Observe mine uncle; if his occulted guilt

Do not itself unkennel in one speech,

It is a damned ghost that we have seen,

And my imaginations are as foul 88

As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note;

For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,

And after we will both our judgments join

In censure of his seeming.

Hor.

Well, my lord: 92

If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,

And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

Ham.

They are coming to the play; I must be idle:

Get you a place. 96

Danish march. A Flourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Others.

King.

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Ham.

Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed; you cannot feed capons so. 100

King.

I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.

Ham.

No, nor mine now. [To Polonius.] My lord, you played once i’ the university, you say? 105

Pol.

That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.

Ham.

And what did you enact? 108

Pol.

I did enact Julius Cæsar: I was killed i’ the Capitol; Brutus killed me.

Ham.

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the playcrs ready? 112

Ros.

Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.

Queen.

Come hither, my good Hamlet, sit by me. 116

Ham.

No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

Pol.

[To the King.] O ho! do you mark that?

Ham.

Lady, shall I lie in your lap? 120

[Lying down at Ophelia’s feet.

Oph.

No, my lord.

Ham.

I mean, my head upon your lap?

Oph.

Ay, my lord.

Ham.

Do you think I meant country matters?

Oph.

I think nothing, my lord. 125

Ham.

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

Oph.

What is, my lord? 128

Ham.

Nothing.

Oph.

You are merry, my lord.

Ham.

Who, I?

Oph.

Ay, my lord. 132

Ham.

O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours. 136

Oph.

Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

Ham.

So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year; but, by’r lady, he must build churches then, or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, ‘For, O! for, O! the hobby-horse is forgot.’ 146

Hautboys play. The dumb-show enters.

Enter a King and a Queen, very lovingly; the Queen embracing him, and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck; lays him down upon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, and pours poison in the King’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner, with some two or three Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems loath and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.

[Exeunt.

Oph.

What means this, my lord?

Ham.

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief. 149

Oph.

Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

Enter Prologue.

Ham.

We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all. 153

Oph.

Will he tell us what this show meant?

Ham.

Ay, or any show that you’ll show him; be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means. 157

Oph.

You are naught, you are naught. I’ll mark the play.

Pro.

For us and for our tragedy, 160

Here stooping to your clemency,

We beg your hearing patiently.

Ham.

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? 164

Oph.

’Tis brief, my lord.

Ham.

As woman’s love.

Enter two Players, King and Queen.

P. King.

Full thirty times hath Phœbus’ cart gone round 167

Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground,

And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen

About the world have times twelve thirties been,

Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands

Unite commutual in most sacred bands. 172

P. Queen.

So many journeys may the sun and moon

Make us again count o’er ere love be done!

But, woe is me! you are so sick of late, 175

So far from cheer and from your former state,

That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,

Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must;

For women’s fear and love holds quantity,

In neither aught, or in extremity. 180

Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know;

And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;

Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. 184

P. King.

Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;

My operant powers their functions leave to do:

And thou shall live in this fair world behind,

Honour’d, belov’d; and haply one as kind 188

For husband shalt thou—

P. Queen.

O! confound the rest;

Such love must needs be treason in my breast:

In second husband let me be accurst:

None wed the second but who kill’d the first. 192

Ham.

[Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood.

P. Queen.

The instances that second marriage move,

Are base respects of thrift, but none of love;

A second time I kill my husband dead, 196

When second husband kisses me in bed.

P. King.

I do believe you think what now you speak;

But what we do determine oft we break.

Purpose is but the slave to memory, 200

Of violent birth, but poor validity;

Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,

But fall unshaken when they mellow be.

Most necessary ’tis that we forget 204

To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt;

What to ourselves in passion we propose,

The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

The violence of either grief or joy 208

Their own enactures with themselves destroy;

Where joy most revels grief doth most lament,

Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.

This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange,

That even our love should with our fortunes change; 213

For ’tis a question left us yet to prove

Whe’r love lead fortune or else fortune love.

The great man down, you mark his favourite flies; 216

The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies.

And hitherto doth love on fortune tend,

For who not needs shall never lack a friend;

And who in want a hollow friend doth try 220

Directly seasons him his enemy.

But, orderly to end where I begun,

Our wills and fates do so contrary run

That our devices still are overthrown, 224

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own:

So think thou wilt no second husband wed;

But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead

P. Queen.

Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! 228

Sport and repose lock from me day and night!

To desperation turn my trust and hope!

An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope!

Each opposite that blanks the face of joy 232

Meet what I would have well, and it destroy!

Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,

If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

Ham.

If she should break it now! 236

P. King.

’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile

The tedious day with sleep.

[Sleeps.

P. Queen.

Sleep rock thy brain;

And never come mischance between us twain!

[Exit.

Ham.

Madam, how like you this play? 241

Queen.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Ham.

O! but she’ll keep her word. 244

King.

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in ’t?

Ham.

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world. 248

King.

What do you call the play?

Ham.

The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work: but what of that? your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung. 257

Enter Player as Lucianus.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.

Oph.

You are a good chorus, my lord.

Ham.

I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. 261

Oph.

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

Ham.

It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. 264

Oph.

Still better, and worse.

Ham.

So you must take your husbands. Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come; the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. 269

Luc.

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;

Confederate season, else no creature seeing;

Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,

With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,

Thy natural magic and dire property, 274

On wholesome life usurp immediately.

[Pours the poison into the Sleeper’s ears.

Ham.

He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. Hisname’s Gonzago; the story is extant, and writ in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife. 280

Oph.

The king rises.

Ham.

What! frighted with false fire?

Queen.

How fares my lord?

Pol.

Give o’er the play. 284

King.

Give me some light: away!

All.

Lights, lights, lights!

[Exeunt all except Hamlet and Horatio.

Ham.

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungalled play; 288

For some must watch, while some must sleep:

So runs the world away.

Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me, with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?

Hor.

Half a share.

Ham.

A whole one, I. 296

For thou dost know, O Damon dear,

This realm dismantled was

Of Jove himself; and now reigns here

A very, very—pajock. 300

Hor.

You might have rimed.

Ham.

O good Horatio! I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?

Hor.

Very well, my lord. 304

Ham.

Upon the talk of the poisoning?

Hor.

I did very well note him.

Ham.

Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the recorders! 308

For if the king like not the comedy,

Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy.

Come, some music!

Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Guil.

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. 313

Ham.

Sir, a whole history.

Guil.

The king, sir,—

Ham.

Ay, sir, what of him? 316

Guil

Is in his retirement marvellous distempered.

Ham.

With drink, sir?

Guil.

No, my lord, rather with choler. 320

Ham.

Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler. 324

Guil

Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

Ham.

I am tame, sir; pronounce. 328

Guil.

The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

Ham.

You are welcome. 331

Guil.

Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business. 337

Ham.

Sir, I cannot.

Guil.

What, my lord?

Ham.

Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s diseased; but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, you say,— 344

Ros

Then, thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amasement and admiration.

Ham.

O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart. 349

Ros.

She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

Ham.

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

Ros.

My lord, you once did love me.

Ham.

So I do still, by these pickers and stealers. 356

Ros.

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do surely bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. 360

Ham.

Sir, I lack advancement.

Ros.

How can that be when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark? 364

Ham.

Ay, sir, but ‘While the grass grows,’—the proverb is something musty.

Enter Players, with recorders.

O! the recorders: let me see one. To withdraw with you: why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guil

O! my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Ham.

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? 373

Guil.

My lord, I cannot.

Ham.

I pray you.

Guil.

Believe me, I cannot. 376

Ham.

I do beseech you.

Guil.

I know no touch of it, my lord.

Ham.

’Tis as easy as lying; govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guil.

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill. 385

Ham.

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. 396

Enter Polonius.

God bless you, sir!

Pol.

My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.

Ham.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? 401

Pol.

By the mass, and ’tis like a camel, indeed.

Ham.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

Pol.

It is backed like a weasel. 404

Ham.

Or like a whale?

Pol.

Very like a whale.

Ham.

Then I will come to my mother by and by [Aside.] They fool me to the top of my bent. [Aloud.] I will come by and by. 409

Pol.

I will say so.

[Exit.

Ham.

By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends.

[Exeunt all but Hamlet.

’Tis now the very witching time of night, 413

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day 416

Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.

O heart! lose not thy nature; let not ever

The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom;

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; 420

I will speak daggers to her, but use none;

My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites;

How in my words soever she be shent,

To give them seals never, my soul, consent! 424

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

King.

I like him not, nor stands it safe with us

To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;

I your commission will forth with dispatch,

And he to England shall along with you. 4

The terms of our estate may not endure

Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow

Out of his lunacies.

Guil.

We will ourselves provide.

Most holy and religious fear it is 8

To keep those many many bodies safe

That live and feed upon your majesty.

Ros.

The single and peculiar life is bound

With all the strength and armour of the mind

To keep itself from noyance; but much more 13

That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest

The lives of many. The cease of majesty

Dies not alone, but, like a gulf doth draw 16

What’s near it with it; it is a massy wheel,

Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount,

To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things

Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it falls, 20

Each small annexment, petty consequence,

Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone

Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

King.

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; 24

For we will fetters put upon this fear,

Which now goes too free-footed.

Ros.

We will haste us.

Guil.

We will haste us.

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Enter Polonius.

Pol.

My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet:

Behind the arras I’ll convey myself 28

To hear the process; I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home;

And, as you said, and wisely was it said,

’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother,

Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear 32

The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege:

I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed

And tell you what I know.

King.

Thanks, dear my lord.

[Exit Polonius.

O! my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; 36

It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t;

A brother’s murder! Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will:

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; 40

And, like a man to double business bound,

I stand in pause where I shall first begin,

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, 44

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy

But to confront the visage of offence?

And what’s in prayer but this two-fold force, 48

To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardon’d, being down? Then, I’ll look up;

My fault is past. But, O! what form of prayer

Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder?’ 52

That cannot be; since I am still possess’d

Of those effects for which I did the murder,

My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.

May one be pardon’d and retain the offence? 56

In the corrupted currents of this world

Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,

And oft ’tis seen the wicked prise itself

Buys out the law; but ’tis not so above; 60

There is no shuffling, there the action lies

In his true nature, and we ourselves compell’d

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults

To give in evidence. What then? what rests?

Try what repentance can: what can it not? 65

Yet what can it, when one can not repent?

O wretched state! O bosom black as death!

O limed soul, that struggling to be free 68

Art more engaged! Help, angels! make assay;

Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe.

All may be well.

[Retires and kneels.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; 73

And now I’ll do’t: and so he goes to heaven;

And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d:

A villain kills my father; and for that, 76

I, his sole son, do this same villain send

To heaven.

Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge.

He took my father grossly, full of bread, 80

With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May;

And how his audit stands who knows save heaven?

But in our circumstance and course of thought

’Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng’d,

To take him in the purging of his soul, 85

When he is fit and season’d for his passage?

No.

Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent; 88

When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,

Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed,

At gaming, swearing, or about some act

That has no relish of salvation in’t; 92

Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,

And that his soul may be as damn’d and black

As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:

This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.

[Exit.

The King rises and advances.

King.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: 97

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Queen’s Apartment.

Enter Queen and Polonius.

Pol.

He will come straight. Look you lay home to him;

Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,

And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood between

Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. 4

Pray you, be round with him.

Ham.

[Within.] Mother, mother, mother!

Queen.

I’ll warrant you;

Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming.

Polonius hides behind the arras.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham.

Now, mother, what’s the matter? 8

Queen

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Ham.

Mother, you have my father much offended.

Queen.

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

Ham.

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. 12

Queen.

Why, how now, Hamlet!

Ham.

What’s the matter now?

Queen.

Have you forgot me?

Ham.

No, by the rood, not so:

You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife;

And,—would it were not so!—you are my mother. 16

Queen.

Nay then, I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Ham.

Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;

You go not, till I set you up a glass

Where you may see the inmost part of you. 20

Queen.

What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?

Help, help, ho!

Pol.

[Behind.] What, ho! help! help! help!

Ham.

[Draws.] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

[Makes a pass through the arras.

Pol.

[Behind.] O! I am slain. 24

Queen

O me! what hast thou done?

Ham.

Nay, I know not: is it the king?

Queen.

O! what a rash and bloody deed is this!

Ham.

A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother, 28

As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

Queen.

As kill a king!

Ham.

Ay, lady, ’twas my word.

[Lifts up the arras and discovers Polonius.

[To Polonius.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune; 32

Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.

Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down,

And let me wring your heart; for so I shall

If it be made of penetrable stuff, 36

If damned custom have not brass’d it so

That it is proof and bulwark against sense

Queen.

What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue

In noise so rude against me?

Ham.

Such an act 40

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,

Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose

From the fair forehead of an innocent love

And sets a blister there, makes marriage vows

As false as dicers’ oaths; O! such a deed 45

As from the body of contraction plucks

The very soul, and sweet religion makes

A rhapsody of words; heaven’s face doth glow,

Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 49

With tristful visage, as against the doom,

Is thought-sick at the act.

Queen.

Ay me! what act,

That roars so loud and thunders in the index?

Ham.

Look here, upon this picture, and on this; 53

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

See, what a grace was seated on this brow;

Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, 56

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command,

A station like the herald Mercury

New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill,

A combination and a form indeed, 60

Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man.

This was your husband: look you now, what follows.

Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear, 64

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?

You cannot call it love, for at your age 68

The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble,

And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment

Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,

Else could you not have motion; but sure, that sense 72

Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err,

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thrall’d

But it reserv’d some quantity of choice, 75

To serve in such a difference. What devil was ’t

That thus hath comen’d you at hoodman-blind?

Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,

Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,

Or but a sickly part of one true sense 80

Could not so mope.

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,

If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones,

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, 84

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame

When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

Since first itself as actively doth burn,

And reason panders will.

Queen.

O Hamlet! speak no more;

Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul; 89

And there I see such black and grained spots

As will not leave their tinct.

Ham.

Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, 92

Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty,—

Queen.

O! speak to me no more;

These words like daggers enter in mine ears;

No more, sweet Hamlet!

Ham.

A murderer, and a villain;

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe 97

Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;

A cut-purse of the empire and the rule,

That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 100

And put it in his pocket!

Queen.

No more!

Ham.

A king of shreds and patches,—

Enter Ghost.

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? 104

Queen.

Alas! he’s mad!

Ham.

Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by

The important acting of your dread command?

O! say.

Ghost.

Do not forget: this visitation 109

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But, look! amazement on thy mother sits;

O! step between her and her fighting soul; 112

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:

Speak to her, Hamlet.

Ham.

How is it with you, lady?

Queen.

Alas! how is’t with you,

That you do bend your eye on vacancy 116

And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?

Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;

And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,

Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, 120

Starts up and stands an end. O gentle son!

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper

Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

Ham.

On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! 124

His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones,

Would make them capable. Do not look upon me;

Lest with this piteous action you convert

My stern effects: then what I have to do 128

Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

Queen.

To whom do you speak this?

Ham.

Do you see nothing there?

Queen.

Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

Ham.

Nor did you nothing hear?

Queen.

No, nothing but ourselves.

Ham.

Why, look you there! look, how it steals away; 133

My father, in his habit as he liv’d;

Look! where he goes, even now, out at the portal.

[Exit Ghost.

Queen.

This is the very coinage of your brain: 136

This bodiless creation ecstasy

Is very cunning in.

Ham.

Ecstasy!

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

And makes as healthful music. It is not madness 141

That I have utter’d: bring me to the test,

And I the matter will re-word, which madness

Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 145

That not your trespass but my madness speaks;

It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,

Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, 148

Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;

Repent what’s past; avoid what is to come;

And do not spread the compost on the weeds

To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; 152

For in the fatness of these pursy times

Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,

Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

Queen.

O Hamlet! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 156

Ham.

O! throw away the worser part of it,

And live the purer with the other half.

Good night; but go not to mine uncle’s bed;

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 160

That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,

Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,

That to the use of actions fair and good

He likewise gives a frock or livery, 164

That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night;

And that shall lend a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence: the next more easy;

For use almost can change the stamp of nature,

And master ev’n the devil or throw him out 169

With wondrous potency. Once more, goodnight:

And when you are desirous to be bless’d,

I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord, 172

[Pointing to Polonius.

I do repent: but heaven hath pleas’d it so,

To punish me with this, and this with me,

That I must be their scourge and minister.

I will bestow him, and will answer well 176

The death I gave him. So, again, good-night.

I must be cruel only to be kind:

Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.

One word more, good lady.

Queen.

What shall I do? 180

Ham.

Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:

Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;

Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;

And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, 184

Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers,

Make you to ravel all this matter out,

That I essentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know; 188

For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise,

Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,

Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?

No, in despite of sense and secrecy, 192

Unpeg the basket on the house’s top,

Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,

To try conclusions, in the basket creep,

And break your own neck down. 196

Queen.

Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath,

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe

What thou hast said to me.

Ham.

I must to England; you know that?

Queen.

Alack!

I had forgot: ’tis so concluded on. 201

Ham.

There’s letters seal’d; and my two schoolfellows,

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,

They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way,

And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; 205

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer

Hoist with his own petar: and it shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines, 208

And blow them at the moon. O! ’tis most sweet,

When in one line two crafts directly meet.

This man shall set me packing;

I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. 212

Mother, good-night. Indeed this counsellor

Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,

Who was in life a foolish prating knave.

Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. 216

Good-night, mother.

[Exeunt severally; Hamlet dragging in the body of Polonius.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

King.

There’s matter in these sighs, these profound heaves:

You must translate; ’tis fit we understand them.

Where is your son?

Queen.

[To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] Bestow this place on us a little while. 4

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Ah! my good lord, what have I seen to-night.

King.

What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?

Queen.

Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend

Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit, 8

Behind the arras hearing something stir,

Whips out his rapier, cries, ‘A rat! a rat!’

And, in his brainish apprehension, kills

The unseen good old man.

King.

O heavy deed! 12

It had been so with us had we been there.

His liberty is full of threats to all;

To you yourself, to us, to every one.

Alas! how shall this bloody deed be answer’d?

It will be laid to us, whose providence 17

Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt,

This mad young man: but so much was our love,

We would not understand what was most fit, 20

But, like the owner of a foul disease,

To keep it from divulging, let it feed

Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?

Queen.

To draw apart the body he hath kill’d; 24

O’er whom his very madness, like some ore

Among a mineral of metals base,

Shows itself pure: he weeps for what is done.

King.

O Gertrude! come away. 28

The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch

But we will ship him hence; and this vile deed

We must, with all our majesty and skill,

Both countenance and excuse. Ho! Guildenstern! 32

Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Friends both, go join you with some further aid:

Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,

And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him:

Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body

Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this. 37

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends;

And let them know both what we mean to do,

And what’s untimely done: so, haply, slander,

Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, 41

As level as the cannon to his blank

Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name,

And hit the woundless air. O! come away; 44

My soul is full of discord and dismay.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Hamlet.

Ham.

Safely stowed.

Ros.

[Within.] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!

Guil.

[Within.] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!

Ham.

What noise? who calls on Hamlet?

O! here they come. 4

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Ros.

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?

Ham.

Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Ros.

Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence

And bear it to the chapel. 8

Ham.

Do not believe it.

Ros.

Believe what?

Ham.

That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! what replication should be made by the son of a king? 14

Ros.

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ham.

Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again. 23

Ros.

I understand you not, my lord.

Ham.

I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

Ros.

My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king. 28

Ham.

The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing—

Guil.

A thing, my lord!

Ham.

Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter King, attended.

King.

I have sent to seek him, and to find the body.

How dangerous is it that this man goes loose!

Yet must not we put the strong law on him:

He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, 4

Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes;

And where ’tis so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d,

But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,

This sudden sending him away must seem 8

Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown

By desperate appliance are reliev’d,

Or not at all.

Enter Rosencrantz.

How now! what hath befall’n?

Ros.

Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, 12

We cannot get from him.

King.

But where is he?

Ros.

Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.

King.

Bring him before us.

Ros.

Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord. 16

Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.

King.

Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

Ham.

At supper.

King.

At supper! Where?

Ham.

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service; two dishes, but to one table: that’s the end.

King.

Alas, alas! 28

Ham.

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

King.

What dost thou mean by this? 32

Ham.

Nothing, but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.

King.

Where is Polonius? 35

Ham.

In heaven; send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. 40

King.

[To some Attendants.] Go seek him there.

Ham.

He will stay till you come.

[Exeunt Attendants.

King.

Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,

Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve 44

For that which thou hast done, must send thee hence

With fiery quickness: therefore prepare thyself;

The bark is ready, and the wind at help,

The associates tend, and every thing is bent 48

For England.

Ham.

For England!

King.

Ay, Hamlet.

Ham.

Good.

King.

So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.

Ham.

I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother. 52

King.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

Ham.

My mother: father and mother is man and wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so, my mother. Come, for England!

[Exit.

King.

Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard: 57

Delay it not, I’ll have him hence to-night.

Away! for every thing is seal’d and done

That else leans on the affair: pray you, make haste. 60

[Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,—

As my great power thereof may give thee sense,

Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red

After the Danish sword, and thy free awe 64

Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set

Our sovereign process, which imports at full,

By letters conjuring to that effect,

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;

For like the hectic in my blood he rages, 69

And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,

Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— A Plain in Denmark.

Enter Fortinbras, a Captain, and Soldiers, marching.

For.

Go, captain, from me greet the Danish king;

Tell him that, by his licence, Fortinbras

Claims the conveyance of a promis’d march

Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. 4

If that his majesty would aught with us,

We shall express our duty in his eye,

And let him know so.

Cap.

I will do ’t, my lord.

For.

Go softly on. 8

[Exeunt Fortinbras and Soldiers.

Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, &c.

Ham.

Good sir, whose powers are these?

Cap.

They are of Norway, sir.

Ham.

How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?

Cap.

Against some part of Poland. 12

Ham.

Who commands them, sir?

Cap.

The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.

Ham.

Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,

Or for some frontier? 16

Cap.

Truly to speak, and with no addition,

We go to gain a little patch of ground

That hath in it no profit but the name.

To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; 20

Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole

A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

Ham.

Why, then the Polack never will defend it.

Cap.

Yes, ’tis already garrison’d. 24

Ham.

Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats

Will not debate the question of this straw:

This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace,

That inward breaks, and shows no cause without 28

Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.

Cap.

God be wi’ you, sir.

[Exit.

Ros.

Will ’t please you go, my lord?

Ham.

I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.

[Exeunt all except Hamlet.

How all occasions do inform against me, 32

And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,

If his chief good and market of his time

Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

Sure he that made us with such large discourse, 36

Looking before and after, gave us not

That capability and god-like reason

To fust in us unus’d. Now, whe’r it be

Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 40

Of thinking too precisely on the event,

A thought, which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom,

And ever three parts coward, I do not know

Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do;’ 44

Sith I have cause and will and strength and means

To do ’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me:

Witness this army of such mass and charge

Led by a delicate and tender prince, 48

Whose spirit with divine ambition puff’d

Makes mouths at the invisible event,

Exposing what is mortal and unsure

To all that fortune, death and danger dare, 52

Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great

Is not to stir without great argument,

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw

When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then,

That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, 57

Excitements of my reason and my blood,

And let all sleep, while, to my shame, I see

The imminent death of twenty thousand men,

That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, 61

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot

Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,

Which is not tomb enough and continent 64

To hide the slaim? O! from this time forth,

My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

[Exit.

Scene V.— Elsinore. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Queen, Horatio, and a Gentleman.

Queen.

I will not speak with her.

Gent.

She is importunate, indeed distract:

Her mood will needs be pitied.

Queen.

What would she have?

Gent.

She speaks much of her father; says she hears 4

There’s tricks i’ the world; and hems, and beats her heart;

Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,

That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move 8

The hearers to collection; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,

Indeed would make one think there might be thought, 12

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

Hor

’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen.

Let her come in.

[Exit Gentleman.

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, 17

Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. 20

Re-enter Gentleman, with Ophelia.

Oph.

Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Queen.

How now, Ophelia!

Oph.

How should I your true love know

From another one? 24

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.

Queen.

Alas! sweet lady, what imports this song?

Oph.

Say you? nay, pray you, mark. 28

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf;

At his heals a stone. 32

O, ho!

Queen.

Nay, but Ophelia,—

Oph.

Pray you, mark.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,— 36

Enter King.

Queen.

Alas! look here, my lord.

Oph.

Larded with sweet flowers;

Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers. 40

King.

How do you, pretty lady?

Oph.

Well, God ’ild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! 45

King.

Conceit upon her father.

Oph.

Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,  49

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine:  52

Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,

And dupp’d the chamber door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.  56

King.

Pretty Ophelia!

Oph.

Indeed, la! without an oath, I’ll make an end on ’t:

By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fie for shame! 60

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;

By Cock they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

You promis’d me to wed: 64

So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.

King.

How long hath she been thus? 67

Oph.

I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night.

[Exit.

King.

Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[Exit Horatio.

O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs 76

All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude!

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions. First, her father slain;

Next, your son gone; but he most violent author 80

Of his own just remove: the people muddied,

Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers,

For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly,

In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia

Divided from herself and her fair judgment, 85

Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts:

Last, and as much containing as all these,

Her brother is in secret come from France, 88

Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,

And wants not buzzers to infect his ear

With pestilent speeches of his father’s death;

Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, 92

Will nothing stick our person to arraign

In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude! this,

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places

Gives me superfluous death.

[A noise within.

Queen.

Alack! what noise is this?

Enter a Gentleman.

King.

Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. 97

What is the matter?

Gen.

Save yourself, my lord;

The ocean, overpeering of his list,

Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste

Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, 101

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord;

And, as the world were now but to begin,

Antiquity forgot, custom not known, 104

The ratifiers and props of every word,

They cry, ‘Choose we; Laertes shall be king!’

Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,

‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!’ 108

Queen.

How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!

O! this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

King.

The doors are broke.

[Noise within.

Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.

Laer.

Where is the king? Sirs, stand you all without. 112

Danes.

No, let’s come in.

Laer.

I pray you, give me leave.

Danes.

We will, we will.

[They retire without the door.

Laer.

I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king!

Give me my father.

Queen.

Calmly, good Laertes. 116

Laer.

That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard,

Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot

Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow

Of my true mother.

King.

What is the cause, Laertes,

That thy rebellion looks so giant-like? 121

Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person:

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,

That treason can but peep to what it would,

Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, 125

Why thou art thus incens’d. Let him go, Gertrude.

Speak, man.

Laer.

Where is my father?

King.

Dead.

Queen.

But not by him.

King.

Let him demand his fill. 128

Laer.

How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with.

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil!

Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!

I dare damnation. To this point I stand, 132

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d

Most throughly for my father.

King.

Who shall stay you?

Laer.

My will, not all the world: 136

And, for my means, I’ll husband them so well,

They shall go far with little.

King.

Good Laertes,

If you desire to know the certainty

Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge, 140

That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe,

Winner and loser?

Laer.

None but his enemies.

King.

Will you know them then?

Laer.

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; 144

And like the kind life-rendering pelican,

Repast them with my blood.

King.

Why, now you speak

Like a good child and a true gentleman.

That I am guiltless of your father’s death, 148

And am most sensibly in grief for it,

It shall as level to your judgment pierce

As day does to your eye.

Danes.

[Within.] Let her come in.

Laer.

How now! what noise is that? 152

Re-enter Ophelia.

O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,

Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye;

By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,

Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!

Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! 157

O heavens! is’t possible a young maid’s wits

Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?

Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine 160

It sends some precious instance of itself

After the thing it loves.

Oph.

They bore him barefac’d on the bier;

Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; 164

And in his grave rain’d many a tear;—

Fare you well, my dove!

Laer.

Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,

It could not move thus. 168

Oph.

You must sing, a-down a-down,

And you call him a-down-a.

O how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter. 172

Laer.

This nothing’s more than matter.

Oph.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; brance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. 176

Laer.

A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Oph.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O! you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— 185

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Laer.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,

She turns to favour and to prettiness. 188

Oph.

And will he not come again?

And will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead;

Go to thy death-bed, 192

He never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow

All fiaxen was his poll,

He is gone, he is gone, 196

And we cast away moan:

God ha’ mercy on his soul!

And of all Christian souls! I pray God. God be wi’ ye!

[Exit.

Laer.

Do you see this, O God? 201

King.

Laertes, I must common with your grief,

Or you deny me right. Go but apart,

Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, 204

And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me.

If by direct or by collateral hand

They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give,

Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, 208

To you in satisfaction; but if not,

Be you content to lend your patience to us,

And we shall jointly labour with your soul

To give it due content.

Laer.

Let this be so: 212

His means of death, his obscure burial,

No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones,

No noble rite nor formal ostentation,

Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth,

That I must call ’t in question.

King.

So you shall; 217

And where the offence is let the great axe fall.

I pray you go with me.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Horatio and a Servant.

Hor.

What are they that would speak with me?

Serv.

Sailors, sir: they say, they have letters for you.

Hor.

Let them come in.

[Exit Servant.

I do not know from what part of the world 4

I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

Enter Sailors.

First Sail.

God bless you, sir.

Hor.

Let him bless thee too.

Sec. Sail.

He shall, sir, an’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir;—it comes from the ambassador that was bound for England;—if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. 12

Hor.

Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the king: they have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very war-like appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour; in the grapple I boarded them: on the instant they got clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy, but they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king have the letters I have sent; and repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.

He that thou knowest thine, 32

Hamlet.

Come, I will give you way for these your letters;

And do ’t the speedier, that you may direct me

To him from whom you brought them.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter King and Laertes.

King.

Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,

And you must put me in your heart for friend,

Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,

That he which hath your noble father slain 4

Pursu’d my life.

Laer.

It well appears: but tell me

Why you proceeded not against these feats,

So crimeful and so capital in nature,

As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, 8

You mainly were stirr’d up.

King.

O! for two special reasons;

Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d,

But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother

Lives almost by his looks, and for myself,— 12

My virtue or my plague, be it either which,—

She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul,

That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,

I could not but by her. The other motive, 16

Why to a public count I might not go,

Is the great love the general gender bear him;

Who, dipping all his faults in their affection,

Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, 20

Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows,

Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind,

Would have reverted to my bow again,

And not where I had aim’d them. 24

Laer.

And so have I a noble father lost;

A sister driven into desperate terms,

Whose worth, if praises may go back again,

Stood challenger on mount of all the age 28

For her perfections. But my revenge will come.

King.

Break not your sleeps for that; you must not think

That we are made of stuff so flat and dull

That we can let our beard be shook with danger

And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more; 33

I lov’d your father, and we love ourself,

And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine,—

Enter a Messenger.

How now! what news?

Mess.

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:

This to your majesty; this to the queen. 37

King.

From Hamlet! who brought them?

Mess.

Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:

They were given me by Claudio, he receiv’d them 40

Of him that brought them.

King.

Laertes, you shall hear them.

Leave us.

[Exit Messenger.

High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes; when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return

Hamlet.

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? 49

Or is it some abuse and no such thing?

Laer.

Know you the hand?

King.

’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked,’

And in a postscript here, he says, ‘alone.’ 52

Can you advise me?

Laer.

I’m lost in it, my lord. But let him come:

It warms the very sickness in my heart,

That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 56

‘Thus diddest thou.’

King.

If it be so, Laertes,

As how should it be so? how otherwise?

Will you be rul’d by me?

Laer.

Ay, my lord;

So you will not o’er-rule me to a peace. 60

King.

To thine own peace. If he be now return’d,

As checking at his voyage, and that he means

No more to undertake it, I will work him

To an exploit, now ripe in my device, 64

Under the which he shall not choose but fall;

And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe,

But even his mother shall uncharge the practice

And call it accident.

Laer.

My lord, I will be rul’d; 68

The rather, if you could devise it so

That I might be the organ.

King.

It falls right.

You have been talk’d of since your travel much,

And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality 72

Wherein, they say, you shine; your sum of parts

Did not together pluck such envy from him

As did that one, and that, in my regard,

Of the unworthiest siege.

Laer.

What part is that, my lord? 76

King.

A very riband in the cap of youth,

Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes

The light and careless livery that it wears

Than settled age his sables and his weeds, 80

Importing health and graveness. Two months since

Here was a gentleman of Normandy:

I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French,

And they can well on horseback; but this gallant 84

Had witchcraft in ’t, he grew unto his seat,

And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,

As he had been incorps’d and demi-natur’d

With the brave beast; so far he topp’d my thought, 88

That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,

Come short of what he did.

Laer.

A Norman was ’t?

King.

A Norman.

Laer.

Upon my life, Lamord.

King.

The very same. 92

Laer.

I know him well; he is the brooch indeed

And gem of all the nation.

King.

He made confession of you,

And gave you such a masterly report 96

For art and exercise in your defence,

And for your rapier most especially,

That he cried out, ’twould be a sight indeed

If one could match you; the scrimers of their nation, 100

He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye,

If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his

Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy

That he could nothing do but wish and beg 104

Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him.

Now, out of this,—

Laer.

What out of this, my lord?

King.

Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, 108

A face without a heart?

Laer.

Why ask you this?

King.

Not that I think you did not love your father,

But that I know love is begun by time,

And that I see, in passages of proof, 112

Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

There lives within the very flame of love

A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it,

And nothing is at a like goodness still, 116

For goodness, growing to a plurisy,

Dies in his own too-much. That we would do,

We should do when we would, for this ‘would’ changes,

And hath abatements and delays as many 120

As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;

And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh,

That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o’ the ulcer;

Hamlet comes back; what would you undertake

To show yourself your father’s son in deed 125

More than in words?

Laer.

To cut his throat i’ the church.

King.

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;

Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, 128

Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.

Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home;

We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence,

And set a double varnish on the fame 132

The Frenchman gave you, bring you, in fine, together,

And wager on your heads: he, being remise,

Most generous and free from all contriving,

Will not peruse the foils; so that, with ease 136

Or with a little shuffling, you may choose

A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice

Requite him for your father.

Laer.

I will do ’t;

And, for that purpose, I’ll anoint my sword. 140

I bought an unction of a mountebank,

So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,

Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,

Collected from all simples that have virtue 144

Under the moon, can save the thing from death

That is but scratch’d withal; I’ll touch my point

With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,

It may be death.

King.

Let’s further think of this; 148

Weigh what convenience both of time and means

May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,

And that our drift look through our bad performance 151

’Twere better not assay’d; therefore this project

Should have a back or second, that might hold,

If this should blast in proof. Soft! let me see;

We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings:

I ha’t: 156

When in your motion you are hot and dry,—

As make your bouts more violent to that end,—

And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him

A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping,

If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, 161

Our purpose may hold there. But stay! what noise?

Enter Queen.

How now, sweet queen!

Queen.

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, 164

So fast they follow: your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

Laer.

Drown’d! O, where?

Queen.

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

There with fantastic garlands did she come, 169

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,

But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them: 172

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke,

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, 176

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indu’d 180

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death.

Laer.

Alas! then, she is drown’d? 184

Queen.

Drown’d, drown’d.

Laer.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelis,

And therefore I forbid my tears; but yet

It is our trick, nature her custom holds, 188

Let shame say what it will; when these are gone

The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord!

I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,

But that this folly douts it.

[Exit.

King.

Let’s follow, Gertrude.

How much I had to do to calm his rage! 193

Now fear I this will give it start again;

Therefore let’s follow.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A Churchyard.

Enter two Clowns, with spades and mattock.

First Clo.

Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

Sec. Clo.

I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial. 5

First Clo.

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

Sec. Clo.

Why, ’tis found so. 8

First Clo.

It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly it argues an act; and an act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

Sec. Clo.

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—

First Clo.

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the man; good: if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes; mark you that? but if the water come to him, and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life. 21

Sec. Clo.

But is this law?

First Clo.

Ay, marry, is ’t; crowner’s quest law. 24

Sec. Clo.

Will you ha’ the truth on ’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial. 27

First Clo.

Why, there thou sayest; and the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam’s profession. 34

Sec. Clo.

Was he a gentleman?

First Clo.

A’ was the first that ever bore arms.

Sec. Clo.

Why, he had none. 37

First Clo.

What! art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says, Adam digged; could be dig without arms?

I’ll put another question to thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself—

Sec. Clo.

Go to. 43

First Clo.

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Sec. Clo.

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants. 48

First Clo.

I like thy wit well, in good faith; the gallows does well, but how does it well? it does well to those that do ill; now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee.

To ’t again; come.

Sec. Clo.

Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? 56

First Clo.

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Sec. Clo.

Marry, now I can tell.

First Clo.

To ’t.

Sec. Clo.

Mass, I cannot tell. 60

Enter Hamlet and Horatio at a distance.

First Clo.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and, when you are asked this question next, say, ‘a grave-maker:’ the houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.

[Exit Second Clown.

First Clown digs, and sings.

In youth, when I did love, did love,

Methought it was very sweet, 68

To contract, O! the time, for-a my behove,

O! methought there was nothing meet.

Ham.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making? 72

Hor.

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Ham.

’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. 76

First Clo.

But age, with his stealing steps,

Hath claw’d me in his clutch,

And hath shipped me intil the land,

As if I had never been such. 80

[Throws up a skull.

Ham.

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once; how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not? 86

Hor.

It might, my lord.

Ham.

Or of a courtier, which could say, ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-one’s horse, when he meant to beg it, might it not? 92

Hor.

Ay, my lord.

Ham.

Why, e’en so, and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see ’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggats with ’em? mine ache to think on ’t.

First Clo.

A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade, 100

For and a shrouding sheet;

O! a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

[Throws up another skull.

Ham.

There’s another; why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in ’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries; is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyance of his lands will hardly lie in this box, and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha? 120

Hor.

Not a jot more, my lord.

Ham.

Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Hor.

Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. 123

Ham.

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sir?

First Clo.

Mine, sir,

O! a pit of clay for to be made 128

For such a guest is meet.

Ham.

I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in ’t.

First Clo.

You lie out on ’t, sir, and therefore it is not yours; for my part, I do not lie in ’t, and yet it is mine. 134

Ham.

Thou dost lie in ’t, to be in ’t and say it is thine: ’tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

First Clo.

’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’twill away again, from me to you.

Ham.

What man dost thou dig it for? 140

First Clo.

For no man, sir.

Ham.

What woman, then?

First Clo.

For none, neither.

Ham.

Who is to be buried in ’t? 144

First Clo.

One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

Ham.

How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 153

First Clo.

Of all the days i’ the year, I came to ’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. 156

Ham.

How long is that since?

First Clo.

Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that; it was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that is mad, and sent into England. 161

Ham.

Ay, marry; why was he sent into England?

First Clo.

Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, ’tis no great matter there 166

Ham.

Why?

First Clo.

’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he. 169

Ham.

How came he mad?

First Clo.

Very strangely, they say.

Ham.

How strangely? 172

First Clo.

Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Ham.

Upon what ground?

First Clo.

Why, here in Denmark; I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years. 176

Ham.

How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot?

First Clo.

Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some eight year or nine year; a tanner will last you nine year.

Ham.

Why he more than another? 184

First Clo.

Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that he will keep out water a great while, and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain you i’ the earth three-and-twenty years. 190

Ham.

Whose was it?

First Clo.

A whoreson mad fellow’s it was: whose do you think it was?

Ham.

Nay, I know not. 194

First Clo.

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! a’ poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.

Ham.

This!

First Clo.

E’en that. 200

Ham.

Let me see.—[Takes the skull.]—Alas! poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Hor.

What’s that, my lord? 216

Ham.

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth?

Hor.

E’en so.

Ham.

And smelt so? pah! 220

[Puts down the skull.

Hor.

E’en so, my lord.

Ham.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole? 225

Hor.

’Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

Ham.

No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam, and why of that loam, whereto he was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?

Imperious Cæsar, dead and turn’d to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: 236

O! that that earth, which kept the world in awe,

Should patch a wall to expal the winter’s flaw.

But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.

Enter Priests, &c., in procession: the Corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.

The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow? 240

And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken

The corse they follow did with desperate hand

Fordo its own life; ’twas of some estate.

Couch we awhile, and mark. 244

[Retiring with Horatio.

Laer.

What ceremony else?

Ham.

That is Laertes,

A very noble youth: mark.

Laer.

What ceremony else?

First Priest.

Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d 248

As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful,

And, but that great command o’ersways the order,

She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d

Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, 252

Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her;

Yet here she is allow’d her virgin crants,

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial. 256

Laer.

Must there no more be done?

First Priest.

No more be done:

We should profane the service of the dead,

To sing a requiem, and such rest to her

As to peace-parted souls.

Laer.

Lay her i’ the earth; 260

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,

A ministering angel shall my sister be,

When thou liest howling.

Ham.

What! the fair Ophelia? 264

Queen.

Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

[Scattering flowers.

I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife;

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid,

And not have strew’d thy grave.

Laer.

O! treble woe 268

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Depriv’d thee of. Hold off the earth awhile,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

[Leaps into the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made, 274

To o’er-top old Pelion or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham.

[Advancing.] What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow 277

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

[Leaps into the grave.

Laer.

The devil take thy soul! 280

[Grapples with him.

Ham.

Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For though I am not splenetive and rash

Yet have I in me something dangerous, 284

Which let thy wisdom fear. Away thy hand!

King.

Pluck them asunder.

Queen.

Hamlet! Hamlet!

All.

Gentlemen,—

Hor.

Good my lord, be quiet.

[The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.

Ham.

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme 288

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen.

O my son! what theme?

Ham.

I lov’d Ophelia: forty thousand brothers

Could not, with all their quantity of love, 292

Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

King.

O! he is mad, Laertes.

Queen.

For love of God, forbear him.

Ham.

’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do:

Woo’t weep? woo’t fight? woo’t fast? woo’t tear thyself? 297

Woo’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile?

I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?

To outface me with leaping in her grave? 300

Be buried quick with her, and so will I:

And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw

Millions of acres on us, till our ground,

Singeing his pate against the burning zone, 304

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

Queen.

This is mere madness:

And thus a while the fit will work on him;

Anon, as patient as the female dove, 308

When that her golden couplets are disclos’d,

His silence will sit drooping.

Ham.

Hear you, sir;

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I lov’d you ever: but it is no matter; 312

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew and dog will have his day.

[Exit.

King.

I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him.

[Exit Horatio.

[To Laertes.] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; 316

We’ll put the matter to the present push.

Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.

This grave shall have a living monument:

An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; 320

Till then, in patience our proceeding be.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Hall in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

Ham.

So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other;

You do remember all the circumstance?

Hor.

Remember it, my lord?

Hem.

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting 4

That would not let me sleep; methought I lay

Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,—

And prais’d be rashness for it, let us know,

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well 8

When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will.

Hor.

That is most certain.

Ham.

Up from my cabin, 12

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark

Grop’d I to find out them, had my desire,

Finger’d their packet, and in fine withdrew

To mine own room again; making so bold— 16

My fears forgetting manners—to unseal

Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio,

O royal knavery! an exact command,

Larded with many several sorts of reasons 20

Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too,

With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,

That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,

No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, 24

My head should be struck off.

Hor.

Is ’t possible?

Ham.

Here’s the commission: read it at more leisure.

But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?

Hor.

I beseech you. 28

Ham.

Being thus be-netted round with villanies,—

Ere I could make a prologue to my brains

They had begun the play,—I sat me down,

Devis’d a new commission, wrote it fair; 32

I once did hold it, as our statists do,

A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much

How to forget that learning; but, sir, now

It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know 36

The effect of what I wrote?

Hor.

Ay, good my lord.

Ham.

An earnest conjuration from the king,

As England was his faithful tributary,

As love between them like the palm should flourish, 40

As peace should still her wheaten garland wear,

And stand a comma ’tween their amities,

And many such-like ‘As’es of great charge,

That, on the view and knowing of these contents, 44

Without debatement further, more or less,

He should the bearers put to sudden death,

Not shriving-time allow’d.

Hor.

How was this seal’d?

Ham.

Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. 48

I had my father’s signet in my purse,

Which was the model of that Danish seal;

Folded the writ up in form of the other,

Subscrib’d it, gave’t th’ impression, plac’d it safely, 52

The changeling never known. Now, the next day

Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent

Thou know’st already.

Hor.

So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to ’t. 56

Ham.

Why, man, they did make love to this employment;

They are not near my conscience; their defeat

Does by their own insinuation grow.

’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes 60

Between the pass and fell-incensed points

Of mighty opposites.

Hor.

Why, what a king is this!

Ham.

Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon—

He that hath kill’d my king and whor’d my mother, 64

Popp’d in between the election and my hopes,

Thrown out his angle for my proper life,

And with such cozenage—is ’t not perfect conscience

To quit him with this arm? and is ’t not to be damn’d 68

To let this canker of our nature come

In further evil?

Hor.

It must be shortly known to him from England

What is the issue of the business there. 72

Ham.

It will be short: the interim is mine;

And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘One.’

But I am very sorry, good Horatio,

That to Laertes I forgot myself; 76

For, by the image of my cause, I see

The portraiture of his: I’ll count his favours:

But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me

Into a towering passion.

Hor.

Peace! who comes here? 80

Enter Osric.

Osr.

Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

Ham.

I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio.] Dost know this water-fly? 84

Hor.

[Aside to Hamlet.] No, my good lord.

Ham.

[Aside to Horatio.] Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess: ’tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. 91

Osr.

Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

Ham.

I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head. 97

Osr.

I thank your lordship, ’tis very hot.

Ham.

No, believe me, ’tis very cold; the wind is northerly. 100

Osr.

It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Ham.

But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. 103

Osr.

Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry, as ’twere, I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,— 108

Ham.

I beseech you, remember—

[Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.

Osr.

Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing; indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. 117

Ham.

Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.

Osr.

Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. 128

Ham.

The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?

Osr.

Sir?

Hor.

Is ’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do ’t, sir, really. 133

Ham.

What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Osr.

Of Laertes? 136

Hor.

His purse is empty already; all ’s golden words are spent.

Ham.

Of him, sir.

Osr.

I know you are not ignorant— 140

Ham.

I would you did, sir; in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir.

Osr.

You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is— 144

Ham.

I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but, to know a man well, were to know himself. 147

Osr.

I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he’s unfellowed.

Ham.

What’s his weapon?

Osr.

Rapier and dagger. 152

Ham.

That’s two of his weapons; but, well.

Osr.

The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses; against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. 160

Ham.

What call you the carriages?

Hor.

I knew you must be edified by the margent, ere you had done.

Osr.

The carriages, sir, are the hangers. 164

Ham.

The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides; I would it might be hangers till then. But, on; six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages; that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this ‘imponed,’ as you call it?

Osr.

The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. 176

Ham.

How if I answer no?

Osr.

I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Ham.

Sir, I will walk here in the hall; if it please his majesty, ’tis the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. 185

Osr.

Shall I re-deliver you so?

Ham.

To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will. 188

Osr.

I commend my duty to your lordship.

Ham.

Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for ’s turn. 192

Hor.

This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.

Ham.

He did comply with his dug before he sucked it. Thus has he—and many more of the same bevy, that I know the drossy age dotes on—only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter, a kind of yesty collection which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out. 202

Enter a Lord.

Lord.

My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall; he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time. 207

Ham.

I am constant to my purposes; they follow the king’s pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now, or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.

Lord.

The king, and queen, and all are coming down. 213

Ham.

In happy time.

Lord.

The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play. 217

Ham.

She well instructs me.

[Exit Lord.

Hor.

You will lose this wager, my lord.

Ham.

I do not think so; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice; I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all ’s here about my heart; but it is no matter. 224

Hor.

Nay, good my lord,—

Ham.

It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman. 228

Hor.

If your mind dislike any thing, obey it; I will forestal their repair hither, and say you are not fit. 231

Ham.

Not a whit, we defy augury; there’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is ’t to leave betimes? Let be. 238

Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric, and Attendants with foils, &c.

King.

Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

[The King puts the hand of Laertes into that of Hamlet.

Ham.

Give me your pardon, sir; I’ve done you wrong;

But pardon ’t, as you are a gentleman.

This presence knows,

And you must needs have heard, how I am punish’d

With sore distraction. What I have done, 244

That might your nature, honour and exception

Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.

Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet:

If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, 248

And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes,

Then Hamlet does it not; Hamlet denies it.

Who does it then? His madness. If ’t be so,

Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; 252

His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy.

Sir, in this audience,

Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,

That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house, 257

And hurt my brother.

Laer.

I am satisfied in nature,

Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most

To my revenge; but in my terms of honour 260

I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement,

Till by some elder masters, of known honour,

I have a voice and precedent of peace,

To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time,

I do receive your offer’d love like love, 265

And will not wrong it.

Ham.

I embrace it freely;

And will this brother’s wager frankly play.

Give us the foils. Come on.

Laer.

Come, one for me. 268

Ham.

I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance

Your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night,

Stick fiery off indeed.

Laer.

You mock me, sir.

Ham.

No, by this hand. 272

King.

Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,

You know the wager?

Ham.

Very well, my lord;

Your Grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker side.

King.

I do not fear it; I have seen you both;

But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds.

Laer.

This is too heavy; let me see another.

Ham.

This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

Osr.

Ay, my good lord. 280

[They prepare to play.

King.

Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.

If Hamlet give the first or second hit,

Or quit in answer of the third exchange,

Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; 284

The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath;

And in the cup an union shall he throw,

Richer than that which four successive kings

In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; 288

And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,

The trumpet to the cannoneer without,

The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth,

‘Now the king drinks to Hamlet!’ Come, begin;

And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. 293

Ham.

Come on, sir.

Laer.

Come, my lord.

[They play.

Ham.

One.

Laer.

No.

Ham.

Judgment.

Osr.

A hit, a very palpable hit.

Laer.

Well; again.

King.

Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; 296

Here’s to thy health. Give him the cup.

[Trumpets sound; and cannon shot off within.

Ham.

I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.

Come.—[They play.] Another hit; what say you?

Laer.

A touch, a touch, I do confess. 300

King.

Our son shall win.

Queen.

He’s fat, and scant of breath.

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows;

The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

Ham.

Good madam!

King.

Gertrude, do not drink. 304

Queen.

I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me.

King.

[Aside.] It is the poison’d cup! it is too late.

Ham.

I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by.

Queen.

Come, let me wipe thy face. 308

Laer.

My lord, I’ll hit him now.

King.

I do not think ’t

Laer.

[Aside.] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience.

Ham.

Come, for the third, Laertes. You but dally;

I pray you, pass with your best violence. 312

I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Laer.

Say you so? come on.

[They play

Osr.

Nothing, neither way.

Laer.

Have at you now.

[Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.

King.

Part them! they are incens’d

Ham.

Nay, come, again.

[The Queen falls.

Osr.

Look to the queen there, ho!

Hor.

They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?

Osr.

How is it, Laertes?

Laer.

Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric; 320

I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.

Ham.

How does the queen?

King.

She swounds to see them bleed.

Queen.

No, no, the drink, the drink,—O my dear Hamlet! 323

The drink, the drink; I am poison’d.

[Dies.

Ham.

O villany! Ho! let the door be lock’d:

Treachery! seek it out.

[Laertes falls.

Laer.

It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;

No medicine in the world can do thee good; 328

In thee there is not half an hour of life;

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenom’d. The foul practice

Hath turn’d itself on me; lo! here I lie, 332

Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poison’d.

I can no more. The king, the king’s to blame.

Ham.

The point envenom’d tool—.

Then, venom, to thy work.

[Stabs the King.

All.

Treason! treason! 337

King.

O! yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt.

Ham.

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,

Drink off this potion;—is thy union here? 340

Follow my mother.

[King dies.

Laer.

He is justly serv’d;

It is a poison temper’d by himself.

Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet:

Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee,

Nor thine on me!

[Dies.

Ham.

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. 346

I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!

You that look pale and tremble at this chance,

That are but mutes or audience to this act, 349

Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death,

Is strict in his arrest,—O! I could tell you—

But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; 352

Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright

To the unsatisfied.

Hor.

Never believe it;

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane:

Here’s yet some liquor left.

Ham.

As thou’rt a man, 356

Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I’ll have ’t.

O God! Horatio, what a wounded name,

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 360

Absent thee from felicity awhile,

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,

To tell my story.

[March afar off, and shot within.

What war-like noise is this?

Osr.

Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, 364

To the ambassadors of England gives

This war-like volley.

Ham.

O! I die, Horatio;

The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit:

I cannot live to hear the news from England, 368

But I do prophesy the election lights

On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice;

So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less,

Which have solicited—The rest is silence.

[Dies.

Hor.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince, 373

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Why does the drum come hither?

[March within.

Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors, and Others.

Fort.

Where is this sight?

Hor.

What is it ye would see? 376

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

Fort.

This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death!

What feast is toward in thine eternal cell,

That thou so many princes at a shot 380

So bloodily hast struck?

First Amb.

The sight is dismal;

And our affairs from England come too late:

The ears are senseless that should give us hearing,

To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, 384

That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.

Where should we have our thanks?

Hor.

Not from his mouth,

Had it the ability of life to thank you: 387

He never gave commandment for their death.

But since, so jump upon this bloody question,

You from the Polack wars, and you from England,

Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the view; 392

And let me speak to the yet unknowing world

How these things came about: so shall you hear

Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,

Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; 396

Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause,

And, in this upshot, purposes mistook

Fall’n on the inventors’ heads; all this can I

Truly deliver.

Fort.

Let us haste to hear it, 400

And call the noblest to the audience.

For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune;

I have some rights of memory in this kingdom,

Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. 404

Hor.

Of that I shall have also cause to speak,

And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more:

But let this same be presently perform’d,

Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance 408

On plots and errors happen.

Fort.

Let four captains

Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage;

For he was likely, had he been put on,

To have prov’d most royally: and, for his passage, 412

The soldiers’ music and the rites of war

Speak loudly for him.

Take up the bodies: such a sight as this

Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.

Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 417

[A dead march. Exeunt, bearing off the bodies; after which a peal of ordnance is shot off.

KING LEAR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Lear,	King of Britain.
King of France.
Duke of Burgundy.
Duke of Cornwall.
Duke of Albany.
Earl of Kent.
Earl of Gloucester.
Edgar,	Son to Gloucester.
Edmund,	Bastard Son to Gloucester.
Curan,	a Courtier.
Oswald,	Steward to Goneril.
Old Man, Tenant to Gloucester.
Doctor.
Fool.
An Officer, employed by Edmund.
A Gentleman, Attendant on Cordelia.
A Herald.
Servants to Cornwall.
Goneril, }	Daughters to Lear.
Regan, }
Cordelia, }
Knights of Lear’s Train, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

Scene.—Britain.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace.

Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund.

Kent.

I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

Glo.

It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

Kent.

Is not this your son, my lord? 8

Glo.

His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it.

Kent.

I cannot conceive you. 12

Glo.

Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? 16

Kent.

I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

Glo.

But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came somewhat saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund? 26

Edm.

No, my lord.

Glo.

My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

Edm.

My services to your lordship.

Kent.

I must love you, and sue to know you better. 32

Edm.

Sir, I shall study deserving.

Glo.

He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The king is coming.

Sennet. Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants.

Lear.

Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. 36

Glo.

I shall, my liege.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Edmund.

Lear.

Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.

Give me the map there. Know that we have divided

In three our kingdom; and ’tis our fast intent

To shake all cares and business from our age, 41

Conferring them on younger strengths, while we

Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,

And you, our no less loving son of Albany, 44

We have this hour a constant will to publish

Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife

May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,

Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, 48

Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,

And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,—

Since now we will divest us both of rule,

Interest of territory, cares of state,— 52

Which of you shall we say doth love us most?

That we our largest bounty may extend

Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,

Our eldest-born, speak first. 56

Gon.

Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;

Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;

Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare;

No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; 60

As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found;

A love that makes breath poor and speech unable;

Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Cor.

[Aside.] What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent. 64

Lear.

Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,

With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d,

With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,

We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue

Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, 69

Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

Reg.

I am made of that self metal as my sister,

And prize me at her worth. In my true heart

I find she names my very deed of love; 73

Only she comes too short: that I profess

Myself an enemy to all other joys

Which the most precious square of sense possesses 76

And find I am alone felicitate

In your dear highness’ love.

Cor.

[Aside.] Then, poor Cordelia!

And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s

More richer than my tongue. 80

Lear.

To thee and thine, hereditary ever,

Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom,

No less in space, validity, and pleasure,

Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy, 84

Although our last, not least; to whose young love

The vines of France and milk of Burgundy

Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw

A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

Cor.

Nothing, my lord. 89

Lear.

Nothing?

Cor.

Nothing.

Lear.

Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. 92

Cor.

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty

According to my bond; nor more nor less.

Lear.

How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little, 96

Lest you may mar your fortunes.

Cor.

Good my lord,

You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I

Return those duties back as are right fit,

Obey you, love you, and most honour you. 100

Why have my sisters husbands, if they say

They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,

That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry

Half my love with him, half my care and duty:

Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, 105

To love my father all.

Lear.

But goes thy heart with this?

Cor.

Ay, good my lord.

Lear.

So young, and so untender? 108

Cor.

So young, my lord, and true.

Lear.

Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower:

For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,

The mysteries of Hecate and the night, 112

By all the operation of the orbs

From whom we do exist and cease to be,

Here I disclaim all my paternal care,

Propinquity and property of blood, 116

And as a stranger to my heart and me

Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,

Or he that makes his generation messes

To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 120

Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d,

As thou my sometime daughter.

Kent.

Good my liege,—

Lear.

Peace, Kent!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath. 124

I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest

On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!

So be my grave my peace, as here I give

Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? 128

Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,

With my two daughters’ dowers digest the third;

Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.

I do invest you jointly with my power, 132

Pre-eminence, and all the large effects

That troop with majesty. Ourself by monthly course,

With reservation of a hundred knights,

By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode 136

Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain

The name and all th’ addition to a king;

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm, 140

This coronet part between you.

Kent.

Royal Lear,

Whom I have ever honour’d as my king,

Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d,

As my great patron thought on in my prayers,—

Lear.

The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. 145

Kent.

Let it fall rather, though the fork invade

The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly

When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? 148

Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak

When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound

When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state;

And, in thy best consideration, check 152

This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment,

Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;

Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound

Reverbs no hollowness.

Lear.

Kent, on thy life, no more.

Kent.

My life I never held but as a pawn 157

To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it,

Thy safety being the motive.

Lear.

Out of my sight!

Kent.

See better, Lear; and let me still remain 160

The true blank of thine eye.

Lear.

Now, by Apollo,—

Kent.

Now, by Apollo, king,

Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

Lear.

O vassal! miscreant!

[Laying his hand on his sword.

Alb.

Dear sir, forbear. 164

Corn.

Dear sir, forbear.

Kent.

Do;

Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow

Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift;

Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,

I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

Lear.

Hear me, recreant! 169

On thine allegiance, hear me!

Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,—

Which we durst never yet,—and, with strain’d pride 172

To come betwixt our sentence and our power,—

Which nor our nature nor our place can hear,—

Our potency made good, take thy reward.

Five days we do allot thee for provision 176

To shield thee from diseases of the world;

And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back

Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following

Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions,

The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,

This shall not be revok’d. 182

Kent.

Fare thee well, king; sith thus thou wilt appear,

Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

[To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, 185

That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said!

[To Regan and Goneril.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve,

That good effects may spring from words of love. 188

Thus Kent, O princes! bids you all adieu;

He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

[Exit.

Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, Burgundy, and Attendants.

Glo.

Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

Lear.

My Lord of Burgundy, 192

We first address toward you, who with this king

Hath rivall’d for our daughter. What, in the least,

Will you require in present dower with her,

Or cease your quest of love?

Bur.

Most royal majesty, 196

I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d,

Nor will you tender less.

Lear.

Right noble Burgundy,

When she was dear to us we did hold her so,

But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: 200

If aught within that little-seeming substance,

Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d,

And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,

She’s there, and she is yours.

Bur.

I know no answer. 204

Lear.

Will you, with those infirmities she owes,

Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,

Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath,

Take her, or leave her?

Bur.

Pardon me, royal sir; 208

Election makes not up on such conditions.

Lear.

Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,

I tell you all her wealth.—[To France.] For you, great king,

I would not from your love make such a stray

To match you where I hate; therefore, beseech you 213

To avert your liking a more worthier way

Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d

Almost to acknowledge hers.

France.

This is most strange, 216

That she, who even but now was your best object,

The argument of your praise, balm of your age,

The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time

Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle 220

So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence

Must be of such unnatural degree

That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection

Fall into taint; which to believe of her, 224

Must be a faith that reason without miracle

Could never plant in me.

Cor.

I yet beseech your majesty—

If for I want that glib and oily art

To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, 228

I’ll do ’t before I speak—that you make known

It is no vicious blot nor other foulness,

No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step,

That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour,

But even for want of that for which I am richer,

A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue

That I am glad I have not, though not to have it

Hath lost me in your liking.

Lear.

Better thou 236

Hadst not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

France.

Is it but this? a tardiness in nature

Which often leaves the history unspoke

That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy,

What say you to the lady? Love is not love 241

When it is mingled with regards that stand

Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?

She is herself a dowry.

Bur.

Royal Lear, 244

Give but that portion which yourself propos’d,

And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

Duchess of Burgundy.

Lear.

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm. 248

Bur.

I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father

That you must lose a husband.

Cor.

Peace be with Burgundy!

Since that respects of fortune are his love,

I shall not be his wife. 252

France.

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;

Most choice, forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d!

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:

Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away. 256

Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect

My love should kindle to inflam’d respect.

Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,

Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: 260

Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy

Shall buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me.

Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:

Thou losest here, a better where to find. 264

Lear.

Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we

Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see

That face of hers again, therefore be gone

Without our grace, our love, our benison. 268

Come, noble Burgundy.

[Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and Attendants.

France.

Bid farewell to your sisters.

Cor.

The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes

Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; 272

And like a sister am most loath to call

Your faults as they are nam’d. Use well our father:

To your professed bosoms I commit him:

But yet, alas! stood I within his grace, 276

I would prefer him to a better place.

So farewell to you both.

Reg.

Prescribe not us our duties.

Gon.

Let your study

Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you

At fortune’s alms; you have obedience scanted,

And well are worth the want that you have wanted. 282

Cor.

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides;

Who covers faults, at last shame them derides.

Well may you prosper!

France.

Come, my fair Cordelia.

[Exit France and Cordelia.

Gon.

Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night. 288

Reg.

That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

Gon.

You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

Reg.

’Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself. 297

Gon.

The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then, must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but, therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them. 303

Reg.

Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

Gon.

There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you, let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us. 310

Reg.

We shall further think on’t.

Gon.

We must do something, and i’ the heat.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Edmund, with a letter.

Edm.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

My services are bound. Wherefore should I

Stand in the plague of custom, and permit

The curiosity of nations to deprive me, 4

For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines

Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?

When my dimensions are as well compact,

My mind as generous, and my shape as true, 8

As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us

With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?

Who in the lusty stealth of nature take

More composition and fierce quality 12

Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,

Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,

Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well then,

Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: 16

Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund

As to the legitimate. Fine word, ‘legitimate!’

Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,

And my invention thrive, Edmund the base 20

Shall top the legitimate:—I grow, I prosper;

Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Kent banished thus! And France in choler parted!

And the king gone to-night! subscrib’d his power! 24

Confin’d to exhibition! All this done

Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news?

Edm.

So please your lordship, none.

[Putting up the letter.

Glo.

Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter? 29

Edm.

I know no news, my lord.

Glo.

What paper were you reading?

Edm.

Nothing, my lord. 32

Glo.

No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see; come; if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. 37

Edm.

I beseech you, sir, pardon me; it is a letter from my brother that I have not all o’er-read, and for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking. 41

Glo.

Give me the letter, sir.

Edm.

I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame. 45

Glo.

Let’s see, let’s see.

Edm.

I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue. 49

Glo.

This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, Edgar.—Hum! Conspiracy! ‘Sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue.’—My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it? 64

Edm.

It was not brought me, my lord; there’s the cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

Glo.

You know the character to be your brother’s? 69

Edm.

If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would fain think it were not. 72

Glo.

It is his.

Edm.

It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents.

Glo.

Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business? 77

Edm.

Never, my lord: but I have often heard him maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue. 82

Glo.

O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. Abominable villain! Where is he? 87

Edm.

I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you shall run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger. 98

Glo.

Think you so?

Edm.

If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction; and that without any further delay than this very evening. 104

Glo.

He cannot be such a monster—

Edm.

Nor is not, sure.

Glo.

—to his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution.

Edm.

I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. 114

Glo.

These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked between son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the king falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing: do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange!

[Exit.

Edm.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,—often the surfeit of our own behaviour,—we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail, and my nativity was under ursa major; so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. ’Sfoot! I should have been that I am had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar— 149

Enter Edgar.

and pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.

Edg.

How now, brother Edmund! What serious contemplation are you in? 156

Edm.

I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

Edg.

Do you busy yourself with that? 160

Edm.

I promise you the effects he writes of succeed unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state; menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what. 168

Edg.

How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

Edm.

Come, come; when saw you my father last? 172

Edg.

The night gone by.

Edm.

Spake you with him?

Edg.

Ay, two hours together.

Edm.

Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance?

Edg.

None at all. 179

Edm.

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and at my entreaty forbear his presence till some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay. 185

Edg.

Some villain hath done me wrong.

Edm.

That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower, and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray you, go; there’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed. 192

Edg.

Armed, brother!

Edm.

Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you; I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it; pray you, away.

Edg.

Shall I hear from you anon?

Edm.

I do serve you in this business. 200

[Exit Edgar.

A credulous father, and a brother noble,

Whose nature is so far from doing harms

That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty

My practices ride easy! I see the business. 204

Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace.

Enter Goneril and Oswald her Steward.

Gon.

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Osw.

Ay, madam.

Gon.

By day and night he wrongs me; every hour 4

He flashes into one gross crime or other,

That sets us all at odds: I’ll not endure it:

His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us

On every trifle. When he returns from hunting

I will not speak with him; say I am sick: 9

If you come slack of former services,

You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

Osw.

He’s coming, madam; I hear him. 12

[Horns within.

Gon.

Put on what weary negligence you please,

You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question:

If he distaste it, let him to my sister,

Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, 16

Not to be over-rul’d. Idle old man,

That still would manage those authorities

That he hath given away! Now, by my life,

Old fools are babes again, and must be us’d 20

With cheeks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d.

Remember what I have said.

Osw.

Well, madam.

Gon.

And let his knights have colder looks among you;

What grown of it, no matter; advise your fellows so: 24

I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

That I may speak: I’ll write straight to my sister

To hold my very source. Prepare for dinner.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Hall in the Same.

Enter Kent, disguised.

Kent.

If but as well I other accents borrow,

That can my speech diffuse, my good intent

May carry through itself to that full issue

For which I raz’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent, 4

If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,

So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,

Shall find thee full of labours.

Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights, and Attendants.

Lear.

Let me not stay a jot for dinner: go, get it ready. [Exit an Attendant.] How now! what art thou? 10

Kent.

A man, sir.

Lear.

What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?

Kent.

I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

Lear.

What art thou? 19

Kent.

A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

Lear.

If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou? 24

Kent.

Service.

Lear.

Whom wouldst thou serve?

Kent.

You.

Lear.

Dost thou know me, fellow? 28

Kent.

No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

Lear.

What’s that?

Kent.

Authority. 32

Lear.

What services canst thou do?

Kent.

I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly; that which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence. 38

Lear.

How old art thou?

Kent.

Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for any thing; I have years on my back forty-eight. 42

Lear.

Follow me; thou shalt serve me; if I like thee no worse after dinner I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho! dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.

[Exit an Attendant.

Enter Oswald.

You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter? 48

Osw.

So please you,—

[Exit.

Lear.

What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [Exit a Knight.] Where’s my fool, ho? I think the world’s asleep. How now! where’s that mongrel? 53

Re-enter Knight.

Knight.

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

Lear.

Why came not the slave back to me when I called him? 57

Knight.

Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.

Lear.

He would not! 60

Knight.

My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my judgment, your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the duke himself also and your daughter.

Lear.

Ha! sayest thou so? 68

Knight.

I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged. 71

Lear.

Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into ’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days. 78

Knight.

Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined him away.

Lear.

No more of that; I have noted it well.

Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her.

[Exit an Attendant.

Go you, call hither my fool.

[Exit an Attendant.

Re-enter Oswald.

O! you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am

I, sir? 86

Osw.

My lady’s father.

Lear.

‘My lady’s father!’ my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! 89

Osw.

I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.

Lear.

Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

[Striking him.

Osw.

I’ll not be struck, my lord. 94

Kent.

Nor tripped neither, you base football player.

[Tripping up his heels.

Lear.

I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I’ll love thee. 98

Kent.

Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away!

Go to; have you wisdom? so.

[Pushes Oswald out.

Lear.

Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service. 104

[Gives Kent money.

Enter Fool.

Fool.

Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb.

[Offers Kent his cap.

Lear.

How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou? 108

Fool.

Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

Kent.

Why, fool?

Fool.

Why? for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb. Why, this fellow has banished two on ’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will: if thou follow him thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!

Lear.

Why, my boy? 119

Fool.

If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.

Lear.

Take heed, sirrah; the whip. 123

Fool.

Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink.

Lear.

A pestilent gall to me!

Fool.

[To Kent.] Sirrah, I’ll teach’ thee a speech. 129

Lear.

Do.

Fool.

Mark it, nuncle:—

Have more than thou showest,  132

Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Learn more than thou trowest,  136

Set less than thou throwest;

Leave thy drink and thy whore,

And keep in-a-door,

And thou shalt have more  140

Than two tens to a score.

Kent.

This is nothing, fool.

Fool.

Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me nothing for ’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? 145

Lear.

Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.

Fool.

[To Kent.] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool. 150

Lear.

A bitter fool!

Fool.

Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool? 153

Lear.

No, lad; teach me.

Fool.

That lord that counsell’d thee

To give away thy land, 156

Come place him here by me,

Do thou for him stand:

The sweet and bitter fool

Will presently appear; 160

The one in motley here,

The other found out there.

Lear.

Dost thou call me fool, boy?

Fool.

All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with. 165

Kent.

This is not altogether fool, my lord.

Fool.

No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on ’t, and ladies too: they will not let me have all fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns. 172

Lear.

What two crowns shall they be?

Fool.

Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou borest thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. 181

Fools had ne’er less grace in a year;

For wise men are grown foppish,

And know not how their wits to wear, 184

Their manners are so apish.

Lear.

When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah? 187

Fool.

I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gavest them the rod and puttest down thine own breeches,

Then they for sudden joy did weep, 192

And I for sorrow sung,

That such a king should play bo-peep,

And go the fools among. 195

Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie.

Lear.

An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped. 199

Fool.

I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true, thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than a fool; and yet I would not be thee, nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit o’ both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings. 208

Enter Goneril.

Lear.

How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown. 211

Fool.

Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning; now thou art an O without a figure. I am better than thou art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing. [To Goneril.] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; so your face bids me, though you say nothing.

Mum, mum;

He that keeps nor crust nor crumb, 220

Weary of all, shall want some.

That’s a shealed peascod.

[Pointing to Lear.

Gon.

Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool,

But other of your insolent retinue 224

Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth

In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,

I had thought, by making this well known unto you,

To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful, 228

By what yourself too late have spoke and done.

That you protect this course, and put it on

By your allowance; which if you should, the fault

Would not ’scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, 232

Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,

Might in their working do you that offence,

Which else were shame, that then necessity

Will call discreet proceeding. 236

Fool.

For you trow, nuncle,

The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

That it had it head bit off by it young.

So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. 240

Lear.

Are you our daughter?

Gon.

I would you would make use of your good wisdom,

Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away

These dispositions which of late transform you

From what you rightly are. 245

Fool.

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

Lear.

Does any here know me? This is not Lear: 248

Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?

Either his notion weakens, his discernings

Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’tis not so.

Who is it that can tell me who I am? 252

Fool.

Lear’s shadow.

Lear.

I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. 256

Fool.

Which they will make an obedient father.

Lear.

Your name, fair gentlewoman?

Gon.

This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour 260

Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you

To understand my purposes aright:

As you are old and reverend, should be wise.

Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; 264

Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d, and bold,

That this our court, infected with their manners,

Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust

Make it more like a tavern or a brothel 268

Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak

For instant remedy; be then desir’d

By her that else will take the thing she begs,

A little to disquantity your train; 272

And the remainder, that shall still depend,

To be such men as may besort your age,

Which know themselves and you.

Lear.

Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses; call my train together. 276

Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee:

Yet have I left a daughter.

Gon.

You strike my people, and your disorder’d rabble

Make servants of their betters. 280

Enter Albany.

Lear.

Woe, that too late repents;

[To Albany.] O! sir, are you come?

Is it your will? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses.

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,

More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child,

Than the sea-monster.

Alb.

Pray, sir, be patient. 285

Lear.

[To Goneril.] Detested kite! thou liest:

My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

That all particulars of duty know, 288

And in the most exact regard support

The worships of their name. O most small fault,

How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!

Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature 292

From the fix’d place, drew from my heart all love,

And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, 295

[Striking his head.

And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.

Alb.

My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant

Of what hath mov’d you.

Lear.

It may be so, my lord.

Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!

Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend 300

To make this creature fruitful!

Into her womb convey sterility!

Dry up in her the organs of increase,

And from her derogate body never spring 304

A babe to honour her! If she must teem,

Create her child of spleen, that it may live

And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her!

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, 308

With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,

Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits

To laughter and contempt, that she may feel

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 312

To have a thankless child! Away, away!

[Exit.

Alb.

Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

Gon.

Never afflict yourself to know the cause;

But let his disposition have that scope 316

That dotage gives it.

Re-enter Lear.

Lear.

What! fifty of my followers at a clap,

Within a fortnight?

Alb.

What’s the matter, sir?

Lear.

I’ll tell thee. [To Goneril.] Life and death! I am asham’d 320

That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus,

That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,

Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee!

Th’ untented woundings of a father’s curse 324

Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes,

Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out,

And cast you, with the waters that you lose,

To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? 328

Let it be so: I have another daughter,

Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable:

When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails

She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find

That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think 333

I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee.

[Exeunt Lear, Kent, and Attendants.

Gon.

Do you mark that?

Alb.

I cannot be so partial, Goneril, 336

To the great love I bear you.—

Gon.

Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho!

[To the Fool.] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.

Fool.

Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear! tarry, and take the fool with thee. 341

A fox, when one has caught her,

And such a daughter,

Should sure to the slaughter, 344

If my cap would buy a halter;

So the fool follows after.

[Exit.

Gon.

This man hath had good counsel. A hundred knights!

’Tis politic and safe to let him keep 348

At point a hundred knights; yes, that on every dream,

Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,

He may enguard his dotage with their powers,

And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say! 352

Alb.

Well, you may fear too far.

Gon.

Safer than trust too far.

Let me still take away the harms I fear,

Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart.

What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister; 356

If she sustain him and his hundred knights,

When I have show’d the unfitness,—

Re-enter Oswald.

How now, Oswald!

What! have you writ that letter to my sister?

Osw.

Ay, madam. 360

Gon.

Take you some company, and away to horse:

Inform her full of my particular fear;

And thereto add such reasons of your own

As may compact it more. Get you gone, 364

And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, no, my lord,

This milky gentleness and course of yours

Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon,

You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom 368

Than prais’d for harmful mildness.

Alb.

How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell:

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Gon.

Nay, then— 372

Alb.

Well, well; the event.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Court before the Same.

Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool.

Lear.

Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy I shall be there before you. 5

Kent.

I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

[Exit.

Fool.

If a man’s brains were in ’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes? 9

Lear.

Ay, boy.

Fool.

Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall not go slip-shod. 12

Lear.

Ha, ha, ha!

Fool.

Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she’s as like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. 17

Lear.

What canst tell, boy?

Fool.

She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ the middle on ’s face? 21

Lear.

No.

Fool.

Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. 25

Lear.

I did her wrong,—

Fool.

Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell? 28

Lear.

No.

Fool.

Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

Lear.

Why? 32

Fool.

Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

Lear.

I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready? 37

Fool.

Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason. 40

Lear.

Because they are not eight?

Fool.

Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

Lear.

To take it again perforce! Monster ingratitude! 45

Fool.

If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

Lear.

How’s that? 48

Fool.

Thou shouldst not have been old before thou hadst been wise.

Lear.

O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven;

Keep me in temper; I would not be mad! 52

Enter Gentleman.

How now! Are the horses ready?

Gent.

Ready, my lord.

Lear.

Come, boy.

Fool.

She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, 56

Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester.

Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.

Edm.

Save thee, Curan.

Cur.

And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be here with him to-night. 5

Edm.

How comes that?

Cur.

Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad? I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? 9

Edm.

Not I: pray you, what are they?

Cur.

Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany? 12

Edm.

Not a word.

Cur.

You may do then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

[Exit.

Edm.

The duke be here to-night! The better! best! 16

This weaves itself perforce into my business.

My father hath set guard to take my brother;

And I have one thing, of a queasy question,

Which I must act. Briefness and fortune, work!

Brother, a word; descend: brother, I say! 21

Enter Edgar.

My father watches: O sir! fly this place;

Intelligence is given where you are hid;

You have now the good advantage of the night. 24

Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall?

He’s coming hither, now, i’ the night, i’ the haste,

And Regan with him; have you nothing said

Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? 28

Advise yourself.

Edg.

I am sure on ’t, not a word.

Edm.

I hear my father coming; pardon me;

In cunning I must draw my sword upon you;

Draw; seem to defend yourself; now ’quit you well. 32

Yield;—come before my father. Light, ho! here!

Fly, brother. Torches! torches! So, farewell.

[Exit Edgar.

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion

[Wounds his arm.

Of my more fierce endeavour: I have seen drunkards 36

Do more than this in sport. Father! father!

Stop, stop! No help?

Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches.

Glo.

Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

Edm.

Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, 40

Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon

To stand auspicious mistress.

Glo.

But where is he?

Edm.

Look, sir, I bleed.

Glo.

Where is the villain, Edmund?

Edm.

Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could— 44

Glo.

Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants.] ‘By no means’ what?

Edm.

Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;

But that I told him, the revenging gods

’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;

Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond 49

The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine,

Seeing how loathly opposite I stood

To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion, 52

With his prepared sword he charges home

My unprovided body, lanc’d mine arm:

But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits

Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to the encounter, 56

Or whether gasted by the noise I made,

Full suddenly he fled.

Glo.

Let him fly far:

Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;

And found—dispatch. The noble duke my master, 60

My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night:

By his authority I will proclaim it,

That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,

Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; 64

He that conceals him, death.

Edm.

When I dissuaded him from his intent,

And found him pight to do it, with curst speech

I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, 68

‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think,

If I would stand against thee, would the reposal

Of any trust, virtue, or worth, in thee

Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny,— 72

As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce

My very character,—I’d turn it all

To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice:

And thou must make a dullard of the world, 76

If they not thought the profits of my death

Were very pregnant and potential spurs

To make thee seek it.’

Glo.

Strong and fasten’d villain!

Would he deny his letter? I never got him. 80

[Tucket within.

Hark! the duke’s trumpets. I know not why he comes.

All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not ’scape;

The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture

I will send far and near, that all the kingdom 84

May have due note of him; and of my land,

Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means

To make thee capable.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants.

Corn.

How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,— 88

Which I can call but now,—I have heard strange news.

Reg.

If it be true, all vengeance comes too short

Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?

Glo.

O! madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d. 92

Reg.

What! did my father’s godson seek your life?

He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?

Glo.

O! lady, lady, shame would have it hid.

Reg.

Was he not companion with the riotous knights 96

That tend upon my father?

Glo.

I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.

Edm.

Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Reg.

No marvel then though he were ill affected; 100

’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death,

To have the expense and waste of his revenues.

I have this present evening from my sister

Been well-inform’d of them, and with such cautions 104

That if they come to sojourn at my house,

I’ll not be there.

Corn.

Nor I, assure thee, Regan.

Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father

A child-like office.

Edm.

’Twas my duty, sir. 108

Glo.

He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d

This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Corn.

Is he pursu’d?

Glo.

Ay, my good lord.

Corn.

If he be taken he shall never more 112

Be fear’d of doing harm; make your own purpose,

How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund,

Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant

So much commend itself, you shall be ours: 116

Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;

You we first seize on.

Edm.

I shall serve you, sir,

Truly, however else.

Glo.

For him I thank your Grace.

Corn.

You know not why we came to visit you,— 120

Reg.

Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night:

Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some prize,

Wherein we must have use of your advice.

Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, 124

Of differences, which I best thought it fit

To answer from our home; the several messengers

From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,

Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow 128

Your needful counsel to our businesses,

Which craves the instant use.

Glo.

I serve you, madam.

Your Graces are right welcome.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.

Osw.

Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

Kent.

Ay.

Osw.

Where may we set our horses? 4

Kent.

I’ the mire.

Osw.

Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.

Kent.

I love thee not.

Osw.

Why, then I care not for thee. 8

Kent.

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Osw.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. 12

Kent.

Fellow, I know thee.

Osw.

What dost thou know me for?

Kent.

A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver’d, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition. 26

Osw.

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee! 29

Kent.

What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the king? Draw, you rogue; for, though it be night, yet the moon shines: I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you. [Drawing his sword.] Draw, you whoreson, cullionly, barber-monger, draw. 37

Osw.

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent.

Draw, you rascal; you come with letters against the king, and take vanity the pupet’s part against the royalty of her father. Draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks: draw, you rascal; come your ways.

Osw.

Help, ho! murder! help! 44

Kent.

Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike.

[Beating him.

Osw.

Help, oh! murder! murder!

Enter Edmund with his rapier drawn.

Edm.

How now! What’s the matter? 48

[Parting them.

Kent.

With you, goodman boy, if you please: come,

I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants.

Glo.

Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

Corn.

Keep peace, upon your lives: 52

He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

Reg.

The messengers from our sister and the king.

Corn.

What is your difference? speak.

Osw.

I am scarce in breath, my lord. 56

Kent.

No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a tailor made thee.

Corn.

Thou art a strange fellow; a tailor make a man? 61

Kent.

Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two hours o’ the trade. 64

Corn.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Osw.

This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar’d at suit of his grey beard,— 67

Kent.

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail? 72

Corn.

Peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent.

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Corn.

Why art thou angry? 76

Kent.

That such a slave as this should wear a sword,

Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion 80

That in the natures of their lords rebel;

Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;

Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

With every gale and vary of their masters, 84

Knowing nought, like dogs, but following.

A plague upon your epileptic visage!

Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, 88

I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Corn.

What! art thou mad, old fellow?

Glo.

How fell you out? say that.

Kent.

No contraries hold more antipathy 92

Than I and such a knave.

Corn.

Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

Kent.

His countenance likes me not.

Corn.

No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers. 97

Kent.

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

I have seen better faces in my time

Than stands on any shoulder that I see 100

Before me at this instant.

Corn.

This is some fellow,

Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, 104

An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth:

An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain.

These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends

Than twenty silly-ducking observants, 109

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent.

Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,

Under the allowance of your grand aspect, 112

Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

On flickering Phœbus’ front,—

Corn.

What mean’st by this?

Kent.

To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to ’t. 120

Corn.

What was the offence you gave him?

Osw.

I never gave him any:

It pleas’d the king his master very late

To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; 124

When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure,

Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d,

And put upon him such a deal of man,

That worthied him, got praises of the king 128

For him attempting who was self-subdu’d;

And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,

Drew on me here again.

Kent.

None of these rogues and cowards

But Ajax is their fool.

Corn.

Fetch forth the stocks! 132

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

We’ll teach you.

Kent.

Sir, I am too old to learn,

Call not your stocks for me; I serve the king,

On whose employment I was sent to you; 136

You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

Against the grace and person of my master,

Stocking his messenger.

Corn.

Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, 140

There shall he sit till noon.

Reg.

Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too.

Kent.

Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,

You should not use me so.

Reg.

Sir, being his knave, I will. 144

Corn.

This is a fellow of the self-same colour

Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks.

[Stocks brought out.

Glo.

Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.

His fault is much, and the good king his master 148

Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction

Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches

For pilferings and most common trespasses

Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill, 152

That he, so slightly valu’d in his messenger,

Should have him thus restrain’d.

Corn.

I’ll answer that.

Reg.

My sister may receive it much more worse

To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, 156

For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

[Kent is put in the stocks.

Come, my good lord, away.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent.

Glo.

I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure,

Whose disposition, all the world well knows, 160

Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

Kent.

Pray, do not, sir. I have watch’d and travell’d hard;

Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.

A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: 164

Give you good morrow!

Glo.

The duke’s to blame in this; ’twill be ill taken.

[Exit.

Kent.

Good king, that must approve the common saw,

Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st 168

To the warm sun.

Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

That by thy comfortable beams I may

Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles

But misery: I know ’tis from Cordelia, 173

Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

Of my obscured course; and shall find time

From this enormous state, seeking to give 176

Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d,

Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold

This shameful lodging.

Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

[He sleeps.

Scene III.— A Part of the Heath.

Enter Edgar.

Edg.

I heard myself proclaim’d;

And by the happy hollow of a tree

Escap’d the hunt. No port is free; no place,

That guard, and most unusual vigilance, 4

Does not attend my taking. While I may ’scape

I will preserve myself; and am bethought

To take the basest and most poorest shape

That ever penury, in contempt of man, 8

Brought near to beast; my face I’ll grime with filth,

Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,

And with presented nakedness outface

The winds and persecutions of the sky. 12

The country gives me proof and precedent

Of Bedlam beggars, who with roaring voices,

Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms

Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;

And with this horrible object, from low farms,

Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,

Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,

Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygood! poor Tom! 20

That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Before Gloucester’s Castle. Kent in the stocks.

Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman.

Lear.

’Tis strange that they should so depart from home,

And not send back my messenger.

Gent.

As I learn’d,

The night before there was no purpose in them

Of this remove.

Kent.

Hail to thee, noble master! 4

Lear.

Ha!

Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

Kent.

No, my lord.

Fool.

Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the head, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

Lear.

What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook 12

To set thee here?

Kent.

It is both he and she,

Your son and daughter.

Lear.

No.

Kent.

Yes. 16

Lear.

No, I say.

Kent.

I say, yea.

Lear.

No, no; they would not.

Kent.

Yes, they have. 20

Lear.

By Jupiter, I swear, no.

Kent.

By Juno, I swear, ay.

Lear.

They durst not do’t;

They could not, would not do ’t; ’tis worse than murder,

To do upon respect such violent outrage. 24

Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way

Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage,

Coming from us.

Kent.

My lord, when at their home

I did commend your highness’ letters to them,

Ere I was risen from the place that show’d 29

My duty kneeling, there came a reeking post,

Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth

From Goneril his mistress salutations; 32

Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission,

Which presently they read: on whose contents

They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse;

Commanded me to follow, and attend 36

The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:

And meeting here the other messenger,

Whose welcome, I perceiv’d, had poison’d mine,—

Being the very fellow which of late 40

Display’d so saucily against your highness,—

Having more man than wit about me,—drew:

He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries.

Your son and daughter found this trespass worth 44

The shame which here it suffers.

Fool.

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

Fathers that wear rags 48

Do make their children blind,

But fathers that bear bags

Shall see their children kind.

Fortune, that arrant whore, 52

Ne’er turns the key to the poor.

But for all this thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

Lear.

O! how this mother swells up toward my heart; 56

Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow!

Thy element’s below. Where is this daughter?

Kent.

With the earl, sir: here within.

Lear.

Follow me not; stay here.

[Exit.

Gent.

Made you no more offence than what you speak of?

Kent.

None.

How chance the king comes with so small a number? 64

Fool.

An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

Kent.

Why, fool? 67

Fool.

We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’ the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.

That sir which serves and seeks for gain,

And follows but for form, 80

Will pack when it begins to rain,

And leave thee in the storm.

But I will tarry; the fool will stay,

And let the wise man fly: 84

The knave turns fool that runs away;

The fool no knave, perdy.

Kent.

Where learn’d you this, fool?

Fool.

Not i’ the stocks, fool. 88

Re-enter Lear, with Gloucester.

Lear.

Deny to speak with me! They are sick! they are weary,

They have travell’d hard to-night! Mere fetches,

The images of revolt and flying off.

Fetch me a better answer.

Glo.

My dear lord, 92

You know the fiery quality of the duke;

How unremovable and fix’d he is

In his own course.

Lear.

Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!

Fiery! what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, 97

I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Glo.

Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

Lear.

Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man? 100

Glo.

Ay, my good lord.

Lear.

The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father

Would with his daughter speak, commands her service: 103

Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood!

Fiery! the fiery duke! Tell the hot duke that—

No, but not yet; may be he is not well:

Infirmity doth still neglect all office

Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves 108

When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind

To suffer with the body. I’ll forbear;

And am fall’n out with my more headier will,

To take the indispos’d and sickly fit 112

For the sound man. Death on my state! [Looking on Kent.] Wherefore

Should he sit here? This act persuades me

That this remotion of the duke and her

Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. 116

Go, tell the duke and’s wife I’d speak with them,

Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me,

Or at their chamber-door I’ll beat the drum

Till it cry sleep to death. 120

Glo.

I would have all well betwixt you.

[Exit.

Lear.

O, me! my heart, my rising heart! but, down!

Fool.

Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick, and cried, ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. 128

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants.

Lear.

Good morrow to you both.

Corn.

Hail to your Grace!

[Kent is set at liberty.

Reg.

I am glad to see your highness.

Lear.

Regan, I think you are; I know what reason

I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad,

I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, 133

Sepulchring an adult’ress.—[To Kent.] O! are you free?

Some other time for that. Beloved Regan,

Thy sister’s naught: O Regan! she hath tied 136

Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here:

[Points to his heart.

I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe

With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!

Reg.

I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope 140

You less know how to value her desert

Than she to scant her duty.

Lear.

Say, how is that?

Reg.

I cannot think my sister in the least

Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance 144

She have restrain’d the riots of your followers,

’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,

As clears her from all blame.

Lear.

My curses on her!

Reg.

O, sir! you are old; 148

Nature in you stands on the very verge

Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led

By some discretion that discerns your state

Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you

That to our sister you do make return; 153

Say, you have wrong’d her, sir.

Lear.

Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; 156

Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

[Kneeling.

That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

Reg.

Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:

Return you to my sister.

Lear.

[Rising.] Never, Regan. 160

She hath abated me of half my train;

Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue,

Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.

All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall 164

On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,

You taking airs, with lameness!

Corn.

Fie, air, fie!

Lear.

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames

Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, 168

You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,

To fall and blast her pride!

Reg.

O the blest gods! So will you wish on me,

When the rash mood is on. 172

Lear.

No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:

Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give

Thee o’er to harshness: her eyes are fierce, but thine

Do comfort and not burn. ’Tis not in thee 176

To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,

To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,

And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt

Against my coming in: thou better know’st 180

The offices of nature, bond of childhood,

Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;

Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot,

Wherein I thee endow’d.

Reg.

Good sir, to the purpose. 184

Lear.

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

[Tucket within.

Corn.

What trumpet’s that?

Reg.

I know’t, my sister’s; this approves her letter,

That she would soon be here. Is your lady come?

Enter Oswald.

Lear.

This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride 188

Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.

Out, varlet, from my sight!

Corn.

What means your Grace?

Lear.

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope

Thou didst not know on ’t. Who comes here? O heavens, 192

Enter Goneril.

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,

Make it your cause; send down and take my part!

[To Goneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard? 196

O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

Gon.

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

And dotage terms so.

Lear.

O sides! you are too tough;

Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks? 201

Corn.

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

Deserv’d much less advancement.

Lear.

You! did you?

Reg.

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

If, till the expiration of your month, 205

You will return and sojourn with my sister,

Dismissing half your train, come then to me:

I am now from home, and out of that provision

Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Lear.

Return to her? and fifty men dismiss’d!

No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose

To wage against the enmity o’ the air; 212

To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,

Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her!

Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took

Our youngest born, I could as well be brought

To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg

To keep base life afoot. Return with her!

Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter

To this detested groom.

[Pointing at Oswald.

Gon.

At your choice, sir. 220

Lear.

I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad:

I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell.

We’ll no more meet, no more see one another;

But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; 224

Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh,

Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,

A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,

In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee; 228

Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:

I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,

Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.

Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: 232

I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,

I and my hundred knights.

Reg.

Not altogether so:

I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided

For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; 236

For those that mingle reason with your passion

Must be content to think you old, and so—

But she knows what she does.

Lear.

Is this well spoken?

Reg.

I dare avouch it, sir: what! fifty followers? 240

Is it not well? What should you need of more?

Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger

Speak ’gainst so great a number? How, in one house,

Should many people, under two commands, 244

Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.

Gon.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Reg.

Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack you 248

We could control them. If you will come to me,—

For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you

To bring but five-and-twenty; to no more

Will I give place or notice. 252

Lear.

I gave you all—

Reg.

And in good time you gave it

Lear.

Made you my guardians, my depositaries,

But kept a reservation to be follow’d

With such a number. What! must I come to you 256

With five-and-twenty? Regan, said you so?

Reg.

And speak’t again, my lord; no more with me.

Lear.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d,

When others are more wicked; not being the worst 260

Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril.] I’ll go with thee:

Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,

And thou art twice her love.

Gon.

Hear me, my lord.

What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, 264

To follow in a house, where twice so many

Have a command to tend you?

Reg.

What need one?

Lear.

O! reason not the need; our basest beggars

Are in the poorest thing superfluous: 268

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady;

If only to go warm were gorgeous,

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st, 272

Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,—

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,

As full of grief as age; wretched in both! 276

If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts

Against their father, fool me not so much

To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,

And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, 280

Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags,

I will have such revenges on you both

That all the world shall—I will do such things,—

What they are yet I know not,—but they shall be 284

The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep;

No, I’ll not weep:

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws 288

Or ere I’ll weep. O fool! I shall go mad.

[Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool.

Corn.

Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

[Storm heard at a distance.

Reg.

This house is little: the old man and his people

Cannot be well bestow’d. 292

Gon.

’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest,

And must needs taste his folly.

Reg.

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

But not one follower.

Gon.

So am I purpos’d. 296

Where is my Lord of Gloucester?

Corn.

Follow’d the old man forth. He is return’d.

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

The king is in high rage.

Corn.

Whither is he going?

Glo.

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither. 300

Corn.

’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

Gon.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Glo.

Alack! the night comes on, and the bleak winds

Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about 304

There’s scarce a bush.

Reg.

O! sir, to wilful men,

The injuries that they themselves procure

Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors;

He is attended with a desperate train, 308

And what they may incense him to, being apt

To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

Corn.

Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night:

My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Heath.

A storm, with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting.

Kent.

Who’s here, beside foul weather?

Gent.

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Kent.

I know you. Where’s the king?

Gent.

Contending with the fretful elements;

Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, 5

Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main,

That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,

Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, 8

Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;

Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn

The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, 12

The lion and the belly-pinched wolf

Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,

And bids what will take all.

Kent.

But who is with him?

Gent.

None but the fool, who labours to out-jest 16

His heart-struck injuries.

Kent.

Sir, I do know you;

And dare, upon the warrant of my note,

Commend a dear thing to you. There is division,

Although as yet the face of it be cover’d 20

With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall;

Who have—as who have not, that their great stars

Thron’d and set high—servants, who seem no less,

Which are to France the spies and speculations

Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen, 25

Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes,

Or the hard rein which both of them have borne

Against the old kind king; or something deeper,

Whereof perchance these are but furnishings; 29

But, true it is, from France there comes a power

Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already,

Wise in our negligence, have secret feet 32

In some of our best ports, and are at point

To show their open banner. Now to you:

If on my credit you dare build so far

To make your speed to Dover, you shall find 36

Some that will thank you, making just report

Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow

The king hath cause to plain.

I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, 40

And from some knowledge and assurance offer

This office to you.

Gent.

I will talk further with you.

Kent.

No, do not.

For confirmation that I am much more 44

Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take

What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,—

As doubt not but you shall,—show her this ring,

And she will tell you who your fellow is 48

That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!

I will go seek the king.

Gent.

Give me your hand. Have you no more to say?

Kent.

Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet; 52

That, when we have found the king,—in which your pain

That way, I’ll this,—he that first lights on him

Holla the other.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Heath. Storm still.

Enter Lear and Fool.

Lear.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, 4

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!

Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once

That make ingrateful man! 9

Fool.

O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters’ blessing; here’s a night pities neither wise man nor fool.

Lear.

Rumble thy bellyfull Spit, fire! spout, rain! 14

Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:

I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;

I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,

You owe me no subscription: then, let fall

Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,

A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man. 20

But yet I call you servile ministers,

That have with two pernicious daughters join’d

Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head

So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul. 24

Fool.

He that has a house to put his head in has a good head-piece.

The cod-piece that will house

Before the head has any, 28

The head and he shall louse;

So beggars marry many.

The man that makes his toe

What he his heart should make, 32

Shall of a corn cry woe,

And turn his sleep to wake.

For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. 36

Enter Kent.

Lear.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

Kent.

Who’s there?

Fool.

Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s a wise man and a fool. 41

Kent.

Alas! sir, are you here? things that love night

Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies

Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, 44

And make them keep their caves. Since I was man

Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,

Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never

Remember to have heard; man’s nature cannot carry 48

The affliction nor the fear.

Lear.

Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads,

Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,

That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 52

Unwhipp’d of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand;

Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue

That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake,

That under covert and convenient seeming 56

Hast practis’d on man’s life; close pent-up guilts,

Rive your concealing continents, and cry

These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man

More sinn’d against than sinning.

Kent.

Alack! bare-headed!

Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; 61

Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest;

Repose you there while I to this hard house,—

More harder than the stone whereof ’tis rais’d,—

Which even but now, demanding after you, 65

Denied me to come in, return and force

Their scanted courtesy.

Lear.

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? 68

I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange,

That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.

Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart 72

That’s sorry yet for thee.

Fool.

He that has a little tiny wit,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

Must make content with his fortunes fit, 76

Though the rain it raineth every day.

Lear.

True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

[Exeunt Lear and Kent.

Fool.

This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.

I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: 80

When priests are more in word than matter;

When brewers mar their malt with water;

When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;

No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;  84

When every case in law is right;

No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;

When slanders do not live in tongues;

Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;  88

When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;

And bawds and whores do churches build;

Then shall the realm of Albion

Come to great confusion:  92

Then comes the time, who lives to see ’t,

That going shall be us’d with feet.

This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Gloucester and Edmund.

Glo.

Alack, alack! Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him.

Edm.

Most savage, and unnatural! 7

Glo.

Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night; ’tis dangerous to be spoken; I have locked the letter in my closet. These injuries the king now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed; we must incline to the king. I will seek him and privily relieve him; go you and maintain talk with the duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the king, my old master, must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be careful. 21

[Exit.

Edm.

This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke

Instantly know; and of that letter too:

This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me

That which my father loses; no less than all: 25

The younger rises when the old doth fall.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Heath. Before a Hovel.

Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool.

Kent.

Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter:

The tyranny of the open night’s too rough

For nature to endure.

[Storm still

Lear.

Let me alone.

Kent.

Good my lord, enter here.

Lear.

Wilt break my heart? 4

Kent.

I’d rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.

Lear.

Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm

Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee;

But where the greater malady is fix’d, 8

The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear;

But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,

Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free

The body’s delicate; the tempest in my mind 12

Doth from my senses take all feeling else

Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!

Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand

For lifting food to ’t? But I will punish home: 16

No, I will weep no more. In such a night

To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.

In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!

Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,— 20

O! that way madness lies; let me shun that;

No more of that.

Kent.

Good, my lord, enter here.

Lear.

Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:

This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 24

On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in.

[To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty,—

Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.

[Fool goes in.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, 28

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you

From seasons such as these? O! I have ta’en 32

Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,

And show the heavens more just. 36

Edg.

[Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

[The Fool runs out from the hovel.

Fool.

Come not in here, nuncle; here’s a spirit.

Help me! help me!

Kent.

Give me thy hand. Who’s there? 40

Fool.

A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.

Kent.

What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw?

Come forth.

Enter Edgar disguised as a madman.

Edg.

Away! the foul fiend follows me! 44

Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds.

Hum! go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

Lear.

Didst thou give all to thy two daughters?

And art thou come to this? 48

Edg.

Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O! do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, starblasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there, and there again, and there.

[Storm still.

Lear.

What! have his daughters brought him to this pass?

Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them all?

Fool.

Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been all shamed. 65

Lear.

Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air

Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!

Kent.

He hath no daughters, sir. 68

Lear.

Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature

To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.

Is it the fashion that discarded fathers

Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? 72

Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot

Those pelican daughters.

Edg.

Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill:

Halloo, halloo, loo, loo! 76

Fool.

This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

Edg.

Take heed o’ the foul fiend. Obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold. 82

Lear.

What hast thou been?

Edg.

A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair, wore gloves in my cap, served the lust of my mistress’s heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly, and in woman out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman: keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says suum, mun ha no nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy; sessa! let him trot by.

[Storm still.

Lear.

Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated; thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come; unbutton here. 112

[Tearing off his clothes.

Fool.

Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wide field were like an old lecher’s heart; a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look! here comes a walking fire. 117

Enter Gloucester with a torch.

Edg.

This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. 122

Swithold footed thrice the old;

He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold;

Bid her alight,

And her troth plight,

And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

Kent.

How fares your Grace? 128

Lear.

What’s he?

Kent.

Who’s there? What is’t you seek?

Glo.

What are you there? Your names?

Edg.

Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog; the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stock-punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear; 141

But mice and rats and such small deer

Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.

Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend. 145

Glo.

What! hath your Grace no better company?

Edg.

The prince of darkness is a gentleman;

Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.

Glo.

Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile,

That it doth hate what gets it. 150

Edg.

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Glo.

Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer

To obey in all your daughters’ hard commands:

Though their injunction be to bar my doors, 154

And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,

Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out 156

And bring you where both fire and food is ready.

Lear.

First let me talk with this philosopher.

What is the cause of thunder?

Kent.

Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house. 160

Lear.

I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban.

What is your study?

Edg.

How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.

Lear.

Let me ask you one word in private.

Kent.

Importune him once more to go, my lord; 165

His wits begin to unsettle.

Glo.

Canst thou blame him?

[Storm still.

His daughters seek his death. Ah! that good Kent;

He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man!

Thou sayst the king grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, 169

I am almost mad myself. I had a son,

Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life,

But lately, very late; I lov’d him, friend, 172

No father his son dearer; true to tell thee,

[Storm continues.

The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this!

I do beseech your Grace,—

Lear.

O! cry you mercy, sir.

Noble philosopher, your company. 176

Edg.

Tom’s a-cold.

Glo.

In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.

Lear.

Come, let’s in all.

Kent.

This way, my lord.

Lear.

With him;

I will keep still with my philosopher. 180

Kent.

Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.

Glo.

Take him you on.

Kent.

Sirrah, come on; go along with us.

Lear.

Come, good Athenian.

Glo.

No words, no words: hush.

Edg.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

His word was still, Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man. 187

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Room in Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Cornwall and Edmund.

Corn.

I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.

Edm.

How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. 5

Corn.

I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself. 9

Edm.

How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not, or not I the detector!

Corn.

Go with me to the duchess.

Edm.

If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. 17

Corn.

True, or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. 20

Edm.

[Aside.] If I find him comforting the king, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.

Corn.

I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle.

Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar.

Glo.

Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you. 4

Kent.

All the power of his wits has given way to his impatience. The gods reward your kindness!

[Exit Gloucester.

Edg.

Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.

Fool.

Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman! 12

Lear.

A king, a king!

Fool.

No; he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him. 16

Lear.

To have a thousand with red burning spits

Come hizzing in upon ’em,—

Edg.

The foul fiend bites my back.

Fool.

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

Lear.

It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.

[To Edgar.] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; 24

[To the Fool.] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes!

Edg.

Look, where he stands and glares! wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?

Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me,— 28

Fool.

Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak

Why she dares not come over to thee.

Edg.

The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.

Kent.

How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d: 36

Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

Lear.

I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence.

[To Edgar.] Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;

[To the Fool.] And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, 40

Bench by his side. [To Kent.] You are o’ the commission,

Sit you too.

Edg.

Let us deal justly.

Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? 44

Thy sheep be in the corn,

And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,

Thy sheep shall take no harm.

Purr! the cat is grey. 48

Lear.

Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor king her father.

Fool.

Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril? 53

Lear.

She cannot deny it.

Fool.

Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

Lear.

And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim 56

What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!

Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place!

False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

Edg.

Bless thy five wits! 60

Kent.

O pity! Sir, where is the patience now

That you so oft have boasted to retain?

Edg.

[Aside.] My tears begin to take his part so much,

They’ll mar my counterfeiting. 64

Lear.

The little dogs and all,

Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.

Edg.

Tom will throw his head at them.

Avaunt, you curs! 68

Be thy mouth or black or white,

Tooth that poisons if it bite;

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,

Hound or spaniel, brach or lym; 72

Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail;

Tom will make them weep and wail:

For, with throwing thus my head,

Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. 76

Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. 79

Lear.

Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar.] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they are Persian attire; but let them be changed.

Kent.

Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. 88

Lear.

Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains: so, so, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning: so, so, so.

Fool.

And I’ll go to bed at noon. 92

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Come hither, friend: where is the king my master?

Kent.

Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone. 96

Glo.

Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms;

I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him.

There is a litter ready; lay him in ’t,

And drive toward Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet 100

Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master:

If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,

With thine, and all that offer to defend him,

Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up; 104

And follow me, that will to some provision

Give thee quick conduct.

Kent.

Oppress’d nature sleeps:

This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews,

Which, if convenience will not allow, 108

Stand in hard cure.—[To the Fool.] Come, help to bear thy master;

Thou must not stay behind.

Glo.

Come, come, away.

[Exeunt Kent, Gloucester, and the Fool, bearing away Lear.

Edg.

When we our betters see bearing our woes,

We scarcely think our miseries our foes. 112

Who alone suffers suffers most i’ the mind,

Leaving free things and happy shows behind;

But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip,

When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. 116

How light and portable my pain seems now,

When that which makes me bend makes the king bow;

He childed as I father’d! Tom, away!

Mark the high noises, and thyself bewray 120

When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee,

In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.

What will hap more to-night, safe ’scape the king!

Lurk, lurk.

[Exit

Scene VII.— A Room in Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund, and Servants.

Corn.

Post speedily to my lord your husband; show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.

[Exeunt some of the Servants.

Reg.

Hang him instantly. 4

Gon.

Pluck out his eyes.

Corn.

Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister: farewell, my Lord of Gloucester. 13

Enter Oswald.

How now? Where’s the king?

Osw.

My Lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence:

Some five or six and thirty of his knights, 16

Hot questrists after him, met him at gate;

Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants,

Are gone with him toward Dover, where they boast

To have well-armed friends.

Corn.

Get horses for your mistress. 20

Gon.

Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

Corn.

Edmund, farewell.

[Exeunt Goneril, Edmund, and Oswald.

Go seek the traitor Gloucester,

Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.

[Exeunt other Servants.

Though well we may not pass upon his life 24

Without the form of justice, yet our power

Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men

May blame but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?

Re-enter Servants, with Gloucester.

Reg.

Ingrateful fox! ’tis he. 28

Corn.

Bind fast his corky arms.

Glo.

What mean your Graces? Good my friends, consider

You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends

Corn.

Bind him, I say.

[Servants bind him.

Reg.

Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

Glo.

Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none. 33

Corn.

To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—

[Regan plucks his beard.

Glo.

By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done

To pluck me by the beard. 36

Reg.

So white, and such a traitor!

Glo.

Naughty lady,

These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin,

Will quicken, and accuse thee: I am your host:

With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours 40

You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

Corn.

Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

Reg.

Be simple-answer’d, for we know the truth.

Corn.

And what confederacy have you with the traitors 44

Late footed in the kingdom?

Reg.

To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king?

Speak.

Glo.

I have a letter guessingly set down, 48

Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart,

And not from one oppos’d.

Corn.

Cunning.

Reg.

And false.

Corn.

Where hast thou sent the king?

Glou.

To Dover.

Reg.

Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril— 52

Corn.

Wherefore to Dover? Let him answer that.

Glo.

I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

Reg.

Wherefore to Dover? 55

Glo.

Because I would not see thy cruel nails

Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister

In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.

The sea, with such a storm as his bare head

In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, 60

And quench’d the stelled fires;

Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.

If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that dern time,

Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key,’ 64

All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see

The winged vengeance overtake such children.

Corn.

See ’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair.

Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot. 68

Glo.

He that will think to live till he be old,

Give me some help! O cruel! O ye gods!

[Gloucester’s eye put out.

Reg.

One side will mock another; the other too.

Corn.

If you see vengeance.—

First Serv.

Hold your hand, my lord:

I have serv’d you ever since I was a child, 73

But better service have I never done you

Than now to bid you hold.

Reg.

How now, you dog!

First Serv.

If you did wear a beard upon your chin, 76

I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

Corn.

My villain!

[Draws.

First Serv.

Nay then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

[Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded.

Reg.

Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus!

[Takes a sword and runs at him behind.

First Serv.

O! I am slain. My lord, you have one eye left 81

To see some mischief on him. O!

[Dies.

Corn.

Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly!

Where is thy lustre now? 84

Glo.

All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund?

Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature

To quit this horrid act.

Reg.

Out, treacherous villain!

Thou call’st on him that hates thee; it was he

That made the overture of thy treasons to us, 89

Who is too good to pity thee.

Glo.

O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d.

Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! 92

Reg.

Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell

His way to Dover. [Exit one with Gloucester.] How is ’t, my lord? How look you?

Corn.

I have receiv’d a hurt. Follow me, lady.

Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave

Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: 97

Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.

[Exit Cornwall led by Regan.

Sec. Serv.

I’ll never care what wickedness I do

If this man come to good.

Third Serv.

If she live long, 100

And, in the end, meet the old course of death,

Women will all turn monsters.

Sec. Serv.

Let’s follow the old earl, and get the Bedlam

To lead him where he would: his roguish madness 104

Allows itself to any thing.

Third Serv.

Go thou; I’ll fetch some flax, and whites of eggs,

To apply to his bleeding face. Now, heaven help him!

[Exeunt severally.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Heath.

Enter Edgar.

Edg.

Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d,

Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst,

The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,

Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: 4

The lamentable change is from the best;

The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then,

Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace:

The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst

Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here? 9

Enter Gloucester, led by an old Man.

My father, poorly led? World, world, O world!

But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,

Life would not yield to age.

Old Man.

O my good lord! 12

I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant,

These fourscore years.

Glo.

Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone;

Thy comforts can do me no good at all; 16

Thee they may hurt.

Old Man.

You cannot see your way.

Glo.

I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;

I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen,

Our means secure us, and our mere defects 20

Prove our commodities. Ah! dear son Edgar.

The food of thy abused father’s wrath;

Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

I’d say I had eyes again.

Old Man.

How now! Who’s there? 24

Edg.

[Aside.] O gods! Who is ’t can say, ‘I am at the worst?’

I am worse than e’er I was.

Old Man.

’Tis poor mad Tom.

Edg

[Aside.] And worse I may be yet; the worst is not,

So long as we can say, ‘This is the worst.’ 28

Old Man.

Fellow, where goest?

Glo.

Is it a beggar-man?

Old Man.

Madman and beggar too.

Glo.

He has some reason, else he could not beg.

I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw, 32

Which made me think a man a worm: my son

Came then into my mind; and yet my mind

Was then scarce friends with him: I have heard more since.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; 36

They kill us for their sport.

Edg.

[Aside.] How should this be?

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,

Angering itself and others.—[To Gloucester.] Bless thee, master!

Glo.

Is that the naked fellow?

Old Man.

Ay, my lord.

Glo.

Then, prithee, get thee gone. If, for my sake, 41

Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain,

I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;

And bring some covering for this naked soul 44

Who I’ll entreat to lead me.

Old Man.

Alack, sir! he is mad.

Glo.

’Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.

Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;

Above the rest, be gone. 48

Old Man.

I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,

Come on ’t what will.

[Exit.

Glo.

Sirrah, naked fellow,—

Edg.

Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot daub it further. 52

Glo.

Come hither, fellow.

Edg.

[Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

Glo.

Know’st thou the way to Dover? 55

Edg.

Both stile and gate, horse-way and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits: bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; and Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing; who since possesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master! 64

Glo.

Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens’ plagues

Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched

Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, 68

That slaves your ordinance, that will not see

Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;

So distribution should undo excess,

And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? 72

Edg.

Ay, master.

Glo.

There is a cliff, whose high and bending head

Looks fearfully in the confined deep;

Bring me but to the very brim of it, 76

And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear;

With something rich about me; from that place

I shall no leading need.

Edg.

Give me thy arm:

Poor Tom shall lead thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace.

Enter Goneril and Edmund.

Gon.

Welcome, my lord; I marvel our mild husband

Not met us on the way. [Enter Oswald.] Now, where’s your master?

Osw.

Madam, within; but never man so chang’d.

I told him of the army that was landed; 4

He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming;

His answer was, ‘The worse:’ of Gloucester’s treachery,

And of the loyal service of his son,

When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, 8

And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out:

What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;

What like, offensive.

Gon.

[To Edmund.] Then, shall you go no further.

It is the cowish terror of his spirit 12

That dares not undertake; he’ll not feel wrongs

Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way

May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother;

Hasten his musters and conduct his powers: 16

I must change arms at home, and give the distaff

Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant

Shall pass between us; ere long you are like to hear,

If you dare venture in your own behalf, 20

A mistress’s command. Wear this; spare speech;

[Giving a favour.

Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,

Would stretch thy spirits up into the air.

Conceive, and fare thee well. 24

Edm.

Yours in the ranks of death.

Gon.

My most dear Gloucester!

[Exit Edmund.

O! the difference of man and man!

To thee a woman’s services are due:

My fool usurps my bed.

Osw

Madam, here comes my lord.

[Exit.

Enter Albany.

Gon.

I have been worth the whistle.

Alb.

O Goneril! 29

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind

Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:

That nature, which contemns its origin, 32

Cannot be border’d certain in itself;

She that herself will sliver and disbranch

From her material sap, perforce must wither

And come to deadly use. 36

Gon.

No more; the text is foolish.

Alb.

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;

Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?

Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d?

A father, and a gracious aged man, 41

Whose reverence the head-lugg’d bear would lick,

Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.

Could my good brother suffer you to do it? 44

A man, a prince, by him so benefited!

If that the heavens do not their visible spirits

Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,

It will come, 48

Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

Like monsters of the deep.

Gon.

Milk-liver’d man!

That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;

Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning 52

Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st

Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d

Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum?

France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, 56

With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats,

Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest

‘Alack! why does he so?’

Alb.

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend 60

So horrid as in woman.

Gon.

O vain fool!

Alb.

Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame,

Be-monster not thy feature. Were ’t my fitness

To let these hands obey my blood, 64

They are apt enough to dislocate and tear

Thy flesh and bones; howe’er thou art a fiend,

A woman’s shape doth shield thee.

Gon.

Marry, your manhood.—Mew! 68

Enter a Messenger.

Alb.

What news?

Mess.

O! my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead;

Slain by his servant, going to put out

The other eye of Gloucester.

Alb.

Gloucester’s eyes! 72

Mess.

A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,

Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword

To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d,

Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead; 76

But not without that harmful stroke, which since

Hath pluck’d him after.

Alb.

This shows you are above,

You justicers, that these our nether crimes

So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester!

Lost he his other eye?

Mess.

Both, both, my lord. 81

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;

’Tis from your sister.

Gon.

[Aside.] One way I like this well;

But being widow, and my Gloucester with her,

May all the building in my fancy pluck 85

Upon my hateful life: another way,

This news is not so tart. [To Messenger.] I’ll read and answer.

[Exit.

Alb.

Where was his son when they did take his eyes? 88

Mess.

Come with my lady hither.

Alb.

He is not here.

Mess.

No, my good lord; I met him back again.

Alb.

Knows he the wickedness?

Mess.

Ay, my good lord; ’twas he inform’d against him, 92

And quit the house on purpose that their punishment

Might have the freer course.

Alb.

Gloucester, I live

To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the king,

And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend:

Tell me what more thou knowest.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The French Camp, near Dover.

Enter Kent and a Gentleman.

Kent.

Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason?

Gent.

Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of; which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, that his personal return was most required and necessary. 7

Kent.

Who hath he left behind him general?

Gent.

The Marshal of France, Monsieur la Far.

Kent.

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief? 12

Gent.

Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;

And now and then an ample tear trill’d down

Her delicate cheek; it seem’d she was a queen

Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, 16

Sought to be king o’er her.

Kent.

O! then it mov’d her.

Gent.

Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove

Who should express her goodliest. You have seen

Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears

Were like a better way; those happy smilets 21

That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know

What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,

As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, 24

Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d,

If all could so become it.

Kent.

Made she no verbal question?

Gent.

Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’

Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; 28

Cried, ‘Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!

Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night?

Let pity not be believed!’ There she shook

The holy water from her heavenly eyes, 32

And clamour-moisten’d, then away she started

To deal with grief alone.

Kent.

It is the stars,

The stars above us, govern our conditions;

Else one self mate and make could not beget 36

Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

Gent.

No.

Kent.

Was this before the king return’d?

Gent.

No, since.

Kent.

Well, sir, the poor distress’d Lear’s i’ the town, 40

Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers

What we are come about, and by no means

Will yield to see his daughter.

Gent.

Why, good sir?

Kent.

A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own unkindness, 44

That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her

To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights

To his dog-hearted daughters,—these things sting

His mind so venomously that burning shame

Detains him from Cordelia.

Gent.

Alack! poor gentleman. 49

Kent.

Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

Gent.

’Tis so, they are afoot.

Kent.

Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear, 52

And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause

Will in concealment wrap me up awhile;

When I am known aright, you shall not grieve

Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go

Along with me.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Tent.

Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers.

Cor.

Alack! ’tis he: why, he was met even now

As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud;

Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,

With burdocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,

Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 5

In our sustaining corn. A century send forth;

Search every acre in the high-grown field,

And bring him to our eye.

[Exit an Officer.

What can man’s wisdom 8

In the restoring his bereaved sense?

He that helps him take all my outward worth.

Phy.

There is means, madam;

Our foster-nurse of nature is repose, 12

The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,

Are many simples operative, whose power

Will close the eye of anguish.

Cor.

All bless’d secrets,

All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, 16

Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate

In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him,

Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life

That wants the means to lead it.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

News, madam; 20

The British powers are marching hitherward.

Cor.

’Tis known before; our preparation stands

In expectation of them. O dear father!

It is thy business that I go about; 24

Therefore great France

My mourning and important tears hath pitied,

No blown ambition doth our arms incite,

But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right,

Soon may I hear and see him!

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Room in Gloucester’s Castle.

Enter Regan and Oswald.

Reg.

But are my brother’s powers set forth?

Osw.

Ay, madam.

Reg.

Himself in person there?

Osw.

Madam, with much ado:

Your sister is the better soldier.

Reg.

Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? 4

Osw.

No, madam.

Reg.

What might import my sister’s letter to him?

Osw.

I know not, lady.

Reg.

Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. 8

It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out,

To let him live; where he arrives he moves

All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone,

In pity of his misery, to dispatch 12

His nighted life; moreover, to descry

The strength o’ the enemy.

Osw.

I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

Reg.

Our troops set forth to-morrow; stay with us, 16

The ways are dangerous.

Osw.

I may not, madam;

My lady charg’d my duty in this business.

Reg.

Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you

Transport her purposes by word? Belike, 20

Something—I know not what. I’ll love thee much,

Let me unseal the letter.

Osw.

Madam, I had rather—

Reg.

I know your lady does not love her husband;

I am sure of that: and at her late being here 24

She gave strange ceilliades and most speaking looks

To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

Osw.

I, madam!

Reg.

I speak in understanding; you are, I know’t: 28

Therefore I do advise you, take this note:

My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d,

And more convenient is he for my hand

Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. 32

If you do find him, pray you, give him this,

And when your mistress hears thus much from you,

I pray desire her call her wisdom to her:

So, fare you well. 36

If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,

Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

Osw.

Would I could meet him, madam: I would show

What party I do follow.

Reg.

Fare thee well.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Country near Dover.

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.

Glo.

When shall I come to the top of that same hill?

Edg.

You do climb up it now; look how we labour.

Glo.

Methinks the ground is even.

Edg.

Horrible steep:

Hark! do you hear the sea?

Glo.

No, truly. 4

Edg.

Why, then you other senses grow imperfect

By your eyes’ anguish.

Glo.

So may it be, indeed.

Methinks thy voice is alter’d, and thou speak’st

In better phrase and matter than thou didst. 8

Edg.

Y’are much deceiv’d; in nothing am I chang’d

But in my garments.

Glo.

Methinks you’re better spoken.

Edg.

Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still.

How fearful 12

And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!

The crows and choughs that wing the midway air

Show scarce so gross as beetles; half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade! 16

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen that walk upon the beach

Appear like mice, and yond tall anchoring bark

Diminish’d to her cock, her cock a buoy 20

Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,

That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 24

Topple down headlong.

Glo.

Set me where you stand.

Edg.

Give me your hand; you are now within a foot

Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon

Would I not leap upright.

Glo.

Let go my hand. 28

Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel

Well worth a poor man’s taking: fairies and gods

Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off;

Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. 32

Edg.

Now fare you well, good sir.

Glo.

With all my heart.

Edg.

Why I do trifle thus with his despair

Is done to cure it.

Glo.

O you mighty gods!

This world I do renounce, and, in your sights, 36

Shake patiently my great affliction off;

If I could bear it longer, and not fall

To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,

My snuff and loathed part of nature should 40

Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!

Now, fellow, fare thee well.

[He falls forward.

Edg.

Gone, sir: farewell.

[Aside.] And yet I know not how conceit may rob

The treasury of life when life itself 44

Yields to the theft; had he been where he thought

By this had thought been past. Alive or dead?

[To Gloucester.] Ho, you sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak!

Thus might he pass indeed; yet he revives. 48

What are you, sir?

Glo.

Away and let me die.

Edg.

Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,

So many fathom down precipitating,

Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg; but thou dost breathe, 52

Hast heavy substance, bleed’st not, speak’st, art sound.

Ten masts at each make not the altitude

Which thou hast perpendicularly fell:

Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again. 56

Glo.

But have I fallen or no?

Edg.

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.

Look up a-height; the shrill-gorg’d lark so far

Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up. 60

Glo.

Alack! I have no eyes.

Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit

To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort,

When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage, 64

And frustrate his proud will.

Edg.

Give me your arm:

Up: so. How is ’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

Glo.

Too well, too well.

Edg.

This is above all strangeness.

Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was that

Which parted from you?

Glo.

A poor unfortunate beggar. 69

Edg.

As I stood here below methought his eyes

Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,

Horns whelk’d and wav’d like the enridged sea:

It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,

Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours 74

Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.

Glo.

I do remember now; henceforth I’ll bear

Affliction till it do cry out itself 77

‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of

I took it for a man; often ’twould say

‘The fiend, the fiend:’ he led me to that place.

Edg.

Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here? 81

Enter Lear, fantastically dressed with flowers.

The safer sense will ne’er accommodate

His master thus.

Lear.

No, they cannot touch me for coining;

I am the king himself. 85

Edg.

O thou side-piercing sight!

Lear.

Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look! a mouse. Peace, peace! this piece of toasted cheese will do ’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O! well flown, bird; i’ the clout, i’ the clout: hewgh! Give the word.

Edg.

Sweet marjoram.

Lear.

Pass. 96

Glo.

I know that voice.

Lear.

Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They flatter’d me like a dog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said! ‘Ay’ and ‘no’ too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter, when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was every thing; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof. 108

Glo.

The trick of that voice I do well remember:

Is ’t not the king?

Lear.

Ay, every inch a king:

When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.

I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? 112

Adultery?

Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:

The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly

Does lecher in my sight. 116

Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester’s bastard son

Was kinder to his father than my daughters

Got ’tween the lawful sheets.

To ’t luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. 120

Behold yond simpering dame,

Whose face between her forks presageth snow;

That minces virtue, and does shake the head

To hear of pleasure’s name; 124

The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to ’t

With a more riotous appetite.

Down from the waist they are Centaurs,

Though women all above: 128

But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

Beneath is all the fiends’:

There’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, 131

Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination: there’s money for thee.

Glo.

O! let me kiss that hand! 136

Lear.

Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Glo.

O ruin’d piece of nature! This great world

Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me? 139

Lear.

I remember thine eyes well enough.

Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.

Glo.

Were all the letters suns, I could not see.

Edg.

[Aside.] I would not take this from report; it is, 145

And my heart breaks at it.

Lear.

Read.

Glo.

What! with the case of eyes? 148

Lear.

O, ho! are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light: yet you see how this world goes. 152

Glo.

I see it feelingly.

Lear.

What! art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yound justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar? 160

Glo.

Ay, sir.

Lear.

And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority; a dog’s obey’d in office. 164

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!

Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;

Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind

For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. 168

Through tatter’d clothes small vices do appear;

Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,

And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;

Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw doth pierce it.

None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em: 173

Take that of me, my friend, who have the power

To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes;

And, like a scurvy politician, seem 176

To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now;

Pull off my boots; harder, harder; so.

Edg.

[Aside.] O! matter and impertinency mix’d;

Reason in madness! 180

Lear.

If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes;

I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester:

Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:

Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air 184

We waul and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

Glo.

Alack! alack the day!

Lear.

When we are born, we cry that we are come

To this great stage of fools. This’ a good block!

It were a delicate stratagem to shoe 189

A troop of horse with felt; I’ll put it in proof,

And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! 192

Enter Gentleman, with Attendants.

Gent.

O! here he is; lay hand upon him. Sir,

Your most dear daughter—

Lear.

No rescue? What! a prisoner? I am even

The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; 196

You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons;

I am cut to the brains.

Gent.

You shall have any thing.

Lear.

No seconds? All myself?

Why this would make a man a man of salt, 200

To use his eyes for garden water-pots,

Ay, and laying autumn’s dust.

Gent.

Good sir,—

Lear.

I will die bravely as a bridegroom. What!

I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king, 204

My masters, know you that?

Gent.

You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Lear.

Then there’s life in it. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa

[Exit. Attendants follow.

Gent.

A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, 209

Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,

Who redeems nature from the general curse

Which twain have brought her to. 212

Edg.

Hail, gentle sir!

Gent.

Sir, speed you: what’s your will?

Edg.

Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

Gent.

Most sure and vulgar; every one hears that,

Which can distinguish sound.

Edg.

But, by your favour, 216

How near’s the other army?

Gent.

Near, and on speedy foot; the main descry

Stands on the hourly thought.

Edg.

I thank you, sir: that’s all

Gent.

Though that the queen on special cause is here, 220

Her army is mov’d on.

Edg.

I thank you, sir.

[Exit Gentleman

Glo.

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:

Let not my worser spirit tempt me again

To die before you please!

Edg.

Well pray you, father. 224

Glo.

Now, good sir, what are you?

Edg.

A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows;

Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,

Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,

I’ll lead you to some biding.

Glo.

Hearty thanks: 229

The bounty and the benison of heaven

To boot, and boot!

Enter Oswald.

Osw.

A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!

That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh

To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, 233

Briefly thyself remember: the sword in out

That must destroy thee.

Glo.

Now let thy friendly hand

Put strength enough to ’t.

[Edgar interposes.

Osw.

Wherefore, bold peasant, 236

Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;

Lest that infection of his fortune take

Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edg.

Chill not let go, zur, without vurther ’casion. 241

Osw.

Let go, slave, or thou diest.

Edg.

Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’ old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder. Chill be plain with you. 249

Osw.

Out, dunghill!

Edg.

Chill pick your teeth, zur. Come; no matter vor your foins. 252

[They fight and Edgar knocks him down.

Osw.

Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse.

If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;

And give the letters which thou find’st about me

To Edmund Earl of Gloucester; seek him out

Upon the English party: O! untimely death. 257

[Dies.

Edg.

I know thee well: a serviceable villain;

As duteous to the vices of thy mistress

As badness would desire.

Glo.

What! is he dead? 260

Edg.

Sit you down, father; rest you.

Let’s see his pockets: these letters that he speaks of

May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry

He had no other deaths-man. Let us see: 264

Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:

To know our enemies’ minds, we’d rip their hearts;

Their papers, is more lawful.

Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off; if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror; then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour.

Your—wife, so I would say— 276

Affectionate servant,

Goneril.

O undistinguish’d space of woman’s will!

A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, 280

And the exchange my brother! Here, in the sands,

Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified

Of murderous lechers; and in the mature time

With this ungracious paper strike the sight 284

Of the death-practis’d duke. For him ’tis well

That of thy death and business I can tell.

Glo.

The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,

That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling 288

Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:

So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs,

And woes by wrong imaginations lose

The knowledge of themselves.

[Drums ajar off.

Edg.

Give me your hand: 292

Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.

Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— A Tent in the French Camp.

Enter Cordelia, Kent, Doctor, and Gentleman.

Cor.

O thou good Kent! how shall I live and work

To match thy goodness? My life will be too short,

And every measure fail me.

Kent.

To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid. 4

All my reports go with the modest truth,

Nor more nor clipp’d, but so.

Cor.

Be better suited:

These weeds are memories of those worser hours:

I prithee, put them off.

Kent.

Pardon me, dear madam; 8

Yet to be known shortens my made intent:

My boon I make it that you know me not

Till time and I think meet.

Cor.

Then be ’t so, my good lord.—[To the Doctor.] How does the king? 12

Doc.

Madam, sleeps still.

Cor.

O you kind gods,

Cure this great breach in his abused nature!

The untun’d and jarring senses, O! wind up 16

Of this child-changed father!

Doc.

So please your majesty

That we may wake the king? he hath slept long.

Cor.

Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed

I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d? 20

Enter Lear in his chair, carried by Servants.

Gent.

Ay, madam; in the heaviness of sleep,

We put fresh garments on him.

Doc.

Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;

I doubt not of his temperance.

Cor.

Very well.

[Music.

Doc.

Please you, draw near. Louder the music there. 25

Cor.

O my dear father! Restoration, hang

Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss

Repair those violent harms that my two sisters

Have in thy reverence made!

Kent.

Kind and dear princess! 29

Cor.

Had you not been their father, these white flakes

Had challeng’d pity of them. Was this a face

To be expos’d against the warring winds? 32

To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?

In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick cross lightning? to watch—poor perdu!—

With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, 36

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night

Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father,

To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 40

’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once

Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

Doc.

Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

Cor.

How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? 44

Lear.

You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave;

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears

Do scald like molten lead.

Cor.

Sir, do you know me? 48

Lear.

You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?

Cor.

Still, still, far wide.

Doc.

He’s scarce awake; let him alone awhile.

Lear.

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair day-light? 52

I am mightily abus’d. I should even die with pity

To see another thus. I know not what to say.

I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see;

I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d 56

Of my condition!

Cor.

O! look upon me, sir,

And hold your hands in benediction o’er me.

No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear.

Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man, 60

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you and know this man; 64

Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant

What place this is, and all the skill I have

Remembers not these garments; nor I know not

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; 68

For, as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

Cor.

And so I am, I am.

Lear.

Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not:

If you have poison for me, I will drink it. 72

I know you do not love me; for your sisters

Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:

You have some cause, they have not.

Cor.

No cause, no cause.

Lear.

Am I in France?

Kent.

In your own kingdom, sir.

Lear.

Do not abuse me. 77

Doc.

Be comforted, good madam; the great rage,

You see, is kill’d in him; and yet it is danger

To make him even o’er the time he has lost. 80

Desire him to go in; trouble him no more

Till further settling.

Cor.

Will ’t please your highness walk?

Lear.

You must bear with me.

Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

[Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Doctor, and Attendants.

Gent.

Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

Kent.

Most certain, sir.

Gent.

Who is conductor of his people? 88

Kent.

As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

Gent.

They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.

Kent.

Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace. 94

Gent.

The arbitrement is like to be bloody.

Fare you well, sir.

[Exit.

Kent.

My point and period will be throughly wrought, 97

Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The British Camp near Dover.

Enter, with drum and colours, Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers, and Others.

Edm.

Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,

Or whether since he is advis’d by aught

To change the course; he’s full of alteration

And self-reproving; bring his constant pleasure.

[To an Officer, who goes out.

Reg.

Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

Edm.

’Tis to be doubted, madam.

Reg.

Now, sweet lord,

You know the goodness I intend upon you:

Tell me, but truly, but then speak the truth, 8

Do you not love my sister?

Edm.

In honour’d love.

Reg.

But have you never found my brother’s way

To the forefended place?

Edm.

That thought abuses you.

Reg.

I am doubtful that you have been conjunct 12

And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

Edm.

No, by mine honour, madam.

Reg.

I never shall endure her: dear my lord,

Be not familiar with her.

Edm.

Fear me not. 16

She and the duke her husband!

Enter with drums and colours, Albany, Goneril, and Soldiers.

Gon.

[Aside.] I had rather lose the battle than that sister

Should loosen him and me.

Alb.

Our very loving sister, well be-met. 20

Sir, this I heard, the king is come to his daughter,

With others; whom the rigour of our state

Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest

I never yet was valiant: for this business, 24

It toucheth us, as France invades our land,

Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,

Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

Edm.

Sir, you speak nobly.

Reg.

Why is this reason’d? 28

Gon.

Combine together ’gainst the enemy;

For these domestic and particular broils

Are not the question here.

Alb.

Let’s then determine

With the ancient of war on our proceeding. 32

Edm.

I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Reg.

Sister, you’ll go with us?

Gon.

No.

Reg.

’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us. 36

Gon.

[Aside.] O, ho! I know the riddle. [Aloud.] I will go.

Enter Edgar, disguised.

Edg.

If e’er your Grace had speech with man so poor,

Hear me one word.

Alb.

I’ll overtake you. Speak.

[Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

Edg.

Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. 40

If you have victory, let the trumpet sound

For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,

I can produce a champion that will prove

What is avouched there. If you miscarry, 44

Your business of the world hath so an end,

And machination ceases. Fortune love you!

Alb.

Stay till I have read the letter.

Edg.

I was forbid it.

When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, 48

And I’ll appear again.

Alb.

Why, fare thee well: I will o’erlook thy paper.

[Exit Edgar.

Re-enter Edmund.

Edm.

The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers.

Here is the guess of their true strength and forces 52

By diligent discovery; but your haste

Is now urg’d on you.

Alb.

We will greet the time.

[Exit.

Edm.

To both these sisters have I sworn my love;

Each jealous of the other, as the stung 56

Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?

Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d

If both remain alive: to take the widow

Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; 60

And hardly shall I carry out my side,

Her husband being alive. Now then, we’ll use

His countenance for the battle; which being done

Let her who would be rid of him devise 64

His speedy taking off. As for the mercy

Which he intends to Lear, and to Cordelia,

The battle done, and they within our power,

Shall never see his pardon; for my state 68

Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Field between the two Camps.

Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia, and their Forces; and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester.

Edg.

Here, father, take the shadow of this tree

For your good host; pray that the right may thrive.

If ever I return to you again,

I’ll bring you comfort.

Glo.

Grace go with you, sir! 4

[Exit Edgar.

Alarum; afterwards a retreat. Re-enter Edgar.

Edg.

Away, old man! give me thy hand: away!

King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en.

Give me thy hand; come on.

Glo.

No further, sir; a man may rot even here. 8

Edg.

What! in ill thoughts again? Men must endure

Their going hence, even as their coming hither:

Ripeness is all. Come on.

Glo.

And that’s true too.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The British Camp, near Dover.

Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, Edmund; Lear and Cordelia, prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

Edm.

Some officers take them away: good guard,

Until their greater pleasures first be known

That are to censure them.

Cor.

We are not the first

Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst. 4

For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;

Myself could else out-frown false Fortune’s frown.

Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

Lear.

No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison; 8

We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage:

When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down,

And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh 12

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too,

Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out;

And take upon’s the mystery of things, 16

As if we were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out,

In a wall’d prison, packs and sets of great ones

That ebb and flow by the moon.

Edm.

Take them away.

Lear.

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, 20

The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?

He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,

And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;

The goujeres shall devour them, flesh and fell, 24

Ere they shall make us weep: we’ll see ’em starve first.

Come.

[Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded.

Edm.

Come hither, captain; hark,

Take thou this note; [Giving a paper.] go follow them to prison: 28

One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost

As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way

To noble fortunes; know thou this, that men

Are as the time is; to be tender-minded 32

Does not become a sword; thy great employment

Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t,

Or thrive by other means.

Offi.

I’ll do’t, my lord.

Edm.

About it; and write happy when thou hast done. 36

Mark,—I say, instantly, and carry it so

As I have set it down.

Offi.

I cannot draw a cart nor eat dried oats;

If it be man’s work I will do it.

[Exit.

Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Officers, and Attendants.

Alb.

Sir, you have show’d to-day your valiant strain, 41

And fortune led you well; you have the captives

Who were the opposites of this day’s strife;

We do require them of you, so to use them 44

As we shall find their merits and our safety

May equally determine.

Edm.

Sir, I thought it fit

To send the old and miserable king

To some retention, and appointed guard; 48

Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,

To pluck the common bosom on his side,

And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes

Which do command them. With him I sent the queen; 52

My reason all the same; and they are ready

To-morrow, or at further space, to appear

Where you shall hold your session. At this time

We sweat and bleed; the friend hath lost his friend, 56

And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs’d

By those that feel their sharpness;

The question of Cordelia and her father

Requires a fitter place.

Alb.

Sir, by your patience, 60

I hold you but a subject of this war,

Not as a brother.

Reg.

That’s as we list to grace him:

Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded,

Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, 64

Bore the commission of my place and person;

The which immediacy may well stand up,

And call itself your brother.

Gon.

Not so hot;

In his own grace he doth exalt himself 68

More than in your addition.

Reg.

In my rights,

By me invested, he compeers the best.

Gon.

That were the most, if he should husband you.

Reg.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Gon.

Holla, holla! 72

That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint.

Reg.

Lady, I am not well; else I should answer

From a full-flowing stomach. General,

Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; 76

Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine;

Witness the world, that I create thee here

My lord and master.

Gon.

Mean you to enjoy him?

Alb.

The let-alone lies not in your good will. 80

Edm.

Nor in thine, lord.

Alb.

Half-blooded fellow, yes.

Reg.

[To Edmund.] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

Alb.

Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee

On capital treason; and, in thy arrest, 84

This gilded serpent. [Pointing to Goneril.] For your claim, fair sister,

I bar it in the interest of my wife;

’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,

And I, her husband, contradict your bans. 88

If you will marry, make your love to me,

My lady is bespoke.

Gon.

An interlude!

Alb.

Thou art arm’d, Gloucester; let the trumpet sound:

If none appear to prove upon thy person 92

Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,

There is my pledge; [Throws down a glove.] I’ll prove it on thy heart,

Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less

Than I have here proclaim’d thee.

Reg.

Sick! O sick! 96

Gon.

[Aside.] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

Edm.

There’s my exchange: [Throws down a glove.] what in the world he is

That names me traitor, villain-like be lies.

Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,

On him, on you, who not? I will maintain 101

My truth and honour firmly.

Alb.

A herald, ho!

Edm.

A herald, ho! a herald!

Alb.

Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, 104

All levied in my name, have in my name

Took their discharge.

Reg.

My sickness grows upon me.

Alb.

She is not well; convey her to my tent.

[Exit Regan, led.

Come hither, herald,

Enter a Herald.

Let the trumpet sound,— 108

And read out this.

Offi.

Sound, trumpet!

[A trumpet sounds.

Her.

If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear at the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence. 116

Edm.

Sound!

[First Trumpet.

Her.

Again!

[Second Trumpet.

Her.

Again!

[Third Trumpet.

[Trumpet answers within.

Enter Edgar, armed, with a Trumpet before him.

Alb.

Ask him his purposes, why he appears

Upon this call o’ the trumpet.

Her.

What are you? 121

Your name? your quality? and why you answer

This present summons?

Edg.

Know, my name is lost;

By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:

Yet am I noble as the adversary 125

I come to cope.

Alb.

Which is that adversary?

Edg.

What’s he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?

Edm.

Himself: what sayst thou to him?

Edg.

Draw thy sword, 128

That, if my speech offend a noble heart,

Thy arm may do thee justice; here is mine:

Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,

My oath, and my profession: I protest, 132

Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,

Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,

Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor,

False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father,

Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince,

And, from the extremest upward of thy head

To the descent and dust below thy foot,

A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’ 140

This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent

To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,

Thou liest.

Edm.

In wisdom I should ask thy name;

But since thy outside looks so fair and war-like,

And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, 145

What safe and nicely I might well delay

By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn;

Back do I toss these treasons to thy head, 148

With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart,

Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise,

This sword of mine shall give them instant way,

Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! 152

[Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls.

Alb.

Save him, save him!

Gon.

This is practice, Gloucester:

By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer

An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d,

But cozen’d and beguil’d.

Alb.

Shut your mouth, dame, 156

Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir;

Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil:

No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.

[Gives the letter to Edmund.

Gon.

Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: 160

Who can arraign me for ’t?

[Exit.

Alb.

Most monstrous!

Know’st thou this paper?

Edm.

Ask me not what I know.

Alb.

Go after her: she’s desperate; govern her.

[Exit an Officer.

Edm.

What you have charg’d me with, that have I done, 164

And more, much more; the time will bring it out:

’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou

That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble,

I do forgive thee.

Edg.

Let’s exchange charity. 168

I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;

If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me.

My name is Edgar, and thy father’s son.

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices 172

Make instruments to plague us:

The dark and vicious place where thee he got

Cost him his eyes.

Edm.

Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true;

The wheel is come full circle; I am here. 176

Alb.

Methought thy very gait did prophesy

A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee:

Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I

Did hate thee or thy father.

Edg.

Worthy prince, I know ’t. 180

Alb.

Where have you hid yourself?

How have you known the miseries of your father?

Edg.

By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;

And, when ’tis told, O! that my heart would burst, 184

The bloody proclamation to escape

That follow’d me so near,—O! our lives’ sweetness,

That we the pain of death would hourly die

Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift 188

Into a madman’s rags, to assume a semblance

That very dogs disdain’d: and in this habit

Met I my father with his bleeding rings,

Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, 192

Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair;

Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him,

Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d;

Not sure, though hoping, of this good success,

I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last 197

Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw’d heart,—

Alack! too weak the conflict to support;

’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,

Burst smilingly.

Edm.

This speech of yours hath mov’d me,

And shall perchance do good; but speak you on; 202

You look as you had something more to say.

Alb.

If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;

For I am almost ready to dissolve, 205

Hearing of this.

Edg.

This would have seem’d a period

To such as love not sorrow; but another,

To amplify too much, would make much more,

And top extremity. 209

Whilst I was big in clamour came there a man,

Who, having seen me in my worst estate,

Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then, finding

Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms

He fasten’d on my neck, and bellow’d out

As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father;

Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him 216

That ever ear receiv’d; which in recounting

His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life

Began to crack: twice then the trumpet sounded,

And there I left him tranc’d.

Alb.

But who was this? 220

Edg.

Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise

Follow’d his enemy king, and did him service

Improper for a slave.

Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife.

Gent.

Help, help! O help!

Edg.

What kind of help?

Alb.

Speak, man. 224

Edg.

What means that bloody knife?

Gent.

’Tis hot, it smokes;

It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead.

Alb.

Who dead? speak, man.

Gent.

Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister 228

By her is poison’d; she confesses it.

Edm.

I was contracted to them both: all three

Now marry in an instant.

Edg.

Here comes Kent.

Alb.

Produce the bodies, be they alive or dead: 232

This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,

Touches us not with pity.

[Exit Gentleman.

Enter Kent.

O! is this he?

The time will not allow the compliment

Which very manners urges.

Kent.

I am come 236

To bid my king and master aye good-night;

Is he not here?

Alb.

Great thing of us forgot!

Speak, Edmund, where’s the king? and where’s Cordelia?

Seest thou this object, Kent? 240

[The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in.

Kent.

Alack! why thus?

Edm.

Yet Edmund was belov’d:

The one the other poison’d for my sake,

And after slew herself.

Alb.

Even so. Cover their faces. 244

Edm.

I pant for life: some good I mean to do

Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send,

Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ

Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia. 248

Nay, send in time.

Alb.

Run, run! O run!

Edg.

To whom, my lord? Who has the office? send

Thy token of reprieve.

Edm.

Well thought on: take my sword, 252

Give it the captain.

Alb.

Haste thee, for thy life.

[Exit Edgar.

Edm.

He hath commission from my wife and me

To hang Cordelia in the prison, and

To lay the blame upon her own despair, 256

That she fordid herself.

Alb.

The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.

[Edmund is borne off.

Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer, and Others.

Lear.

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so

That heaven’s vaults should crack. She’s gone for ever. 261

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why, then she lives.

Kent.

Is this the promis’d end? 265

Edg.

Or image of that horror?

Alb.

Fall and cease?

Lear.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,

It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows 268

That ever I have felt.

Kent.

[Kneeling.] O, my good master!

Lear.

Prithee, away.

Edg.

’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

Lear.

A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!

I might have sav’d her; now, she’s gone for ever!

Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! 273

What is ’t thou sayst? Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.

I kill’d the slave that was a hanging thee. 276

Off.

’Tis true, my lord, he did.

Lear.

Did I not, fellow?

I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion

I would have made them skip: I am old now,

And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?

Mine eyes are not o’ the best: I’ll tell you straight. 281

Kent.

If fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated,

One of them we behold.

Lear.

This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

Kent.

The same, 284

Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?

Lear.

He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that;

He’ll strike, and quickly too. He’s dead and rotten.

Kent.

No, my good lord; I am the very man— 288

Lear.

I’ll see that straight.

Kent.

That, from your first of difference and decay,

Have follow’d your sad steps.

Lear.

You are welcome hither.

Kent.

Nor no man else; all’s cheerless, dark, and deadly: 292

Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves,

And desperately are dead.

Lear.

Ay, so I think.

Alb.

He knows not what he says, and vain it is

That we present us to him.

Edg.

Very bootless. 296

Enter an Officer.

Off.

Edmund is dead, my lord.

Alb.

That’s but a trifle here.

You lords and noble friends, know our intent;

What comfort to this great decay may come

Shall be applied: for us, we will resign, 300

During the life of this old majesty,

To him our absolute power:—[To Edgar and Kent.] You, to your rights;

With boot and such addition as your honours

Have more than merited. All friends shall taste

The wages of their virtue, and all foes 305

The cup of their deservings. O! see, see!

Lear.

And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, 308

And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never!

Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.

Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips, 312

Look there, look there!

[Dies.

Edg.

He faints!—my lord, my lord!

Kent.

Break, heart; I prithee, break.

Edg.

Look up, my lord.

Kent.

Vex not his ghost: O! let him pass; he hates him

That would upon the rack of this tough world

Stretch him out longer.

Edg.

He is gone, indeed. 317

Kent.

The wonder is he hath endur’d so long:

He but usurp’d his life.

Alb.

Bear them from hence. Our present business 320

Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar.] Friends of my soul, you twain

Rule in this realm, and the gor’d state sustain.

Kent.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;

My master calls me, I must not say no. 324

Alb.

The weight of this sad time we must obey;

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most: we that are young,

Shall never see so much, nor live so long. 328

[Exeunt, with a dead march.

OTHELLO THE MOOR OF VENICE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke of Venice.
Brabantio,	a Senator. Other Senators.
Gratiano,	Brother to Brabantio.
Lodovico,	Kinsman to Brabantio.
Othello,	a noble Moor; in the service of the Venetian State.
Cassio,	his Lieutenant.
Iago,	his Ancient.
Roderigo,	a Venetian Gentleman.
Montano,	Othello’s predecessor in the Government of Cyprus.
Clown, Servant to Othello.
Desdemona,	Daughter to Brabantio, and Wife to Othello.
Emilia,	Wife to Iago.
Bianca,	Mistress to Cassio.
Sailor, Officers, Gentlemen, Messengers, Musicians, Heralds, Attendants.

Scene.—For the first Act, in Venice; during the rest of the Play, at a Sea-Port in Cyprus.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Roderigo and Iago.

Rod.

Tush! Never tell me; I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

Iago.

’Sblood, but you will not hear me: 4

If ever I did dream of such a matter,

Abhor me.

Rod.

Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.

Iago.

Despise me if I do not. Three great ones of the city, 8

In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,

Off-capp’d to him; and, by the faith of man.

I know my price, I am worth no worse a place;

But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, 12

Evades them, with a bombast circumstance

Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war;

And, in conclusion,

Nonsuits my mediators; for, ‘Certes,’ says he, 16

‘I have already chose my officer.’

And what was he?

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 20

A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife;

That never set a squadron in the field,

Nor the division of a battle knows

More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,

Wherein the toged consuls can propose 25

As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice,

Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election;

And I—of whom his eyes had seen the proof 28

At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds

Christian and heathen—must be be-lee’d and calm’d

By debitor and creditor; this counter caster,

He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, 32

And I—God bless the mark!—his Moorship’s ancient.

Rod.

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

Iago.

Why, there’s no remedy: ’tis the curse of the service,

Preferment goes by letter and affection, 36

Not by the old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,

Whe’r I in any just term am affin’d

To love the Moor.

Rod.

I would not follow him then. 40

Iago.

O! sir, content you;

I follow him to serve my turn upon him;

We cannot all be masters, nor all masters

Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark 44

Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,

That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,

Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass,

For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d; 48

Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are

Who, trimm’d in forms and visages of duty,

Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,

And, throwing but shows of service on their lords, 52

Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin’d their coats

Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;

And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,

It is as sure as you are Roderigo, 56

Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:

In following him, I follow but myself;

Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

But seeming so, for my peculiar end: 60

For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In compliment extern, ’tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve 64

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

Rod.

What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe,

If he can carry ’t thus!

Iago.

Call up her father; 67

Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight,

Proclaim him in the streets, incense her kinsmen,

And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,

Plague him with flies; though that his joy be joy,

Yet throw such changes of vexation on ’t 72

As it may lose some colour.

Rod.

Here is her father’s house; I’ll call aloud.

Iago.

Do; with like timorous accent and dire yell

As when, by night and negligence, the fire 76

Is spied in populous cities.

Rod.

What, ho! Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

Iago.

Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! 80

Thieves! thieves!

Enter Brabantio, above, at a window.

Bra.

What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?

Rod.

Signior, is all your family within? 84

Iago.

Are your doors lock’d?

Bra.

Why? wherefore ask you this?

Iago.

’Zounds! sir, you’re robb’d; for shame, put on your gown;

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram 88

Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise!

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you.

Arise, I say.

Bra.

What! have you lost your wits? 92

Rod.

Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Bra.

Not I, what are you?

Rod.

My name is Roderigo.

Bra.

The worser welcome:

I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors: 96

In honest plainness thou hast heard me say

My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,

Being full of supper and distempering draughts,

Upon malicious knavery dost thou come 100

To start my quiet.

Rod.

Sir, sir, sir!

Bra.

But thou must needs be sure

My spirit and my place have in them power

To make this bitter to thee.

Rod.

Patience, good sir. 104

Bra.

What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

My house is not a grange.

Rod.

Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pure soul I come to you. 107

Iago.

’Zounds! sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse; you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans. 114

Bra.

What profane wretch art thou?

Iago.

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you, your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

Bra.

Thou art a villain.

Iago.

You are—a senator.

Bra.

This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo. 120

Rod.

Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,

If ’t be your pleasure and most wise consent,—

As partly, I find, it is,—that your fair daughter,

At this odd-even and dull-watch o’ the night, 124

Transported with no worse nor better guard

But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,— 127

If this be known to you, and your allowance,

We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;

But if you know not this, my manners tell me

We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe,

That, from the sense of all civility, 132

I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:

Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,

I say again, hath made a gross revolt;

Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes 136

In an extravagant and wheeling stranger

Of here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:

If she be in her chamber or your house,

Let loose on me the justice of the state 140

For thus deluding you.

Bra.

Strike on the tinder, ho!

Give me a taper! call up all my people!

This accident is not unlike my dream;

Belief of it oppresses me already. 144

Light, I say! light!

[Exit, from above.

Iago.

Farewell, for I must leave you:

It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place

To be produc’d, as, if I stay, I shall,

Against the Moor; for, I do know the state, 148

However this may gall him with some check,

Cannot with safety cast him; for he’s embark’d

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,—

Which even now stand in act,—that, for their souls, 152

Another of his fathom they have none,

To lead their business; in which regard,

Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains,

Yet, for necessity of present life, 156

I must show out a flag and sign of love,

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,

Lead to the Sagittary the raised search;

And there will I be with him. So, farewell. 160

[Exit.

Enter below, Brabantio, and Servants with torches.

Bra.

It is too true an evil: gone she is,

And what’s to come of my despised time

Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo,

Where didst thou see her? O, unhappy girl!

With the Moor, sayst thou? Who would be a father! 165

How didst thou know ’twas she? O, she deceives me

Past thought. What said she to you? Get more tapers!

Raise all my kindred! Are they married, think you? 168

Rod.

Truly, I think they are.

Bra.

O heaven! How got she out? O, treason of the blood:

Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds

By what you see them act. Are there not charms

By which the property of youth and maidhood

May be abus’d? Have you not read, Roderigo,

Of some such thing?

Rod.

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

Bra.

Call up my brother. O! that you had had her. 176

Some one way, some another! Do you know

Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?

Rod.

I think I can discover him, if you please

To get good guard and go along with me. 180

Bra.

Pray you, lead on. At every house I’ll call;

I may command at most. Get weapons, ho!

And raise some special officers of night.

On, good Roderigo; I’ll deserve your pains. 184

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Street.

Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants, with torches.

Iago.

Though in the trade of war I have slain men,

Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience

To do no contriv’d murder: I lack iniquity

Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times 4

I had thought to have yerk’d him here under the ribs.

Oth.

’Tis better as it is.

Iago.

Nay, but he prated,

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms

Against your honour 8

That, with the little godliness I have,

I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray, sir,

Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this,

That the magnifico is much belov’d, 12

And hath in his effect a voice potential

As double as the duke’s; he will divorce you,

Or put upon you what restraint and grievance

The law—with all his might to enforce it on— 16

Will give him cable.

Oth.

Let him do his spite:

My services which I have done the signiory

Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know, 19

Which when I know that boasting is an honour

I shall promulgate, I fetch my life and being

From men of royal siege, and my demerits

May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune

As this that I have reach’d; for know, Iago, 24

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,

I would not my unhoused free condition

Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea’s worth. But, look! what lights come yond? 28

Iago.

Those are the raised father and his friends:

You were best go in.

Oth.

Not I; I must be found:

My parts, my title, and my perfect soul

Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they? 32

Iago.

By Janus, I think no.

Enter Cassio and certain Officers, with torches.

Oth.

The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.

The goodness of the night upon you, friends!

What is the news?

Cas.

The duke does greet you, general, 36

And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,

Even on the instant.

Oth.

What is the matter, think you?

Cas.

Something from Cyprus, as I may divine.

It is a business of some heat; the galleys 40

Have sent a dozen sequent messengers

This very night at one another’s heels,

And many of the consuls, rais’d and met,

Are at the duke’s already. You have been hotly call’d for; 44

When, being not at your lodging to be found,

The senate hath sent about three several quests

To search you out.

Oth.

’Tis well I am found by you.

I will but spend a word here in the house, 48

And go with you.

[Exit.

Cas.

Ancient, what makes he here?

Iago.

Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carrack;

If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever.

Cas.

I do not understand.

Iago.

He’s married.

Cas.

To who? 52

Re-enter Othello.

Iago.

Marry, to—Come, captain, will you go?

Oth.

Have with you.

Cas.

Here comes another troop to seek for you.

Iago.

It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d;

He comes to bad intent.

Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers, with torches and weapons.

Oth.

Holla! stand there! 56

Rod.

Signior, it is the Moor.

Bra.

Down with him, thief!

[They draw on both sides.

Iago.

You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.

Oth.

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Good signior, you shall more command with years 60

Than with your weapons.

Bra.

O thou foul thief! where hast thou stow’d my daughter?

Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;

For I’ll refer me to all things of sense, 64

If she in chains of magic were not bound,

Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,

So opposite to marriage that she shunn’d

The wealthy curled darlings of our nation, 68

Would ever have, to incur a general mock,

Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom

Of such a thing as thou; to fear, not to delight.

Judge me the world, if ’tis not gross in sense 72

That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms,

Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals

That weaken motion: I’ll have ’t disputed on;

’Tis probable, and palpable to thinking. 76

I therefore apprehend and do attach thee

For an abuser of the world, a practiser

Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.

Lay hold upon him: if he do resist, 80

Subdue him at his peril.

Oth.

Hold your hands,

Both you of my inclining, and the rest:

Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it

Without a prompter. Where will you that I go

To answer this your charge?

Bra.

To prison; till fit time 85

Of law and course of direct session

Call thee to answer.

Oth.

What if I do obey?

How may the duke be therewith satisfied, 88

Whose messengers are here about my side,

Upon some present business of the state

To bring me to him?

Off.

’Tis true, most worthy signior;

The duke’s in council, and your noble self, 92

I am sure, is sent for.

Bra.

How! the duke in council!

In this time of the night! Bring him away.

Mine’s not an idle cause: the duke himself,

Or any of my brothers of the state, 96

Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own;

For if such actions may have passage free,

Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Council Chamber. The Duke and Senators sitting at a table. Officers attending.

Duke.

There is no composition in these news

That gives them credit.

First Sen.

Indeed, they are disproportion’d;

My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

Duke.

And mine, a hundred and forty.

Sec. Sen.

And mine, two hundred: 4

But though they jump not on a just account,—

As in these cases, where the aim reports,

’Tis oft with difference,—yet do they all confirm

A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. 8

Duke.

Nay, it is possible enough to judgment:

I do not so secure me in the error,

But the main article I do approve

In fearful sense.

Sailor.

[Within.] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho! 12

Off.

A messenger from the galleys.

Enter a Sailor.

Duke.

Now, what’s the business?

Sail.

The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;

So was I bid report here to the state

By Signior Angelo. 16

Duke.

How say you by this change?

First Sen.

This cannot be,

By no assay of reason; ’tis a pageant

To keep us in false gaze. When we consider

The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, 20

And let ourselves again but understand,

That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,

So may he with more facile question bear it,

For that it stands not in such war-like brace, 24

But altogether lacks the abilities

That Rhodes is dress’d in: if we make thought of this,

We must not think the Turk is so unskilful

To leave that latest which concerns him first, 28

Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,

To wake and wage a danger profitless.

Duke.

Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes.

Off.

Here is more news. 32

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,

Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,

Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

First Sen.

Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess? 36

Mess.

Of thirty sail; and now they do re-stem

Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance

Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,

Your trusty and most valiant servitor, 40

With his free duty recommends you thus,

And prays you to believe him.

Duke.

’Tis certain then, for Cyprus.

Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? 44

First Sen.

He’s now in Florence.

Duke.

Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.

First Sen.

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers.

Duke.

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you 48

Against the general enemy Ottoman.

[To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;

We lack’d your counsel and your help to-night.

Bra.

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me; 52

Neither my place nor aught I heard of business

Hath rais’d me from my bed, nor doth the general care

Take hold of me, for my particular grief

Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature 56

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows

And it is still itself.

Duke.

Why, what’s the matter?

Bra.

My daughter! O! my daughter.

Duke.

Dead?

Sen.

Dead?

Bra.

Ay, to me;

She is abus’d, stol’n from me, and corrupted 60

By spells and medicines bought of mounte-banks;

For nature so preposterously to err,

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,

Sans witchcraft could not. 64

Duke.

Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding

Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself

And you of her, the bloody book of law

You shall yourself read in the bitter letter 68

After your own sense; yea, though our proper son

Stood in your action.

Bra.

Humbly I thank your Grace.

Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems,

Your special mandate for the state affairs, 72

Hath hither brought.

Duke.

We are very sorry for it.

Sen.

We are very sorry for it.

Duke.

[To Othello.] What, in your own part, can you say to this?

Bra.

Nothing, but this is so.

Oth.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, 76

My very noble and approv’d good masters,

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,

It is most true; true, I have married her:

The very head and front of my offending 80

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace;

For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith,

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us’d

Their dearest action in the tented field; 85

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;

And therefore little shall I grace my cause 88

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 92

For such proceeding I am charg’d withal,

I won his daughter.

Bra.

A maiden never bold;

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion

Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature,

Of years, of country, credit, every thing, 97

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on!

It is a judgment maim’d and most imperfect

That will confess perfection so could err 100

Against all rules of nature, and must be driven

To find out practices of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again

That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, 104

Or with some dram conjur’d to this effect,

He wrought upon her.

Duke.

To vouch this, is no proof,

Without more certain and more overt test

Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods 108

Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

First Sen.

But, Othello, speak:

Did you by indirect and forced courses

Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections; 112

Or came it by request and such fair question

As soul to soul affordeth?

Oth.

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father: 116

If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Duke.

Fetch Desdemona hither.

Oth.

Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. 121

[Exeunt Iago and Attendants.

And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I’ll present 124

How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love,

And she in mine.

Duke.

Say it, Othello.

Oth.

Her father lov’d me; oft invited me;

Still question’d me the story of my life 129

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes

That I have pass’d.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days 132

To the very moment that he bade me tell it;

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach, 136

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my travel’s history;

Wherein of antres vast and desarts idle, 140

Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak, such was the process;

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 144

Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence;

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,

She’d come again, and with a greedy ear 149

Devour up my discourse. Which I observing,

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart 152

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels she had something heard,

But not intentively: I did consent;

And often did beguile her of her tears, 156

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer’d. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; 160

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful:

She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d

That heaven had made her such a man; she thank’d me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 165

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d,

And I lov’d her that she did pity them. 168

This only is the witchcraft I have us’d:

Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants.

Duke.

I think this tale would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio, 172

Take up this mangled matter at the best;

Men do their broken weapons rather use

Than their bare hands.

Bra.

I pray you, hear her speak:

If she confess that she was half the wooer, 176

Destruction on my head, if my bad blame

Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress:

Do you perceive in all this noble company

Where most you owe obedience?

Des.

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty: 181

To you I am bound for life and education;

My life and education both do learn me

How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,

I am hitherto your daughter: but here’s my husband; 185

And so much duty as my mother show’d

To you, preferring you before her father,

So much I challenge that I may profess 188

Due to the Moor my lord.

Bra.

God be with you! I have done.

Please it your Grace, on to the state affairs:

I had rather to adopt a child than get it.

Come hither, Moor: 192

I here do give thee that with all my heart

Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart

I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,

I am glad at soul I have no other child; 196

For thy escape would teach me tyranny,

To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord.

Duke.

Let me speak like yourself and lay a sentence,

Which as a grize or step, may help these lovers

Into your favour. 201

When remedies are past, the griefs are ended

By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone 204

Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

What cannot be preserv’d when Fortune takes,

Patience her injury a mockery makes.

The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief; 208

He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

Bra.

So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile;

We lose it not so long as we can smile.

He bears the sentence well that nothing bears

But the free comfort which from thence he hears;

But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow

That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.

These sentences, to sugar, or to gall, 216

Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:

But words are words; I never yet did hear

That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear.

I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. 220

Duke.

The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you: you must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. 229

Oth.

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,

Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war

My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize 232

A natural and prompt alacrity

I find in hardness, and do undertake

These present wars against the Ottomites.

Most humbly therefore bending to your state,

I crave fit disposition for my wife, 237

Due reference of place and exhibition,

With such accommodation and besort

As levels with her breeding.

Duke.

If you please, 240

Be ’t at her father’s.

Bra.

I’ll not have it so.

Oth.

Nor I.

Des.

Nor I; I would not there reside,

To put my father in impatient thoughts 244

By being in his eye. Most gracious duke,

To my unfolding lend your gracious ear;

And let me find a charter in your voice

To assist my simpleness. 248

Duke.

What would you, Desdemona?

Des.

That I did love the Moor to live with him,

My downright violence and storm of fortunes

May trumpet to the world; my heart’s subdu’d

Even to the very quality of my lord; 253

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind,

And to his honours and his valiant parts

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. 256

So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,

A moth of peace, and he go to the war,

The rites for which I love him are bereft me,

And I a heavy interim shall support 260

By his dear absence. Let me go with him.

Oth.

Let her have your voices.

Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not

To please the palate of my appetite, 264

Nor to comply with heat,—the young affects

In me defunct,—and proper satisfaction,

But to be free and bounteous to her mind;

And heaven defend your good souls that you think 268

I will your serious and great business scant

For she is with me. No, when light-wing’d toys

Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dulness

My speculative and offic’d instruments, 272

That my disports corrupt and taint my business,

Let housewives make a skillet of my helm,

And all indign and base adversities

Make head against my estimation! 276

Duke.

Be it as you shall privately determine,

Either for her stay or going. The affair cries haste,

And speed must answer it.

First Sen.

You must away to-night.

Oth.

With all my heart. 280

Duke.

At nine i’ the morning here we’ll meet again.

Othello, leave some officer behind,

And he shall our commission bring to you;

With such things else of quality and respect 284

As doth import you.

Oth.

So please your Grace, my ancient;

A man he is of honesty and trust:

To his conveyance I assign my wife,

With what else needful your good grace shall think 288

To be sent after me.

Duke.

Let it be so.

Good night to every one. [To Brabantio.] And, noble signior,

If virtue no delighted beauty lack,

Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. 292

First Sen.

Adieu, brave Moor! use Desdemona well.

Bra.

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see:

She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee.

[Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, &c.

Oth.

My life upon her faith! Honest Iago,

My Desdemona must I leave to thee: 297

I prithee, let thy wife attend on her;

And bring them after in the best advantage.

Come, Desdemona; I have but an hour 300

Of love, of worldly matters and direction,

To spend with thee: we must obey the time.

[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona.

Red.

Iago!

Iago.

What sayst thou, noble heart? 304

Rod.

What will I do, think’st thou?

Iago.

Why, go to bed, and sleep.

Rod.

I will incontinently drown myself.

Iago.

Well, if thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman! 309

Rod.

It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. 312

Iago.

O! villanous; I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. 319

Rod.

What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it. 322

Iago.

Virtue! a fig! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and woed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions; but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.

Rod.

It cannot be. 338

Iago.

It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself! drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow these wars; defeat thy favour with a usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor,—put money in thy purse,—nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement in her, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration; put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills;—fill thy purse with money:—the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth: when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must: therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her.

Rod.

Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? 370

Iago.

Thou art sure of me: go, make money. I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor: my cause is hearted: thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him; if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse; go: provide thy money. We will have more of this to-morrow. Adieu. 380

Rod.

Where shall we meet i’ the morning?

Iago.

At my lodging.

Rod.

I’ll be with thee betimes.

Iago.

Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? 384

Rod.

What say you?

Iago.

No more of drowning, do you hear?

Rod.

I am changed. I’ll sell all my land.

Iago

Go to; farewell! put money enough in your purse.

[Exit Roderigo.

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse; 389

For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane,

If I would time expend with such a snipe

But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor,

And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets

He has done my office: I know not if ’t be true,

But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,

Will do as if for surety. He holds me well; 396

The better shall my purpose work on him.

Cassio’s a proper man; let me see now:

To get his place; and to plume up my will

In double knavery; how, how? Let’s see: 400

After some time to abuse Othello’s ear

That he is too familiar with his wife:

He hath a person and a smooth dispose

To be suspected; framed to make women false.

The Moor is of a free and open nature, 405

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,

And will as tenderly be led by the nose

As asses are. 408

I have ’t; it is engender’d: hell and night

Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Sea-port Town in Cyprus. An open place near the Quay.

Enter Montano and two Gentlemen.

Mon.

What from the cape can you discern at sea?

First Gent.

Nothing at all: it is a high-wrought flood;

I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main

Descry a sail. 4

Mon.

Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;

A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements;

If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea,

What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,

Can hold the mortise? what shall we hear of this? 9

Sec. Gent.

A segregation of the Turkish fleet;

For do but stand upon the foaming shore,

The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; 12

The wind-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous mane,

Seems to cast water on the burning bear

And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole:

I never did like molestation view 16

On the enchafed flood.

Mon.

If that the Turkish fleet

Be not enshelter’d and embay’d, they are drown’d;

It is impossible they bear it out.

Enter a third Gentleman.

Third Gent.

News, lads! our wars are done.

The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the Turks

That their designment halts; a noble ship of Venice

Hath seen a grievous wrack and sufferance

On most part of their fleet. 24

Mon.

How! is this true?

Third Gent.

The ship is here put in,

A Veronesa; Michael Cassio,

Lieutenant to the war-like Moor Othello,

Is come on shore: the Moor himself’s at sea, 28

And is in full commission here for Cyprus.

Mon.

I am glad on ’t; ’tis a worthy governor.

Third Gent.

But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort

Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly 32

And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted

With foul and violent tempest.

Mon.

Pray heaven he be;

For I have serv’d him, and the man commands

Like a full soldier. Let’s to the sea-side, ho! 36

As well to see the vessel that’s come in

As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,

Even till we make the main and the aerial blue

An indistinct regard.

Third Gent.

Come, let’s do so; 40

For every minute is expectancy

Of more arrivance.

Enter Cassio.

Cas.

Thanks, you the valiant of this war-like isle,

That so approve the Moor. O! let the heavens

Give him defence against the elements, 45

For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.

Mon.

Is he well shipp’d?

Cas.

His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot 48

Of very expert and approv’d allowance;

Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,

Stand in bold cure.

[Within, ‘A sail!—a sail!—a sail!’

Enter a Messenger.

Cas.

What noise? 52

Mess.

The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea

Stand ranks of people, and they cry, ‘A sail!’

Cas.

My hopes do shape him for the governor.

[Guns heard.

Sec. Gent.

They do discharge their shot of courtesy; 56

Our friends at least.

Cas.

I pray you, sir, go forth,

And give us truth who ’tis that is arriv’d.

Sec. Gent.

I shall.

[Exit.

Mon.

But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv’d? 60

Cas.

Most fortunately: he hath achiev’d a maid

That paragons description and wild fame;

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,

And in th’ essential vesture of creation 64

Does tire the ingener.

Re-enter second Gentleman.

How now! who has put in?

Sec. Gent.

’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

Cas.

He has had most favourable and happy speed:

Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, 68

The gutter’d rocks, and congregated sands,

Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel,

As having sense of beauty, do omit

Their mortal natures, letting go safely by 72

The divine Desdemona.

Mon.

What is she?

Cas.

She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain,

Left in the conduct of the bold Iago,

Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts 76

A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,

And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,

That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,

Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms,

Give renew’d fire to our extinc’ed spirits, 81

And bring all Cyprus comfort!

Enter Desdemona, Emilia, Iago, Roderigo, and Attendants.

O! behold,

The riches of the ship is come on shore.

Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. 84

Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven,

Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

Enwheel thee round!

Des.

I thank you, valiant Cassio.

What tidings can you tell me of my lord? 88

Cas.

He is not yet arriv’d; nor know I aught

But that he’s well, and will be shortly here.

Des.

O! but I fear—How lost you company?

Cas.

The great contention of the sea and skies 92

Parted our fellowship. But hark! a sail.

[Cry within, ‘A sail!—a sail!’ Guns heard.

Sec. Gent.

They give their greeting to the citadel:

This likewise is a friend.

Cas.

See for the news!

[Exit Gentleman.

Good ancient, you are welcome:—[To Emilia.] welcome, mistress. 96

Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,

That I extend my manners; ’tis my breeding

That gives me this bold show of courtesy.

[Kissing her.

Iago.

Sir, would she give you so much of her lips 100

As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,

You’d have enough.

Des.

Alas! she has no speech.

Iago.

In faith, too much;

I find it still when I have list to sleep: 104

Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,

She puts her tongue a little in her heart,

And chides with thinking.

Emil.

You have little cause to say so. 108

Iago.

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,

Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,

Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,

Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds. 112

Des.

O! fie upon thee, slanderer.

Iago.

Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:

You rise to play and go to bed to work.

Emil.

You shall not write my praise.

Iago.

No, let me not. 116

Des.

What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

Iago.

O gentle lady, do not put me to ’t,

For I am nothing if not critical.

Des.

Come on; assay. There’s one gone to the harbour? 120

Iago.

Ay, madam.

Des.

I am not merry, but I do beguile

The thing I am by seeming otherwise.

Come, how wouldst thou praise me? 124

Iago.

I am about it; but indeed my invention

Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize;

It plucks out brains and all: but my muse labours,

And thus she is deliver’d. 128

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,

The one’s for use, the other useth it.

Des.

Well prais’d! How if she be black and witty?

Iago.

If she be black, and thereto have a wit, 132

She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

Des.

Worse and worse.

Emil.

How if fair and foolish?

Iago.

She never yet was foolish that was fair,

For even her folly help’d her to an heir. 137

Des.

These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish?

Iago.

There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto 141

But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

Des.

O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that, in the authority of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?

Iago.

She that was ever fair and never proud,

Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, 149

Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay,

Fled from her wish and yet said ‘Now I may,’

She that being anger’d, her revenge being nigh,

Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly, 153

She that in wisdom never was so frail

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail,

She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind,

See suitors following and not look behind, 157

She was a wight, if ever such wight were,—

Des.

To do what?

Iago.

To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

Des.

O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor? 164

Cas.

He speaks home, madam; you may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar. 167

Iago.

[Aside.] He takes her by the palm; ay, well said, whisper; with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true, ’tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! [A trumpet heard.] The Moor! I know his trumpet. 181

Cas.

’Tis truly so.

Des.

Let’s meet him and receive him.

Cas.

Lo! where he comes. 184

Enter Othello and Attendants.

Oth.

O my fair warrior!

Des.

My dear Othello!

Oth.

It gives me wonder great as my content

To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy!

If after every tempest come such calms, 188

May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!

And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas

Olympus-high, and duck again as low

As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, 192

’Twere now to be most happy, for I fear

My soul hath her content so absolute

That not another comfort like to this

Succeeds in unknown fate.

Des.

The heavens forbid 196

But that our loves and comforts should increase

Even as our days do grow!

Oth.

Amen to that, sweet powers!

I cannot speak enough of this content;

It stops me here; it is too much of joy: 200

And this, and this, the greatest discords be,

[Kissing her.

That e’er our hearts shall make!

Iago.

[Aside.] O! you are well tun’d now,

But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music,

As honest as I am.

Oth.

Come, let us to the castle. 204

News, friends; our wars are done, the Turks are drown’d.

How does my old acquaintance of this isle?

Honey, you shall be well desir’d in Cyprus;

I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet, 208

I prattle out of fashion, and I dote

In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago,

Go to the bay and disembark my coffers.

Bring thou the master to the citadel; 212

He is a good one, and his worthiness

Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,

Once more well met at Cyprus.

[Exeunt all except Iago and Roderigo.

Iago.

Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come hither. If thou be’st valiant, as they say base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them, list me. The lieutenant to-night watches on the court of guard: first, I must tell thee this, Desdemona is directly in love with him.

Rod.

With him! why, ’tis not possible. 223

Iago.

Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies; and will she love him still for prating? let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed; and what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it, and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, manners, and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in. Now, for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it, and compel her to some second choice. Now, sir, this granted, as it is a most pregnant and unforced position, who stands so eminently in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? a knave very voluble, no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affection? why, none; why, none: a slipper and subtle knave, a finder-out of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself; a devilish knave! Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after; a pestilent complete knave! and the woman hath found him already. 255

Rod.

I cannot believe that in her; she is full of most blessed condition.

Iago.

Blessed fig’s end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes; if she had been blessed she would never have loved the Moor; blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? didst not mark that?

Rod.

Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. 264

Iago.

Lechery, by this hand! an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips, that their breaths embraced together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night; for the command, I’ll lay ’t upon you: Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from you: do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister.

Rod.

Well. 280

Iago.

Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may strike at you: provoke him, that he may; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them; and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity. 291

Rod.

I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity.

Iago.

I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel: I must fetch his necessaries ashore.

Farewell. 296

Rod.

Adieu.

[Exit.

Iago.

That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it;

That she loves him, ’tis apt, and of great credit:

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, 300

Is of a constant, loving, noble nature;

And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;

Not out of absolute lust,—though peradventure

I stand accountant for as great a sin,— 305

But partly led to diet my revenge,

For that I do suspect the lusty Moor

Hath leap’d into my seat; the thought whereof

Doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards; 309

And nothing can or shall content my soul

Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife;

Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor 312

At least into a jealousy so strong

That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,

If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash

For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,

I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip; 317

Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb,

For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too,

Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me 320

For making him egregiously an ass

And practising upon his peace and quiet

Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d:

Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. 324

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Street.

Enter a Herald with a proclamation; People following.

Her.

It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every man put himself into triumph; some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addiction leads him; for, besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Hall in the Castle.

Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Attendants.

Oth.

Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night:

Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop,

Not to outsport discretion.

Cas.

Iago hath direction what to do; 4

But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye

Will I look to ’t.

Oth.

Iago is most honest.

Michael, good night; to-morrow with your earliest

Let me have speech with you. [To Desdemona.] Come, my dear love, 8

The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue;

That profit’s yet to come ’twixt me and you.

Good night.

[Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants.

Enter Iago.

Cas.

Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch.

Iago.

Not this hour, lieutenant; ’tis not yet ten o’ the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona, who let us not therefore blame; he hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove. 17

Cas.

She’s a most exquisite lady.

Iago.

And, I’ll warrant her, full of game.

Cas.

Indeed, she is a most fresh and delicate creature. 21

Iago.

What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a parley of provocation.

Cas.

An inviting eye; and yet methinks right modest. 25

Iago.

And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love?

Cas.

She is indeed perfection. 28

Iago.

Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup of wine, and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello. 33

Cas.

Not to-night, good Iago: I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. 37

Iago.

O! they are our friends; but one cup: I’ll drink for you.

Cas.

I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was craftily qualified too, and, behold, what innovation it makes here: I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more. 44

Iago.

What, man! ’tis a night of revels; the gallants desire it.

Cas.

Where are they?

Iago.

Here at the door; I pray you, call them in. 49

Cas.

I’ll do ’t; but it dislikes me.

[Exit.

Iago.

If I can fasten but one cup upon him,

With that which he hath drunk to-night already,

He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence 53

As my young mistress’ dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo,

Whom love has turn’d almost the wrong side out,

To Desdemona hath to-night carous’d 56

Potations pottle deep; and he’s to watch.

Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits,

That hold their honours in a wary distance,

The very elements of this war-like isle, 60

Have I to-night fluster’d with flowing cups,

And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of drunkards,

Am I to put our Cassio in some action

That may offend the isle. But here they come.

If consequence do but approve my dream, 65

My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.

Re-enter Cassio, with him Montano, and Gentlemen. Servant following with wine.

Cas.

’Fore God, they have given me a rouse already. 68

Mon.

Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier.

Iago.

Some wine, ho!

And let me the canakin clink, clink; 72

And let me the canakin clink:

A soldier’s a man;

A life’s but a span;

Why then let a soldier drink. 76

Some wine, boys!

Cas.

’Fore God, an excellent song.

Iago.

I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting; your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander, —drink, ho!—are nothing to your English.

Cas.

Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking? 84

Iago.

Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled. 88

Cas.

To the health of our general!

Mon.

I am for it, lieutenant; and I’ll do you justice.

Iago.

O sweet England! 92

King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown;

He held them sixpence all too dear,

With that he call’d the tailor lown. 96

He was a wight of high renown,

And thou art but of low degree:

’Tis pride that pulls the country down,

Then take thine auld cloak about thee. 100

Some wine, ho!

Cas.

Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.

Iago.

Will you hear ’t again? 104

Cas.

No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God’s above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. 108

Iago.

It’s true, good lieutenant.

Cas.

For mine own part,—no offence to the general, nor any man of quality,—I hope to be saved. 112

Iago.

And so do I too, lieutenant.

Cas.

Ay; but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this; let’s to our affairs. God forgive us our sins! Gentlemen, let’s look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is my ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left hand. I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and speak well enough. 122

All.

Excellent well.

Cas.

Why, very well, then; you must not think then that I am drunk.

[Exit.

Mon.

To the platform, masters; come, let’s set the watch.

Iago.

You see this fellow that is gone before;

He is a soldier fit to stand by Cæsar 128

And give direction; and do but see his vice;

’Tis to his virtue a just equinox,

The one as long as the other; ’tis pity of him.

I fear the trust Othello puts him in, 132

On some odd time of his infirmity,

Will shake this island.

Mon.

But is he often thus?

Iago.

’Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep:

He’ll watch the horologe a double set, 136

If drink rock not his cradle.

Mon.

It were well

The general were put in mind of it.

Perhaps he sees it not; or his good nature

Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, 140

And looks not on his evils. Is not this true?

Enter Roderigo.

Iago.

[Aside to him.] How now, Roderigo!

I pray you, after the lieutenant; go.

[Exit Roderigo.

Mon.

And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor

Should hazard such a place as his own second

With one of an ingraft infirmity;

It were an honest action to say

So to the Moor.

Iago.

Not I, for this fair island: 148

I do love Cassio well, and would do much

To cure him of this evil. But hark! what noise?

[Cry within, ‘Help! Help!’

Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo.

Cas.

You rogue! you rascal!

Mon.

What’s the matter, lieutenant?

Cas.

A knave teach me my duty! 152

I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle.

Rod.

Beat me!

Cas.

Dost thou prate, rogue?

[Striking Roderigo.

Mon.

[Staying him.] Nay, good lieutenant;

I pray you, sir, hold your hand.

Cas.

Let me go, sir, 156

Or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard.

Mon.

Come, come; you’re drunk.

Cas.

Drunk!

[They fight.

Iago.

[Aside to Roderigo.] Away, I say! go out, and cry a mutiny.

[Exit Roderigo.

Nay, good lieutenant! God’s will, gentlemen!

Help, ho! Lieutenant! sir! Montano! sir!

Help, masters! Here’s a goodly watch indeed!

[Bell rings.

Who’s that that rings the bell? Diablo, ho!

The town will rise: God’s will! lieutenant, hold!

You will be sham’d for ever.

Re-enter Othello and Attendants.

Oth.

What is the matter here? 165

Mon.

’Zounds! I bleed still; I am hurt to the death.

Oth.

Hold, for your lives!

Iago.

Hold, ho, lieutenant! Sir! Montano! gentlemen! 168

Have you forgot all sense of place and duty?

Hold! the general speaks to you; hold for shame!

Oth

Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this?

Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that

Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites? 173

For Christian shame put by this barbarous brawl;

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage

Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.

Silence that dreadful bell! it frights the isle 177

From her propriety. What is the matter, masters?

Honest Iago, that look’st dead with grieving,

Speak, who began this? on thy love, I charge thee. 180

Iago.

I do not know; friends all but now, even now,

In quarter and in terms like bride and groom

Devesting them for bed; and then, but now,—

As if some planet had unwitted men,— 184

Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breast,

In opposition bloody. I cannot speak

Any beginning to this peevish odds,

And would in action glorious I had lost 188

Those legs that brought me to a part of it!

Oth.

How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot?

Cas.

I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak.

Oth.

Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil; 192

The gravity and stillness of your youth

The world hath noted, and your name is great

In mouths of wisest censure: what’s the matter,

That you unlace your reputation thus 196

And spend your rich opinion for the name

Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.

Mon.

Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger;

Your officer, Iago, can inform you, 200

While I spare speech, which something now offends me,

Of all that I do know; nor know I aught

By me that’s said or done amiss this night,

Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, 204

And to defend ourselves it be a sin

When violence assails us.

Oth.

Now, by heaven,

My blood begins my safer guides to rule,

And passion, having my best judgment collied,

Assays to lead the way. If I once stir, 209

Or do but lift this arm, the best of you

Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know

How this foul rout began, who set it on; 212

And he that is approv’d in this offence,

Though he had twinn’d with me—both at a birth—

Shall lose me. What! in a town of war,

Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear, 216

To manage private and domestic quarrel,

In night, and on the court and guard of safety!

’Tis monstrous. Iago, who began ’t?

Mon.

If partially affin’d, or leagu’d in office,

Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, 221

Thou art no soldier.

Iago.

Touch me not so near;

I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth

Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio; 224

Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth

Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general.

Montano and myself being in speech,

There comes a fellow crying out for he’p, 228

And Cassio following with determin’d sword

To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman

Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause;

Myself the crying fellow did pursue, 232

Lest by his clamour, as it so fell out,

The town might fall in fright; he, swift of foot,

Outran my purpose, and I return’d the rather

For that I heard the clink and fall of swords,

And Cassio high in oath, which till to-night 237

I ne’er might say before. When I came back,—

For this was brief,—I found them close together,

At blow and thrust, even as again they were 240

When you yourself did part them.

More of this matter can I not report:

But men are men; the best sometimes forget:

Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, 244

As men in rage strike those that wish them best,

Yet, surely Cassio, I believe, receiv’d

From him that fled some strange indignity,

Which patience could not pass.

Oth.

I know, Iago, 248

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,

Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee;

But never more be officer of mine.

Enter Desdemona, attended.

Look! if my gentle love be not rais’d up; 252

[To Cassio.] I’ll make thee an example.

Des.

What’s the matter?

Oth.

All’s well now, sweeting; come away to bed.

Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon.

Lead him off.

[Montano is led off.

Iago, look with care about the town, 257

And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.

Come, Desdemona; ’tis the soldiers’ life,

To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with strife.

[Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio.

Iago.

What! are you hurt, lieutenant? 261

Cas.

Ay; past all surgery.

Iago.

Marry, heaven forbid!

Cas.

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O! I have lost my reputation. I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

Iago.

As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more offence in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What! man; there are ways to recover the general again; you are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and he is yours. 279

Cas.

I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk! and speak parrot! and squabble, swagger, swear, and discourse fustian with one’s own shadow! O thou invisible spirit of wine! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!

Iago.

What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? 288

Cas.

I know not.

Iago.

Is ’t possible?

Cas.

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God! that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains; that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts. 296

Iago.

Why, but you are now well enough; how came you thus recovered?

Cas.

It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. 302

Iago.

Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen, but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. 307

Cas.

I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil. 314

Iago.

Come, come; good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used; exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you. 318

Cas.

I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!

Iago.

You or any man living may be drunk at some time, man. I’ll tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general: I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces: confess yourself freely to her; importune her; she’ll help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, that she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. 334

Cas.

You advise me well.

Iago.

I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness. 337

Cas.

I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here. 341

Iago.

You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the watch.

Cas.

Good night, honest Iago!

[Exit.

Iago.

And what’s he then that says I play the villain? 345

When this advice is free I give and honest,

Probal to thinking and indeed the course

To win the Moor again? For ’tis most easy 348

The inclining Desdemona to subdue

In any honest suit; she’s fram’d as fruitful

As the free elements. And then for her

To win the Moor, were ’t to renounce his baptism, 352

All seals and symbols of redeemed sin,

His soul is so enfetter’d to her love,

That she may make, unmake, do what she list,

Even as her appetite shall play the god 356

With his weak function. How am I then a villain

To counsel Cassio to this parallel course,

Directly to his good? Divinity of hell!

When devils will the blackest sins put on, 360

They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,

As I do now; for while this honest fool

Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes,

And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 364

I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear

That she repeals him for her body’s lust;

And, by how much she strives to do him good,

She shall undo her credit with the Moor. 368

So will I turn her virtue into pitch,

And out of her own goodness make the net

That shall enmesh them all.

Re-enter Roderigo.

How now, Roderigo!

Rod.

I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I have been to-night exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains; and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice.

Iago.

How poor are they that have not patience!

What wound did ever heal but by degrees? 380

Thou know’st we work by wit and not by witchcraft,

And wit depends on dilatory time.

Does ’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee,

And thou by that small hurt hast cashiered Cassio. 384

Though other things grow fair against the sun,

Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe:

Content thyself awhile. By the mass, ’tis morning;

Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.

Retire thee; go where thou art billeted: 389

Away, I say; thou shalt know more hereafter:

Nay, get thee gone. [Exit Roderigo.] Two things are to be done,

My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress;

I’ll set her on; 393

Myself the while to draw the Moor apart,

And bring him jump when he may Cassio find

Soliciting his wife: ay, that’s the way: 396

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Cyprus. Before the Castle.

Enter Cassio, and some Musicians.

Cas.

Masters, play here, I will content your pains;

Something that’s brief; and bid ‘Good morrow, general.’

[Music.

Enter Clown.

Clo.

Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus?

First Mus.

How, sir, how? 5

Clo.

Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments?

First Mus.

Ay, marry, are they, sir.

Clo.

O! thereby hangs a tail. 8

First Mus.

Whereby hangs a tale, sir?

Clo.

Marry, sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know. But, masters, here’s money for you; and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love’s sake, to make no more noise with it. 14

First Mus.

Well, sir, we will not.

Clo.

If you have any music that may not be heard, to ’t again; but, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly care. 18

First Mus.

We have none such, sir.

Clo.

Then put up your pipes in your bag, for

I’ll away. Go; vanish into air; away! 21

[Exeunt Musicians.

Cas.

Dost thou hear, mine honest friend?

Clo.

No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you. 24

Cas.

Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There’s a poor piece of gold for thee. If the gentlewoman that attends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there’s one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech: wilt thou do this? 29

Clo.

She is stirring, sir: if she will stir hither,

I shall seem to notify unto her.

Cas.

Do, good my friend.

[Exit Clown.

Enter Iago.

In happy time, Iago. 32

Iago.

You have not been a-bed, then?

Cas.

Why, no; the day had broke

Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,

To send in to your wife; my suit to her 36

Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona

Procure me some access.

Iago.

I’ll send her to you presently;

And I’ll devise a mean to draw the Moor

Out of the way, that your converse and business

May be more free. 41

Cas

I humbly thank you for ’t.

[Exit Iago.

I never knew

A Florentine more kind and honest.

Enter Emilia.

Emil.

Good morrow, good lieutenant: I am sorry 44

For your displeasure; but all will soon be well.

The general and his wife are talking of it,

And she speaks for you stoutly: the Moor replies

That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus 48

And great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom

He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you,

And needs no other suitor but his likings

To take the saf’st occasion by the front 52

To bring you in again.

Cas.

Yet, I beseech you,

If you think fit, or that it may be done,

Give me advantage of some brief discourse

With Desdemona alone.

Emil.

Pray you, come in: 56

I will bestow you where you shall have time

To speak your bosom freely.

Cas.

I am much bound to you.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen.

Oth.

These letters give, Iago, to the pilot,

And by him do my duties to the senate;

That done, I will be walking on the works;

Repair there to me.

Iago.

Well, my good lord, I’ll do t. 4

Oth.

This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see ’t?

Gent.

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Before the Castle.

Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia.

Des.

Be thou assur’d, good Cassio, I will do

All my abilities in thy behalf.

Emil.

Good madam, do: I warrant it grieves my husband,

As if the case were his. 4

Des.

O! that’s an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,

But I will have my lord and you again

As friendly as you were.

Cas.

Bounteous madam,

Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, 8

He’s never anything but your true servant.

Des.

I know ’t; I thank you. You do love my lord;

You have known him long; and be you well assur’d

He shall in strangeness stand no further off 12

Than in a politic distance.

Cas.

Ay, but, lady,

That policy may either last so long,

Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet,

Or breed itself so out of circumstance, 16

That, I being absent and my place supplied,

My general will forget my love and service.

Des.

Do not doubt that; before Emilia here

I give thee warrant of thy place. Assure thee, 20

If I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it

To the last article; my lord shall never rest;

I’ll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience;

His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; 24

I’ll intermingle every thing he does

With Cassio’s suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio;

For thy solicitor shall rather die

Than give thy cause away. 28

Enter Othello, and Iago at a distance.

Emil.

Madam, here comes my lord.

Cas.

Madam, I’ll take my leave.

Des.

Why, stay, and hear me speak.

Cas.

Madam, not now; I am very ill at ease,

Unfit for mine own purposes. 33

Des.

Well, do your discretion.

[Exit Cassio.

Iago.

Ha! I like not that.

Oth.

What dost thou say?

Iago.

Nothing, my lord: or if—I know not what. 36

Oth.

Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?

Iago.

Cassio, my lord? No, sure, I cannot think it

That he would steal away so guilty-like,

Seeing you coming.

Oth.

I do believe ’twas he. 40

Des.

How now, my lord!

I have been talking with a suitor here,

A man that languishes in your displeasure.

Oth.

Who is ’t you mean? 44

Des.

Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,

If I have any grace or power to move you,

His present reconciliation take;

For if he be not one that truly loves you, 48

That errs in ignorance and not in cunning,

I have no judgment in an honest face.

I prithee call him back.

Oth.

Went he hence now?

Des.

Ay, sooth; so humbled, 52

That he hath left part of his grief with me,

To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.

Oth.

Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.

Des.

But shall ’t be shortly?

Oth.

The sooner, sweet, for you. 56

Des.

Shall ’t be to-night at supper?

Oth.

No, not to-night.

Des.

To-morrow dinner then?

Oth.

I shall not dine at home;

I meet the captains at the citadel.

Des.

Why then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn; 60

On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn:

I prithee name the time, but let it not

Exceed three days: in faith, he’s penitent;

And yet his trespass, in our common reason,—

Save that they say, the wars must make examples 65

Out of their best,—is not almost a fault

To incur a private check. When shall he come?

Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul, 68

What you could ask me that I should deny,

Or stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio,

That came a wooing with you, and so many a time,

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, 72

Hath ta’en your part; to have so much to do

To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much.—

Oth.

Prithee, no more; let him come when he will;

I will deny thee nothing.

Des.

Why, this is not a boon; 76

’Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,

Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,

Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit

To your own person; nay, when I have a suit 80

Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,

It shall be full of poise and difficult weight,

And fearful to be granted.

Oth.

I will deny thee nothing:

Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, 84

To leave me but a little to myself.

Des.

Shall I deny you? no: farewell, my lord.

Oth.

Farewell, my Desdemona: I’ll come to thee straight.

Des.

Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you; 88

Whate’er you be, I am obedient.

[Exit, with Emilia.

Oth.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,

Chaos is come again. 92

Iago.

My noble lord,—

Oth.

What dost thou say, Iago?

Iago.

Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,

Know of your love?

Oth.

He did, from first to last: why dost thou ask? 96

Iago.

But for a satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.

Oth.

Why of thy thought, Iago?

Iago.

I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

Oth.

O! yes; and went between us very oft.

Iago.

Indeed! 101

Oth.

Indeed! ay, indeed; discern’st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?

Iago.

Honest, my lord?

Oth.

Honest! ay, honest.

Iago.

My lord, for aught I know. 104

Oth.

What dost thou think?

Iago.

Think, my lord!

Oth.

Think, my lord!

By heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought

Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something: 108

I heard thee say but now, thou lik’dst not that,

When Cassio left my wife; what didst not like?

And when I told thee he was of my counsel

In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, ‘Indeed!’ 112

And didst contract and purse thy brow together,

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain

Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,

Show me thy thought. 116

Iago.

My lord, you know I love you.

Oth.

I think thou dost;

And, for I know thou art full of love and honesty,

And weigh’st thy words before thou giv’st them breath,

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more; 120

For such things in a false disloyal knave

Are tricks of custom, but in a man that’s just

They are close delations, working from the heart

That passion cannot rule.

Iago.

For Michael Cassio, 124

I dare be sworn I think that he is honest.

Oth.

I think so too.

Iago.

Men should be what they seem;

Or those that be not, would they might seem none!

Oth.

Certain, men should be what they seem.

Iago.

Why then, I think Cassio ’s an honest man. 129

Oth.

Nay, yet there’s more in this.

I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,

As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts 132

The worst of words.

Iago.

Good my lord, pardon me;

Though I am bound to every act of duty,

I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.

Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false; 136

As where’s that palace whereinto foul things

Sometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure

But some uncleanly apprehensions

Keep leets and law days, and in session sit 140

With meditations lawful?

Oth.

Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,

If thou but think’st him wrong’d, and mak’st his ear

A stranger to thy thoughts.

Iago.

I do beseech you, 144

Though I perchance am vicious in my guess,—

As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague

To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy

Shapes faults that are not,—that your wisdom yet, 148

From one that so imperfectly conceits,

Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble

Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

It were not for your quiet nor your good, 152

Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,

To let you know my thoughts.

Oth.

What dost thou mean?

Iago.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls: 156

Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;

’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him, 160

And makes me poor indeed.

Oth.

By heaven, I’ll know thy thoughts.

Iago.

You cannot, if my heart were in your hand;

Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody. 164

Oth.

Ha!

Iago.

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock

The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss

Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;

But, O! what damned minutes tells he o’er 169

Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet soundly loves!

Oth.

O misery!

Iago.

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough, 172

But riches fineless is as poor as winter

To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend

From jealousy!

Oth.

Why, why is this? 176

Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy,

To follow still the changes of the moon

With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt

Is once to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat

When I shall turn the business of my soul 181

To such exsufflicate and blown surmises,

Matching thy inference. ’Tis not to make me jealous

To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, 184

Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;

Where virtue is, these are more virtuous:

Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw

The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt; 188

For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago;

I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;

And, on the proof, there is no more but this,

Away at once with love or jealousy! 192

Iago.

I am glad of it; for now I shall have reason

To show the love and duty that I bear you

With franker spirit; therefore, as I am bound,

Receive it from me; I speak not yet of proof. 196

Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio;

Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure:

I would not have your free and noble nature

Out of self-bounty be abus’d; look to ’t: 200

I know our country disposition well;

In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks

They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience

Is not to leave ’t undone, but keep ’t unknown.

Oth.

Dost thou say so? 205

Iago.

She did deceive her father, marrying you:

And when she seem’d to shake and fear your looks,

She lov’d them most.

Oth.

And so she did.

Iago.

Why, go to, then; 208

She that so young could give out such a seeming,

To seel her father’s eyes up close as oak,

He thought ’twas witchcraft; but I am much to blame;

I humbly do beseech you of your pardon 212

For too much loving you.

Oth.

I am bound to thee for ever.

Iago.

I see, this hath a little dash’d your spirits.

Oth.

Not a jot, not a jot.

Iago.

I’ faith, I fear it has.

I hope you will consider what is spoke 216

Comes from my love. But, I do see you’re mov’d;

I am to pray you not to strain my speech

To grosser issues nor to larger reach

Than to suspicion. 220

Oth.

I will not.

Iago.

Should you do so, my lord,

My speech should fall into such vile success

As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio’s my worthy friend—

My lord, I see you’re mov’d.

Oth.

No, not much mov’d: 224

I do not think but Desdemona’s honest.

Iago.

Long live she so! and long live you to think so!

Oth.

And, yet, how nature erring from itself,—

Iago.

Ay, there’s the point: as, to be bold with you, 228

Not to affect many proposed matches

Of her own clime, complexion, and degree,

Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends;

Foh! one may smell in such, a will most rank,

Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. 233

But pardon me; I do not in position

Distinctly speak of her, though I may fear

Her will, recoiling to her better judgment, 236

May fail to match you with her country forms

And happily repent.

Oth.

Farewell, farewell:

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more;

Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago. 240

Iago.

My lord, I take my leave.

[Going.

Oth.

Why did I marry? This honest creature, doubtless,

Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.

Iago.

[Returning.] My lord, I would I might entreat your honour 244

To scan this thing no further; leave it to time.

Although ’tis fit that Cassio have his place,

For, sure he fills it up with great ability,

Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, 248

You shall by that perceive him and his means:

Note if your lady strain his entertainment

With any strong or vehement importunity;

Much will be seen in that. In the mean time, 252

Let me be thought too busy in my fears,

As worthy cause I have to fear I am,

And hold her free, I do beseech your honour.

Oth.

Fear not my government. 256

Iago.

I once more take my leave.

[Exit.

Oth.

This fellow’s of exceeding honesty,

And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,

Of human dealings; if I do prove her haggard,

Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, 261

I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind,

To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black,

And have not those soft parts of conversation

That chamberers have, or, for I am declin’d 265

Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much—

She’s gone, I am abus’d; and my relief

Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage! 268

That we can call these delicate creatures ours,

And not their appetites. I had rather be a toad,

And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,

Than keep a corner in the thing I love 272

For others’ uses. Yet, ’tis the plague of great ones;

Prerogativ’d are they less than the base;

’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death:

Even then this forked plague is fated to us 276

When we do quicken.

Look! where she comes.

If she be false, O! then heaven mocks itself.

I’ll not believe it.

Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia.

Des.

How now, my dear Othello!

Your dinner and the generous islanders 280

By you invited, do attend your presence.

Oth.

I am to blame.

Des.

Why do you speak so faintly?

Are you not well?

Oth.

I have a pain upon my forehead here. 284

Des.

Faith, that’s with watching; ’twill away again:

Let me but bind it hard, within this hour

It will be well.

Oth.

Your napkin is too little:

[She drops her handkerchief.

Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you. 288

Des.

I am very sorry that you are not well.

[Exeunt Othello and Desdemona.

Emil.

I am glad I have found this napkin;

This was her first remembrance from the Moor;

My wayward husband hath a hundred times 292

Woo’d me to steal it, but she so loves the token,

For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it,

That she reserves it evermore about her

To kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out,

And give ’t Iago: 297

What he will do with it heaven knows, not I;

I nothing but to please his fantasy.

Enter Iago.

Iago.

How now! what do you here alone? 300

Emil.

Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.

Iago.

A thing for me? It is a common thing—

Emil.

Ha!

Iago.

To have a foolish wife. 304

Emil.

O! is that all? What will you give me now

For that same handkerchief?

Iago.

What handkerchief?

Emil.

What handkerchief!

Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona:

That which so often you did bid me steal. 309

Iago.

Hast stol’n it from her?

Emil.

No, faith; she let it drop by negligence,

And, to the advantage, I, being there, took’t up.

Look, here it is.

Iago.

A good wench; give it me. 313

Emil.

What will you do with ’t, that you have been so earnest

To have me filch it?

Iago.

Why, what’s that to you?

[Snatches it.

Emil.

If it be not for some purpose of import 317

Give ’t me again; poor lady! she’ll run mad

When she shall lack it.

Iago.

Be not acknown on ’t; I have use for it. 320

Go, leave me.

[Exit Emilia.

I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin,

And let him find it; trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmations strong 324

As proofs of holy writ; this may do something.

The Moor already changes with my poison:

Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons,

Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,

But with a little act upon the blood, 329

Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so:

Look! where he comes!

Enter Othello.

Not poppy, nor mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, 332

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou ow’dst yesterday.

Oth.

Ha! ha! false to me?

Iago.

Why, how now, generall no more of that.

Oth.

Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack; 336

I swear ’tis better to be much abus’d

Than but to know ’t a little.

Iago.

How now, my lord!

Oth.

What sense had I of her stol’n hours of lust? 339

I saw ’t not, thought it not, it harm’d not me;

I slept the next night well, was free and merry;

I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips;

He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stol’n,

Let him not know ’t and he’s not robb’d at all.

Iago.

I am sorry to hear this. 345

Oth.

I had been happy, if the general camp,

Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,

So I had nothing known. O! now, for ever 348

Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content!

Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars

That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!

Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, 352

The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,

The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!

And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats

The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit, 357

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

Iago.

Is it possible, my lord?

Oth.

Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore, 360

Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof;

Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul,

Thou hadst been better have been born a dog

Than answer my wak’d wrath.

Iago.

Is ’t come to this?

Oth.

Make me to see ’t; or, at the least, so prove it, 365

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!

Iago.

My noble lord,— 368

Oth.

If thou dost slander her and torture me,

Never pray more; abandon all remorse;

On horror’s head horrors accumulate;

Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amaz’d; 372

For nothing canst thou to damnation add

Greater than that.

Iago.

O grace! O heaven forgive me!

Are you a man! have you a soul or sense?

God be wi’ you; take mine office. O wretched fool! 376

That liv’st to make thine honesty a vice.

O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world!

To be direct and honest is not safe.

I thank you for this profit, and, from hence 380

I’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.

Oth.

Nay, stay; thou shouldst be honest.

Iago.

I should be wise; for honesty’s a fool,

And loses that it works for.

Oth.

By the world, 384

I think my wife be honest and think she is not;

I think that thou art just and think thou art not.

I’ll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh

As Dian’s visage, is now begrim’d and black 388

As mine own face. If there be cords or knives,

Poison or fire or suffocating streams,

I’ll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!

Iago.

I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion. 392

I do repent me that I put it to you.

You would be satisfied?

Oth.

Would! nay, I will.

Iago.

And may; but how? how satisfied, my lord?

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on; 396

Behold her tupp’d?

Oth.

Death and damnation! O!

Iago.

It were a tedious difficulty, I think,

To bring them to that prospect; damn them then,

If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster 400

More than their own! What then? how then?

What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction?

It is impossible you should see this,

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,

As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross 405

As ignorance made drunk; but yet, I say,

If imputation, and strong circumstances,

Which lead directly to the door of truth, 408

Will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

Oth.

Give me a living reason she’s disloyal.

Iago.

I do not like the office;

But, sith I am enter’d in this cause so far, 412

Prick’d to ’t by foolish honesty and love,

I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately;

And, being troubled with a raging tooth,

I could not sleep. 416

There are a kind of men so loose of soul

That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs;

One of this kind is Cassio.

In sleep I heard him say, ‘Sweet Desdemona, 420

Let us be wary, let us hide our loves!’

And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,

Cry, ‘O, sweet creature!’ and then kiss me hard,

As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots, 424

That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg

Over my thigh, and sigh’d, and kiss’d; and then

Cried, ‘Cursed fate, that gave thee to the Moor!’

Oth.

O monstrous! monstrous!

Iago.

Nay, this was but his dream.

Oth.

But this denoted a foregone conclusion:

’Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream.

Iago.

And this may help to thicken other proofs

That do demonstrate thinly.

Oth.

I’ll tear her all to pieces. 432

Iago.

Nay, but be wise; yet we see nothing done;

She may be honest yet. Tell me but this:

Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief

Spotted with strawberries in your wife’s hand?

Oth.

I gave her such a one; ’twas my first gift. 437

Iago.

I know not that; but such a handkerchief—

I am sure it was your wife’s—did I to-day

See Cassio wipe his beard with.

Oth.

If it be that,— 440

Iago.

If it be that, or any that was hers,

It speaks against her with the other proofs.

Oth.

O! that the slave had forty thousand lives;

One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. 444

Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago;

All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven:

’Tis gone. 447

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!

Yield up, O love! thy crown and hearted throne

To tyrannous hate. Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,

For ’tis of aspics’ tongues!

Iago.

Yet be content.

Oth.

O! blood, blood, blood! 452

Iago.

Patience, I say; your mind, perhaps, may change.

Oth.

Never, Iago. Like to the Pontick sea,

Whose icy current and compulsive course

Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on 456

To the Propontic and the Hellespont,

Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,

Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,

Till that a capable and wide revenge 460

Swallow them up.

[Kneels.

Now, by yond marble heaven,

In the due reverence of a sacred vow

I here engage my words.

Iago.

Do not rise yet.

[Kneels.

Witness, you ever-burning lights above! 464

You elements that clip us round about!

Witness, that here Iago doth give up

The execution of his wit, hands, heart,

To wrong’d Othello’s service! Let him command, 468

And to obey shall be in me remorse,

What bloody business ever.

Oth.

I greet thy love,

Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,

And will upon the instant put thee to ’t: 472

Within these three days let me hear thee say

That Cassio’s not alive.

Iago.

My friend is dead; ’tis done at your request:

But let her live.

Oth.

Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!

Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw 477

To furnish me with some swift means of death

For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.

Iago.

I am your own for ever.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Before the Castle.

Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown.

Des.

Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies?

Clo.

I dare not say he lies any where.

Des.

Why, man? 4

Clo.

He is a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.

Des.

Go to; where lodges he?

Clo.

To tell you where he lodges is to tell you where I lie. 9

Des.

Can anything be made of this?

Clo.

I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging, and say he lies here or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. 13

Des.

Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report?

Clo.

I will catechize the world for him; that is, make questions, and by them answer. 17

Des.

Seek him, bid him come hither; tell him I have moved my lord in his behalf, and hope all will be well. 20

Clo.

To do this is within the compass of man’s wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it.

[Exit.

Des.

Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia? 24

Emil.

I know not, madam.

Des.

Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse

Full of cruzadoes; and, but my noble Moor

Is true of mind, and made of no such baseness 28

As jealous creatures are, it were enough

To put him to ill thinking.

Emil.

Is he not jealous?

Des.

Who! he? I think the sun where he was born

Drew all such humours from him.

Emil.

Look! where he comes.

Des.

I will not leave him now till Cassio 33

Be call’d to him.

Enter Othello.

How is ’t with you, my lord?

Oth.

Well, my good lady. [Aside.] O! hardness to dissemble.

How do you, Desdemona?

Des.

Well, my good lord.

Oth.

Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady. 37

Des.

It yet has felt no age nor known no sorrow.

Oth.

This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart;

Hot, hot, and moist; this hand of yours requires 40

A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,

Much castigation, exercise devout;

For here’s a young and sweating devil here,

That commonly rebels. ’Tis a good hand, 44

A frank one.

Des.

You may, indeed, say so;

For ’twas that hand that gave away my heart.

Oth.

A liberal hand; the hearts of old gave hands,

But our new heraldry is hands not hearts. 48

Des.

I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise.

Oth.

What promise, chuck?

Des.

I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.

Oth.

I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me. 52

Lend me thy handkerchief.

Des.

Here, my lord.

Oth.

That which I gave you.

Des.

I have it not about me.

Oth.

Not?

Des.

No, indeed, my lord.

Oth.

That is a fault.

That handkerchief 56

Did an Egyptian to my mother give;

She was a charmer, and could almost read

The thoughts of people; she told her, while she kept it,

’Twould make her amiable and subdue my father 60

Entirely to her love, but if she lost it

Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye

Should hold her loathed, and his spirits should hunt

After new fancies. She dying gave it me; 64

And bid me, when my fate would have me wive,

To give it her. I did so: and take heed on ’t;

Make it a darling like your precious eye;

To lose’t or give’t away, were such perdition 68

As nothing else could match.

Des.

Is ’t possible?

Oth.

’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it;

A sibyl, that had number’d in the world

The sun to course two hundred compasses, 72

In her prophetic fury sew’d the work;

The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk,

And it was dy’d in mummy which the skilful

Conserv’d of maidens’ hearts.

Des.

Indeed! is ’t true? 76

Oth.

Most veritable; therefore look to ’t well.

Des.

Then would to heaven that I had never seen it!

Oth.

Ha! wherefore?

Des.

Why do you speak so startingly and rash? 80

Oth.

Is ’t lost? is ’t gone? speak, is it out o’ the way?

Des.

Heaven bless us!

Oth.

Say you?

Des.

It is not lost: but what an if it were?

Oth.

How! 84

Des.

I say, it is not lost.

Oth.

Fetch ’t, let me see ’t.

Des.

Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.

This is a trick to put me from my suit:

Pray you let Cassio be receiv’d again. 88

Oth.

Fetch me the handkerchief; my mind misgives.

Des.

Come, come;

You’ll never meet a more sufficient man.

Oth.

The handkerchief!

Des.

I pray, talk me of Cassio. 92

Oth.

The handkerchief!

Des.

A man that all his time

Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,

Shar’d dangers with you,—

Oth.

The handkerchief!

Des.

In sooth you are to blame. 96

Oth.

Away!

[Exit.

Emil.

Is not this man jealous?

Des.

I ne’er saw this before.

Sure, there’s some wonder in this handkerchief; 100

I am most unhappy in the loss of it.

Emil.

’Tis not a year or two shows us a man;

They are all but stomachs, and we all but food;

They eat us hungerly, and when they are full

They belch us. Look you! Cassio and my husband. 105

Enter Iago and Cassio.

Iago.

There is no other way; ’tis she must do ’t:

And, lo! the happiness: go and importune her.

Des.

How now, good Cassio! what’s the news with you? 108

Cas.

Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you

That by your virtuous means I may again

Exist, and be a member of his love

Whom I with all the office of my heart 112

Entirely honour; I would not be delay’d.

If my offence be of such mortal kind

That nor my service past, nor present sorrows,

Nor purpos’d merit in futurity, 116

Can ransom me into his love again,

But to know so must be my benefit;

So shall I clothe me in a forc’d content,

And shut myself up in some other course 120

To fortune’s alms.

Des.

Alas! thrice-gentle Cassio!

My advocation is not now in tune;

My lord is not my lord; nor should I know him,

Were he in favour as in humour alter’d. 124

So help me every spirit sanctified,

As I have spoken for you all my best

And stood within the blank of his displeasure

For my free speech. You must awhile be patient; 128

What I can do I will, and more I will

Than for myself I dare: let that suffice you.

Iago.

Is my lord angry?

Emil.

He went hence but now,

And, certainly in strange unquietness. 132

Iago.

Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon,

When it hath blown his ranks into the air,

And, like the devil, from his very arm 135

Puff’d his own brother; and can he be angry?

Something of moment then; I will go meet him;

There’s matter in ’t indeed, if he be angry.

Des.

I prithee, do so. [Exit Iago.] Something, sure, of state,

Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practice

Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, 141

Hath puddled his clear spirit; and, in such cases

Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things,

Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so;

For let our finger ache, and it indues 145

Our other healthful members ev’n to that sense

Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods,

Nor of them look for such observancy 148

As fits the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia,

I was—unhandsome warrior as I am—

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul;

But now I find I had suborn’d the witness, 152

And he’s indicted falsely.

Emil.

Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you think,

And no conception, nor no jealous toy

Concerning you. 156

Des.

Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

Emil.

But jealous souls will not be answer’d so;

They are not ever jealous for the cause,

But jealous for they are jealous; ’tis a monster

Begot upon itself, born on itself. 161

Des.

Heaven keep that monster from Othello’s mind!

Emil.

Lady, amen.

Des.

I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout; 164

If I do find him fit, I’ll move your suit

And seek to effect it to my uttermost.

Cas.

I humbly thank your ladyship.

[Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.

Enter Bianca.

Bian.

Save you, friend Cassio!

Cas.

What make you from home?

How is it with you, my most fair Bianca? 169

I’ faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house.

Bian.

And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.

What! keep a week away? seven days and nights? 172

Eight score eight hours? and lovers’ absent hours,

More tedious than the dial eight score times?

O weary reckoning!

Cas.

Pardon me, Bianca,

I have this while with leaden thoughts been press’d, 176

But I shall, in a more continuate time,

Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca.

[Giving her Desdemona’s handkerchief.

Take me this work out.

Bian.

O Cassio! whence came this?

This is some token from a newer friend; 180

To the felt absence now I feel a cause;

Is ’t come to this? Well, well.

Cas.

Go to, woman!

Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth,

From whence you have them. You are jealous now 184

That this is from some mistress, some remembrance:

No, in good troth, Bianca.

Bian.

Why, whose is it?

Cas.

I know not, sweet; I found it in my chamber.

I like the work well; ere it be demanded,— 188

As like enough it will,—I’d have it copied;

Take it and do ’t; and leave me for this time.

Bian.

Leave you! wherefore?

Cas.

I do attend here on the general, 192

And think it no addition nor my wish

To have him see me woman’d.

Bian.

Why, I pray you?

Cas.

Not that I love you not.

Bian.

But that you do not love me.

I pray you, bring me on the way a little 196

And say if I shall see you soon at night.

Cas.

’Tis but a little way that I can bring you,

For I attend here; but I’ll see you soon.

Bian.

’Tis very good; I must be circumstanc’d.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Cyprus. Before the Castle.

Enter Othello and Iago.

Iago.

Will you think so?

Oth.

Think so, Iago!

Iago.

What!

To kiss in private?

Oth.

An unauthoriz’d kiss.

Iago.

Or to be naked with her friend a-bed

An hour or more, not meaning any harm? 4

Oth.

Naked a-bed, Iago, and not mean harm?

It is hypocrisy against the devil:

They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,

The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven. 8

Iago.

If they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip;

But if I give my wife a handkerchief,—

Oth.

What then?

Iago.

Why, then, ’tis hers, my lord; and, being hers, 12

She may, I think, bestow ’t on any man.

Oth.

She is protectress of her honour too;

May she give that?

Iago.

Her honour is an essence that’s not seen; 16

They have it very oft that have it not:

But for the handkerchief,—

Oth.

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it:—

Thou said’st,—O! it comes o’er my memory, 20

As doth the raven o’er the infected house,

Boding to all,—he had my handkerchief.

Iago.

Ay, what of that?

Oth

That’s not so good now.

Iago.

What,

If I had said I had seen him do you wrong? 24

Or heard him say, as knaves be such abroad,

Who having, by their own importunate suit,

Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,

Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose 28

But they must blab.

Oth.

Hath he said any thing?

Iago.

He hath, my lord; but be you well assur’d,

No more than he’ll unswear.

Oth.

What hath he said?

Iago.

Faith, that he did—I know not what he did. 32

Oth.

What? what?

Iago.

Lie—

Oth.

With her?

Iago.

With her, on her; what you will.

Oth.

Lie with her! lie on her! We say, lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! that’s fulsome. Handkerchief,—confessions,—handkerchief! To confess, and be hanged for his labour. First, to be hanged, and then to confess: I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is it possible?—Confess!—Handkerchief!—O devil!

[Falls in a trance.

Iago.

Work on, 45

My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;

And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,

All guitless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord! 48

My lord, I say! Othello!

Enter Cassio.

How now, Cassio!

Cas.

What’s the matter?

Iago.

My lord is fallen into an epilepsy;

This is his second fit; he had one yesterday. 52

Cas.

Rub him about the temples.

Iago.

No, forbear;

The lethargy must have his quiet course,

If not he foams at mouth, and by and by

Breaks out to savage madness. Look! he stirs;

Do you withdraw yourself a little while, 57

He will recover straight; when he is gone,

I would on great occasion speak with you.

[Exit Cassio.

How is it, general? have you not hurt your head? 60

Oth.

Dost thou mock me?

Iago.

I mock you! no, by heaven.

Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

Oth.

A horned man’s a monster and a beast.

Iago.

There’s many a beast then, in a populous city, 64

And many a civil monster.

Oth.

Did he confess it?

Iago.

Good sir, be a man;

Think every bearded fellow that’s but yok’d

May draw with you; there’s millions now alive 68

That nightly lie in those unproper beds

Which they dare swear peculiar; your case is better.

O! ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,

To lip a wanton in a secure couch, 72

And to suppose her chaste. No, let me know;

And knowing what I am I know what she shall be.

Oth.

O! thou art wise; ’tis certain.

Iago.

Stand you awhile apart;

Confine yourself but in a patient list. 76

Whilst you were here o’erwhelmed with your grief,—

A passion most unsuiting such a man,—

Cassio came hither; I shifted him away,

And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy; 80

Bade him anon return and here speak with me;

The which he promis’d. Do but encave yourself,

And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,

That dwell in every region of his face; 84

For I will make him tell the tale anew,

Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when

He hath, and is again to cope your wife:

I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;

Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen, 89

And nothing of a man.

Oth.

Dost thou hear, Iago?

I will be found most cunning in my patience;

But—dost thou hear?—most bloody.

Iago.

That’s not amiss; 92

But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?

[Othello goes apart.

Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,

A housewife that by selling her desires

Buys herself bread and clothes; it is a creature

That dotes on Cassio; as ’tis the strumpet’s plague 97

To beguile many and be beguil’d by one.

He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain

From the excess of laughter. Here he comes:

Re-enter Cassio.

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad; 101

And his unbookish jealousy must construe

Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light behaviour

Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant? 104

Cas.

The worser that you give me the addition

Whose want even kills me.

Iago.

Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on ’t.

[Speaking lower.] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s power, 108

How quickly should you speed!

Cas.

Alas! poor caitiff!

Oth.

Look! how he laughs already!

Iago.

I never knew woman love man so.

Cas.

Alas! poor rogue, I think, i’ faith, she loves me. 112

Oth.

Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out.

Iago.

Do you hear, Cassio?

Oth.

Now he importunes him

To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said.

Iago.

She gives it out that you shall marry her; 116

Do you intend it?

Cas.

Ha, ha, ha!

Oth.

Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph? 119

Cas.

I marry her! what? a customer? I prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha!

Oth.

So, so, so, so. They laugh that win.

Iago.

Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her. 125

Cas.

Prithee, say true.

Iago.

I am a very villain else.

Oth.

Have you scored me? Well. 128

Cas.

This is the monkey’s own giving out: she is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise.

Oth.

Iago beckons me; now he begins the story. 133

Cas.

She was here even now; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea bank with certain Venetians, and thither come this bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck;—

Oth.

Crying, ‘O dear Cassio!’ as it were; his gesture imports it. 140

Cas.

So hangs and lolls and weeps upon me; so hales and pulls me; ha, ha, ha!

Oth.

Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O! I see that nose of yours, but not the dog I shall throw it to. 145

Cas.

Well, I must leave her company.

Iago.

Before me! look, where she comes.

Cas

’Tis such another fitchew! marry, a perfumed one. 149

Enter Bianca.

What do you mean by this haunting of me?

Bian.

Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work! A likely piece of work, that you should find it in your chamber, and not know who left it there! This is some minx’s token, and I must take out the work! There, give it your hobby-horse; wheresoever you had it I’ll take out no work on ’t.

Cas.

How now, my sweet Bianca! how now, how now! 161

Oth.

By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!

Bian.

An you’ll come to supper to-night, you may; an you will not, come when you are next prepared for.

[Exit.

Iago.

After her, after her.

Cas.

Faith, I must; she’ll rail in the street else. 169

Iago.

Will you sup there?

Cas.

Faith, I intend so.

Iago.

Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak with you. 173

Cas.

Prithee, come; will you?

Iago.

Go to; say no more.

[Exit Cassio.

Oth.

[Advancing.] How shall I murder him, Iago? 177

Iago.

Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?

Oth.

O! Iago! 180

Iago.

And did you see the handkerchief?

Oth.

Was that mine?

Iago.

Yours, by this hand; and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he hath given it his whore. 185

Oth.

I would have him nine years a-killing.

A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!

Iago.

Nay, you must forget that. 188

Oth.

Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night; for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O! the world hath not a sweeter creature; she might lie by an emperor’s side and command him tasks.

Iago.

Nay, that’s not your way. 195

Oth.

Hang her! I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle! An admirable musician! O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear. Of so high and plenteous wit and invention! 200

Iago.

She’s the worse for all this.

Oth.

O! a thousand, a thousand times. And then, of so gentle a condition!

Iago.

Ay, too gentle. 204

Oth.

Nay, that’s certain;—but yet the pity of it, Iago! O! Iago, the pity of it, Iago!

Iago.

If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. 209

Oth.

I will chop her into messes. Cuckold me!

Iago.

O! ’tis foul in her. 212

Oth.

With mine officer!

Iago.

That’s fouler.

Oth.

Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again. This night, Iago. 218

Iago.

Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated.

Oth.

Good, good; the justice of it pleases; very good.

Iago.

And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker; you shall hear more by midnight. 224

Oth.

Excellent good. [A trumpet within.] What trumpet is that same?

Iago.

Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico,

Come from the duke; and see, your wife is with him. 228

Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants.

Lod.

God save you, worthy general!

Oth.

With all my heart, sir.

Lod.

The duke and senators of Venice greet you.

[Gives him a packet.

Oth.

I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.

[Opens the packet, and reads.

Des.

And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico? 232

Iago.

I am very glad to see you, signior;

Welcome to Cyprus.

Lod.

I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?

Iago.

Lives, sir. 236

Des.

Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord

An unkind breach; but you shall make all well.

Oth.

Are you sure of that?

Des.

My lord? 240

Oth.

This fail you not to do, as you will—

Lod.

He did not call; he’s busy in the paper.

Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio?

Des

A most unhappy one; I would do much

To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. 245

Oth.

Fire and brimstone!

Des.

My lord?

Oth.

Are you wise?

Des.

What! is he angry?

Lod.

May be the letter mov’d him;

For, as I think, they do command him home,

Deputing Cassio in his government. 249

Des.

Trust me, I am glad on ’t.

Oth.

Indeed!

Des

My lord?

Oth.

I am glad to see you mad.

Des.

Why, sweet Othello?

Oth.

Devil!

[Strikes her.

Des.

I have not deserved this. 252

Lod.

My lord, this would not be believ’d in Venice,

Though I should swear I saw ’t: ’tis very much;

Make her amends, she weeps.

Oth.

O devil, devil!

If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,

Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 257

Out of my sight!

Des.

I will not stay to offend you.

[Going.

Lod.

Truly, an obedient lady;

I do beseech your lordship, call her back. 260

Oth.

Mistress!

Des.

My lord?

Oth.

What would you with her, sir?

Lod.

Who, I, my lord?

Oth.

Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:

Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, 264

And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;

And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient,

Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears.

Concerning this, sir,—O well-painted passion!—

I am commanded home. Get you away; 269

I’ll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,

And will return to Venice. Hence! avaunt!

[Exit Desdemona.

Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, to-night,

I do entreat that we may sup together; 273

You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys!

[Exit.

Lod.

Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate

Call all-in-all sufficient? is this the noble nature

Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue 277

The shot of accident nor dart of chance

Could neither graze nor pierce?

Iago.

He is much chang’d.

Lod.

Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain? 280

Iago.

He’s that he is; I may not breathe my censure.

What he might be, if, what he might, he is not,

I would to heaven he were!

Lod.

What! strike his wife!

Iago.

Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew 284

That stroke would prove the worst!

Lod.

Is it his use?

Or did the letters work upon his blood,

And new-create this fault?

Iago.

Alas, alas!

It is not honesty in me to speak 288

What I have seen and known. You shall observe him,

And his own courses will denote him so

That I may save my speech. Do but go after

And mark how he continues. 292

Lod.

I am sorry that I am deceiv’d in him.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Castle.

Enter Othello and Emilia.

Oth.

You have seen nothing, then?

Emil.

Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

Oth.

Yes, you have seen Cassio and her together.

Emil.

But then I saw no harm, and then I heard 4

Each syllable that breath made up between them.

Oth.

What! did they never whisper?

Emil.

Never, my lord.

Oth.

Nor send you out o’ the way?

Emil.

Never.

Oth.

To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? 8

Emil.

Never, my lord.

Oth.

That’s strange.

Emil.

I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, 11

Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,

Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.

If any wretch have put this in your head,

Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse!

For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true, 16

There’s no man happy; the purest of their wives

Is foul as slander.

Oth.

Bid her come hither; go.

[Exit Emilia.

She says enough; yet she’s a simple bawd

That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, 20

A closet lock and key of villanous secrets;

And yet she’ll kneel and pray; I have seen her do ’t.

Re-enter Emilia with Desdemona.

Des.

My lord, what is your will?

Oth.

Pray, chuck, come hither.

Des.

What is your pleasure?

Oth.

Let me see your eyes; 24

Look in my face.

Des.

What horrible fancy’s this?

Oth.

[To Emilia.] Some of your function, mistress;

Leave procreants alone and shut the door;

Cough or cry ‘hem’ if any body come; 28

Your mystery, your mystery; nay, dispatch.

[Exit Emilia.

Des.

Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?

I understand a fury in your words,

But not the words. 32

Oth.

Why, what art thou?

Des.

Your wife, my lord; your true

And loyal wife.

Oth.

Come, swear it, damn thyself;

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves

Should fear to seize thee; therefore be double-damn’d; 36

Swear thou art honest.

Des.

Heaven doth truly know it.

Oth.

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

Des.

To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false?

Oth.

Ah! Desdemona; away, away, away! 40

Des.

Alas, the heavy day!—Why do you weep?

Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?

If haply you my father do suspect

An instrument of this your calling back, 44

Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him,

Why, I have lost him too.

Oth.

Had it pleas’d heaven

To try me with affliction, had he rain’d

All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head, 48

Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips,

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,

I should have found in some part of my soul

A drop of patience; but, alas! to make me 52

The fixed figure for the time of scorn

To point his slow and moving finger at;

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:

But there, where I have garner’d up my heart,

Where either I must live or bear no life, 57

The fountain from the which my current runs

Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!

Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads 60

To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin;

Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des.

I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. 64

Oth.

O! ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,

That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed!

Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet

That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne’er been born. 68

Des.

Alas! what ignorant sin have I committed?

Oth.

Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,

Made to write ‘whore’ upon? What committed!

Committed! O thou public commoner! 72

I should make very forges of my cheeks,

That would to cinders burn up modesty,

Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed!

Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks,

The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets 77

Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth,

And will not hear it. What committed!

Impudent strumpet!

Des.

By heaven, you do me wrong. 80

Oth.

Are not you a strumpet?

Des.

No, as I am a Christian.

If to preserve this vessel for my lord

From any other foul unlawful touch

Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. 84

Oth.

What! not a whore?

Des.

No, as I shall be sav’d.

Oth.

Is it possible?

Des.

O! heaven forgive us.

Oth.

I cry you mercy, then;

I took you for that cunning whore of Venice 88

That married with Othello. You, mistress,

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,

And keep the gate of hell!

Re-enter Emilia.

You, you, ay, you!

We have done our course; there’s money for your pains. 92

I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel.

[Exit.

Emil.

Alas! what does this gentleman conceive?

How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?

Des.

Faith, half asleep. 96

Emil.

Good madam, what’s the matter with my lord?

Des.

With who?

Emil.

Why, with my lord, madam.

Des.

Who is thy lord?

Emil.

He that is yours, sweet lady. 100

Des.

I have none; do not talk to me, Emilia;

I cannot weep, nor answer have I none,

But what should go by water. Prithee, to-night

Lay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember:

And call thy husband hither.

Emil.

Here is a change indeed! 105

[Exit.

Des.

’Tis meet I should be us’d so, very meet.

How have I been behav’d, that he might stick

The small’st opinion on my least misuse? 108

Re-enter Emilia, with Iago.

Iago.

What is your pleasure, madam? How is it with you?

Des.

I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes

Do it with gentle means and easy tasks; 112

He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,

I am a child to chiding.

Iago.

What’s the matter, lady?

Emil.

Alas! Iago, my lord hath so bewhor’d her,

Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,

As true hearts cannot bear. 117

Des.

Am I that name, Iago?

Iago.

What name, fair lady?

Des.

Such as she says my lord did say I was.

Emil.

He call’d her whore; a beggar in his drink 120

Could not have laid such terms upon his callat.

Iago.

Why did he so?

Des.

I do not know; I am sure I am none such.

Iago.

Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day! 124

Emil.

Has she forsook so many noble matches,

Her father and her country and her friends,

To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep?

Des.

It is my wretched fortune.

Iago.

Beshrew him for it! 128

How comes this trick upon him?

Des.

Nay, heaven doth know.

Emil.

I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain,

Some busy and insinuating rogue,

Some cogging cozening slave, to get some office, 132

Have not devis’d this slander; I’ll be hang’d else.

Iago.

Fie! there is no such man; it is impossible.

Des.

If any such there be, heaven pardon him!

Emil.

A halter pardon him, and hell gnaw his bones! 136

Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?

What place? what time? what form? what likelihood?

The Moor’s abus’d by some most villanous knave,

Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.

O heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold, 141

And put in every honest hand a whip

To lash the rascals naked through the world,

Even from the east to the west!

Iago.

Speak within door. 144

Emil.

O! fie upon them. Some such squire he was

That turn’d your wit the seamy side without,

And made you to suspect me with the Moor.

Iago.

You are a fool; go to.

Des.

O good Iago, 148

What shall I do to win my lord again?

Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,

I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:

If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love, 152

Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,

Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,

Delighted them in any other form;

Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 156

And ever will, though he do shake me off

To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly,

Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;

And his unkindness may defeat my life, 160

But never taint my love. I cannot say ‘whore:’

It does abhor me now I speak the word;

To do the act that might the addition earn

Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me.

Iago.

I pray you be content, ’tis but his humour; 165

The business of the state does him offence,

And he does chide with you.

Des.

If ’twere no other,—

Iago.

’Tis but so, I warrant.

[Trumpets.

Hark! how these instruments summon to supper; 169

The messengers of Venice stay the meat:

Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well.

[Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia.

Enter Roderigo.

How now, Roderigo! 172

Rod.

I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.

Iago.

What in the contrary?

Rod.

Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency, than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. 182

Iago.

Will you hear me, Roderigo?

Rod.

Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together.

Iago.

You charge me most unjustly. 186

Rod.

With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist; you have told me she has received them, and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, but I find none. 193

Iago.

Well; go to; very well.

Rod.

Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor ’tis not very well: by this hand, I say, it is very scurvy, and begin to find myself fobbed in it.

Iago.

Very well. 198

Rod.

I tell you ’tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona; if she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you.

Iago.

You have said now. 204

Rod.

Ay, and said nothing, but what I protest intendment of doing.

Iago.

Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee, and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo; thou hast taken against me a most just exception; but yet, I protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair. 212

Rod.

It hath not appeared.

Iago.

I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valour, this night show it: if thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life.

Rod.

Well, what is it? is it within reason and compass? 224

Iago.

Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place.

Rod.

Is that true? why, then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. 228

Iago.

O, no! he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident; wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. 233

Rod.

How do you mean, removing of him?

Iago.

Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s place; knocking out his brains.

Rod.

And that you would have me do? 237

Iago.

Ay; if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him; he knows not yet of his honourable fortune. If you will watch his going thence,—which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one,—you may take him at your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me; I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste; about it. 250

Rod.

I will hear further reason for this.

Iago.

And you shall be satisfied.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Room in the Castle.

Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, and Attendants.

Lod.

I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further.

Oth.

O! pardon me; ’twill do me good to walk.

Lod.

Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.

Des.

Your honour is most welcome.

Oth.

Will you walk, sir?

O! Desdemona,— 5

Des.

My lord?

Oth.

Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith; dismiss your attendant there; look it be done. 9

Des.

I will, my lord.

[Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants.

Emil.

How goes it now? he looks gentler than he did.

Des.

He says he will return incontinent; 12

He hath commanded me to go to bed,

And bade me to dismiss you.

Emil.

Dismiss me!

Des.

It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia,

Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu: 16

We must not now displease him.

Emil.

I would you had never seen him.

Des.

So would not I; my love doth so approve him,

That even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns,— 20

Prithee, unpin me,—have grace and favour in them.

Emil.

I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.

Des.

All’s one. Good faith! how foolish are our minds!

If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me 24

In one of those same sheets.

Emil.

Come, come, you talk.

Des.

My mother had a maid call’d Barbara;

She was in love, and he she lov’d prov’d mad

And did forsake her; she had a song of ‘willow;’ 28

An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune,

And she died singing it; that song to-night

Will not go from my mind; I have much to do

But to go hang my head all at one side, 32

And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.

Emil.

Shall I go fetch your night-gown?

Des.

No, unpin me here.

This Lodovico is a proper man.

Emil.

A very handsome man. 36

Des.

He speaks well.

Emil.

I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. 40

Des.

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,

Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow, willow: 44

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans;

Sing willow, willow, willow:

Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;—

Lay by these:— 48

Sing willow, willow, willow:

Prithee, hie thee; he’ll come anon.—

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,—

Nay, that’s not next. Hark! who is it that knocks?

Emil.

It is the wind.

Des.

I call’d my love false love; but what said he then? 56

Sing willow, willow, willow:

If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe men.

So, get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;

Doth that bode weeping?

Emil.

’Tis neither here nor there.

Des.

I have heard it said so. O! these men, these men! 61

Dost thou in conscience think, tell me, Emilia,

That there be women do abuse their husbands

In such gross kind?

Emil.

There be some such, no question.

Des.

Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? 65

Emil.

Why, would not you?

Des.

No, by this heavenly light!

Emil.

Nor I neither by this heavenly light; might do ’t as well i’ the dark. 68

Des.

Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

Emil.

The world is a huge thing; ’tis a great price

For a small vice.

Des.

In troth, I think thou wouldst not.

Emil.

In troth, I think I should, and undo ’t when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but for the whole world, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for ’t.

Des.

Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong

For the whole world. 80

Emil.

Why, the wrong is but a wrong i’ the world; and having the world for your labour, ’tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right. 84

Des.

I do not think there is any such woman.

Emil.

Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage, as would store the world they played for. 88

But I do think it is their husbands’ faults

If wives do fall. Say that they slack their duties,

And pour our treasures into foreign laps,

Or else break out in peevish jealousies, 92

Throwing restraint upon us; or, say they strike us,

Or scant our former having in despite;

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,

Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know

Their wives have sense like them; they see and smell, 97

And have their palates both for sweet and sour,

As husbands have. What is it that they do

When they change us for others? Is it sport?

I think it is; and doth affection breed it? 101

I think it doth: is ’t frailty that thus errs?

It is so too; and have not we affections,

Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? 104

Then, let them use us well; else let them know,

The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Des.

Good night, good night; heaven me such usage send,

Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! 108

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Cyprus. A Street.

Enter Iago and Roderigo.

Iago.

Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come:

Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home.

Quick, quick; fear nothing; I’ll be at thy elbow.

It makes us, or it mars us; think on that, 4

And fix most firm thy resolution.

Rod.

Be near at hand; I may miscarry in ’t.

Iago.

Here, at thy hand: be bold, and take thy stand.

[Retires.

Rod.

I have no great devotion to the deed; 8

And yet he has given me satisfying reasons:

’Tis but a man gone: forth, my sword; he dies.

Iago.

I have rubb’d this young quat almost to the sense,

And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio, 12

Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other,

Every way makes my gain: live Roderigo,

He calls me to a restitution large

Of gold and jewels that I bobb’d from him, 16

As gifts to Desdemona;

It must not be: if Cassio do remain,

He hath a daily beauty in his life

That makes me ugly; and, besides, the Moor 20

May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril.

No, he must die. But so; I hear him coming.

Enter Cassio.

Rod.

I know his gait; ’tis he. Villain, thou diest!

[Makes a pass at Cassio.

Cas.

That thrust had been mine enemy indeed 24

But that my coat is better than thou know’st;

I will make proof of thine.

[Draws, and wounds Roderigo.

Rod.

O! I am slain.

[Iago from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit.

Cas.

I am maim’d for ever. Help, ho! murder! murder!

[Falls.

Enter Othello, at a distance.

Oth.

The voice of Cassio: Iago keeps his word.

Rod.

O! villain that I am!

Oth.

It is e’en so. 29

Cas.

O, help, ho! light! a surgeon!

Oth.

’Tis he: O brave Iago, honest and just!

That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s wrong; 32

Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead,

And your unblest fate hies; strumpet, I come!

Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;

Thy bed lust-stain’d shall with lust’s blood be spotted.

[Exit.

Enter Lodovico and Gratiano, at a distance.

Cas.

What ho! no watch? no passage? murder! murder! 37

Gra.

’Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful.

Cas.

O, help!

Lod.

Hark! 40

Rod.

O wretched villain!

Lod.

Two or three groan: it is a heavy night;

These may be counterfeits; let’s think ’t unsafe

To come in to the cry without more help. 44

Rod.

Nobody come? then shall I bleed to death.

Lod.

Hark!

Re-enter Iago, with a light.

Gra.

Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons.

Iago.

Who’s there? whose noise is this that cries on murder? 48

Lod.

We do not know.

Iago.

Did not you hear a cry?

Cas.

Here, here! for heaven’s sake, help me.

Iago.

What’s the matter?

Gra.

This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it.

Lod.

The same indeed; a very valiant fellow.

Iago.

What are you here that cry so grievously? 53

Cas.

Iago? O! I am spoil’d, undone by villains!

Give me some help.

Iago.

O me, lieutenant! what villains have done this? 56

Cas.

I think that one of them is hereabout,

And cannot make away.

Iago.

O treacherous villains!

[To Lodovico and Gratiano.] What are you there? come in, and give some help.

Rod.

O! help me here. 60

Cas.

That’s one of them.

Iago.

O murderous slave! O villain!

[Stabs Roderigo.

Rod.

O damn’d Iago! O inhuman dog!

Iago.

Kill men i’ the dark! Where be these bloody thieves?

How silent is this town! Ho! murder! murder!

What may you be? are you of good or evil? 65

Lod.

As you shall prove us, praise us.

Iago.

Signior Lodovico?

Lod.

He, sir. 68

Iago.

I cry you mercy. Here’s Cassio hurt by villains.

Gra.

Cassio!

Iago.

How is it, brother?

Cas.

My leg is cut in two.

Iago.

Marry, heaven forbid, 72

Light, gentlemen; I’ll bind it with my shirt.

Enter Bianca.

Bian.

What is the matter, ho? who is ’t that cried?

Iago.

Who is ’t that cried!

Bian.

O my dear Cassio! my sweet Cassio! 76

O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!

Iago.

O notable strumpet! Cassio, may you suspect

Who they should be that have thus mangled you?

Cas.

No. 80

Gra.

I am sorry to find you thus; I have been to seek you.

Iago.

Lend me a garter. So. O! for a chair,

To bear him easily hence!

Bian.

Alas! he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! 84

Iago

Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash

To be a party in this injury.

Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come.

Lend me a light. Know we this face, or no? 88

Alas! my friend and my dear countryman,

Roderigo? no: yes, sure, O heaven! Roderigo.

Gra.

What! of Venice?

Iago

Even he, sir: did you know him?

Gra.

Know him! ay. 92

Iago.

Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon;

These bloody accidents must excuse my manners,

That so neglected you.

Gra.

I am glad to see you.

Iago.

How do you, Cassio? O! a chair, a chair! 96

Gra.

Roderigo!

[A chair brought in.

Iago.

He, he, ’tis he.—O! that’s well said; the chair:

Some good men bear him carefully from hence;

I’ll fetch the general’s surgeon. [To Bianca.] For you, mistress, 100

Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, Cassio,

Was my dear friend. What malice was between you?

Cas.

None in the world; nor do I know the man.

Iago.

[To Bianca.] What! look you pale? O! bear him out o’ the air— 104

[Cassio and Roderigo are borne off.

Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress?—

Do you perceive the gastness of her eye?

Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon.

Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her: 108

Do you see, gentlemen? nay, guiltiness will speak

Though tongues were out of use.

Enter Emilia.

Emil.

’Las! what’s the matter? what’s the matter, husband?

Iago.

Cassio hath here been set on in the dark 112

By Roderigo and fellows that are ’scap’d:

He’s almost slain, and Roderigo dead.

Emil.

Alas! good gentleman; alas! good Cassio!

Iago.

This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, 116

Go know of Cassio where he supp’d to-night.

What! do you shake at that?

Bian.

He supp’d at my house; but I therefore shake not.

Iago.

O! did he so? I charge you, go with me.

Emil.

Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! 121

Bian.

I am no strumpet, but of life as honest

As you that thus abuse me.

Emil.

As I! foh! fie upon thee!

Iago.

Kind gentlemen, let’s go see poor Cassio dress’d. 124

Come, mistress, you must tell ’s another tale.

Emilia, run you to the citadel,

And tell my lord and lady what hath happ’d.

Will you go on afore? [Aside.] This is the night

That either makes me or fordoes me quite. 129

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Bedchamber in the Castle. Desdemona in bed asleep. A light burning.

Enter Othello.

Oth.

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!

It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, 4

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.

Put out the light, and then put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, 8

I can again thy former light restore,

Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,

Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat 12

That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d the rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither: I’ll smell it on the tree.

[Kisses her.

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade 16

Justice to break her sword! One more, one more.

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,

And love thee after. One more, and this the last:

So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep, 20

But they are cruel tears; this sorrow’s heavenly,

It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.

Des.

Who’s there? Othello?

Oth.

Ay, Desdemona.

Des.

Will you come to bed, my lord? 24

Oth.

Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?

Des.

Ay, my lord.

Oth.

If you bethink yourself of any crime

Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace,

Solicit for it straight. 28

Des.

Alas! my lord, what may you mean by that?

Oth.

Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:

I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;

No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.

Des.

Talk you of killing?

Oth.

Ay, I do.

Des.

Then heaven 33

Have mercy on me!

Oth.

Amen! with all my heart.

Des.

If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.

Oth.

Hum! 36

Des.

And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then

When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not,

Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.

Oth.

Think on thy sins.

Des.

They are loves I bear to you. 40

Oth.

Ay, and for that thou diest.

Des.

That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.

Alas! why gnaw you so your nether lip?

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame; 44

These are portents, but yet, I hope, I hope

They do not point on me.

Oth.

Peace, and be still!

Des.

I will so. What’s the matter?

Oth.

That handkerchief which I so lov’d and gave thee 48

Thou gav’st to Cassio.

Des.

No, by my life and soul!

Send for the man and ask him.

Oth.

Sweet soul, take heed,

Take heed of perjury; thou’rt on thy death-bed.

Des.

Ay, but not yet to die.

Oth.

Yes, presently; 52

Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin;

For to deny each article with oath

Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception

That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. 56

Des.

Then Lord have mercy on me!

Oth.

I say, amen.

Des.

And have you mercy too! I never did

Offend you in my life; never lov’d Cassio

But with such general warranty of heaven 60

As I might love; I never gave him token.

Oth.

By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in ’s hand.

O perjur’d woman! thou dost stone my heart,

And mak’st me call what I intend to do 64

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice:

I saw the handkerchief.

Des.

He found it then;

I never gave it him. Send for him hither;

Let him confess a truth.

Oth.

He hath confess’d. 68

Des.

What, my lord?

Oth.

That he hath us’d thee.

Des.

How? unlawfully?

Oth.

Ay.

Des.

He will not say so.

Oth.

No; his mouth is stopp’d:

Honest Iago hath ta’en order for ’t. 72

Des.

O! my fear interprets. What! is he dead?

Oth.

Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge

Had stomach for them all.

Des.

Alas! he is betray’d and I undone. 76

Oth.

Out, strumpet! Weep’st thou for him to my face?

Des.

O! banish me, my lord, but kill me not!

Oth.

Down, strumpet!

Des.

Kill me to-morrow; let me live to-night!

Oth.

Nay, if you strive,— 81

Des.

But half an hour!

Oth.

Being done, there is no pause.

Des.

But while I say one prayer!

Oth.

It is too late.

[He smothers her.

Emil.

[Within.] My lord, my lord! what, ho! my lord, my lord! 84

Oth.

What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?

I that am cruel am yet merciful;

I would not have thee linger in thy pain.

So, so.

Emil.

[Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord!

Oth.

Who’s there? 88

Emil.

[Within.] O! good my lord, I would speak a word with you!

Oth.

Yes; ’tis Emilia: by and by. She’s dead.

’Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death;

The noise was high. Ha! no more moving? 92

Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were ’t good?

I think she stirs again: no. What’s best to do?

If she come in she’ll sure speak to my wife:

My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife:

O, insupportable! O heavy hour! 97

Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse

Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe

Should yawn at alteration.

Emil.

[Within.] I do beseech you 100

That I may speak with you, O! good my lord.

Oth.

I had forgot thee: O! come in, Emilia:

Soft, by and by: let me the curtains draw.

Where art thou?

[Unlocks the door.

Enter Emilia.

What’s the matter with thee now? 104

Emil.

O! my good lord, yonder’s foul murder done.

Oth.

What! now?

Emil.

But now, my lord.

Oth.

It is the very error of the moon;

She comes more near the earth than she was wont, 108

And makes men mad.

Emil.

Cassio, my lord, has kill’d a young Venetian

Call’d Roderigo.

Oth.

Roderigo kill’d!

And Cassio kill’d?

Emil.

No, Cassio is not kill’d. 112

Oth.

Not Cassio kill’d! then murder’s out of tune,

And sweet revenge grows harsh.

Des.

O! falsely, falsely murder’d.

Emil.

Alas! what cry is that?

Oth.

That! what? 116

Emil.

Out, and alas! that was my lady’s voice:

Help! Help, ho! help! O lady, speak again!

Sweet Desdemona! O! sweet mistress, speak.

Des.

A guiltless death I die. 120

Emil.

O! who hath done this deed?

Des.

Nobody; I myself; farewell:

Commend me to my kind lord. O! farewell!

[Dies.

Oth.

Why, how should she be murder’d?

Emil.

Alas! who knows? 124

Oth.

You heard her say herself it was not I.

Emil.

She said so; I must needs report the truth.

Oth.

She’s like a liar gone to burning hell;

’Twas I that kill’d her.

Emil.

O! the more angel she,

And you the blacker devil. 129

Oth.

She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore.

Emil.

Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.

Oth.

She was false as water.

Emil.

Thou art rash as fire to say

That she was false: O! she was heavenly true.

Oth.

Cassio did tup her; ask thy husband else.

O! I were damn’d beneath all depth in bell

But that I did proceed upon just grounds 136

To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.

Emil.

My husband!

Oth.

Thy husband.

Emil.

That she was false to wedlock? 140

Oth.

Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,

If heaven would make me such another world

Of one entire and perfect chrysolite,

I’d not have sold her for it. 144

Emil.

My husband!

Oth.

Ay, ’twas he that told me first:

An honest man he is, and hates the slime

That sticks on filthy deeds.

Emil.

My husband!

Oth.

What needs this iterance, woman? I say thy husband. 148

Emil.

O mistress! villany hath made mocks with love.

My husband say that she was false!

Oth.

He, woman;

I say, thy husband: dost understand the word?

My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. 152

Emil.

If he say so, may his pernicious soul

Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart:

She was too fond of her most filthy bargain.

Oth.

Ha! 156

Emil.

Do thy worst:

This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven

Than thou wast worthy her.

Oth.

Peace! you were best.

Emil.

Thou hast not half the power to do me harm 160

As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!

As ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed,—

I care not for thy sword; I’ll make thee known,

Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! 164

The Moor has kill’d my mistress! Murder! murder!

Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and Others.

Mon.

What is the matter? How now, general!

Emil.

O! are you come, Iago? you have done well,

That men must lay their murders on your neck.

Gra.

What is the matter? 169

Emil.

Disprove this villain if thou be’st a man:

He says thou told’st him that his wife was false.

I know thou didst not, thou’rt not such a villain,

Speak, for my heart is full. 173

Iago.

I told him what I thought, and told no more

Than what he found himself was apt and true.

Emil.

But did you ever tell him she was false? 176

Iago.

I did.

Emil.

You told a lie, an odious damned lie;

Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.

She false with Cassio! Did you say with Cassio?

Iago.

With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. 181

Emil.

I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak.

My mistress here lies murder’d in her bed.

All.

O heavens forfend! 184

Emil.

And your reports have set the murder on.

Oth.

Nay, stare not, masters; it is true, indeed.

Gra.

’Tis a strange truth.

Mon.

O monstrous act!

Emil.

Villany! villany! villany!

I think upon ’t, I think, I smell ’t; O villany! 189

I thought so then; I’ll kill myself for grief.

O! villany, villany!

Iago.

What! are you mad? I charge you, get you home. 192

Emil.

Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak:

’Tis proper I obey him, but not now.

Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home.

Oth.

O! O! O!

[Falls on the bed.

Emil.

Nay, lay thee down and roar,

For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent 197

That e’er did lift up eye.

Oth.

O! she was foul.

I scarce did know you, uncle. There lies your niece,

Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp’d: 200

I know this act shows terrible and grim.

Gra.

Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father’s dead.

Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief

Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now,

This sight would make him do a desperate turn,

Yea, curse his better angel from his side,

And fall to reprobation.

Oth.

’Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows 208

That she with Cassio hath the act of shame

A thousand times committed; Cassio confess’d it:

And she did gratify his amorous works

With that recognizance and pledge of love 212

Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand:

It was a handkerchief, an antique token

My father gave my mother.

Emil.

O heaven! O heavenly powers!

Iago.

Come, hold your peace.

Emil.

’Twill out, ’twill out; I hold my peace, air? no; 217

No, I will speak as liberal as the north;

Let heaven and men and devils, let them all,

All, all, cry shame against me, yet I’ll speak. 220

Iago.

Be wise, and get you home.

Emil.

I will not.

[Iago offers to stab Emilia.

Gra.

Fie!

Your sword upon a woman?

Emil.

O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou speak’st of

I found by fortune and did give my husband;

For often, with a solemn earnestness, 225

More than, indeed, belong’d to such a trifle,

He begg’d of me to steal it.

Iago.

Villanous whore!

Emil.

She give it Cassio! no, alas! I found it, 228

And I did give ’t my husband.

Iago.

Filth, thou liest!

Emil.

By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.

O murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool

Do with so good a wife?

Oth.

Are there no stones in heaven

But what serve for the thunder? Precious villain!

[He runs at Iago. Iago stabs Emilia, and exit.

Gra.

The woman falls: sure, he has kill’d his wife.

Emil.

Ay, ay; O! lay me by my mistress’ side.

Gra.

He’s gone; but his wife’s kill’d. 236

Mon.

’Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon,

Which I have here recover’d from the Moor.

Come, guard the door without; let him not pass,

But kill him rather. I’ll after that same villain,

For ’tis a damned slave.

[Exeunt Montano and Gratiano.

Oth.

I am not valiant neither, 241

But every puny whipster gets my sword.

But why should honour outlive honesty?

Let it go all.

Emil.

What did thy song bode, lady? 244

Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,

And die in music:—

Willow, willow, willow.

Moor, she was chaste; she lov’d thee, cruel Moor;

So come my soul to bliss as I speak true; 249

So speaking as I think, I die, I die.

[Dies.

Oth.

I have another weapon in this chamber;

It is a sword of Spain, the ice brook’s temper.

O! here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. 253

Gra.

[Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:

Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

Oth.

Look in upon me then, and speak with me, 256

Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano.

Gra.

What is the matter?

Oth.

Behold! I have a weapon;

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day, 260

That with this little arm, and this good sword,

I have made my way through more impediments

Than twenty times your stop: but, O vain boast!

Who can control his fate? ’tis not so now. 264

Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d;

Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,

And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.

Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear; 268

Man but a rush against Othello’s breast,

And he retires. Where should Othello go?

Now how dost thou look now? O ill-starr’d wench!

Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, 272

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,

And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!

Even like thy chastity.

O! cursed, cursed slave. Whip me, ye devils, 276

From the possession of this heavenly sight!

Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur!

Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!

O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead! 280

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner.

Lod.

Where is this rash and most unfortunate man?

Oth.

That’s he that was Othello; here I am.

Lod.

Where is that viper? bring the villain forth. 284

Oth.

I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable.

If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee.

[Wounds Iago.

Lod.

Wrench his sword from him.

Iago.

I bleed, sir; but not kill’d.

Oth.

I am not sorry neither; I’d have thee live; 288

For, in my sense, ’tis happiness to die.

Lod.

O thou Othello! that wert once so good,

Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave,

What shall be said to thee?

Oth.

Why, any thing: 292

An honourable murderer, if you will;

For nought did I in hate, but all in honour.

Lod.

This wretch hath part confess’d his villany:

Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death? 296

Oth.

Ay.

Cas.

Dear general, I never gave you cause.

Oth.

I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.

Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil 300

Why he hath thus ensnar’d my soul and body?

Iago.

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know:

From this time forth I never will speak word.

Lod.

What! not to pray?

Gra.

Torments will ope your lips.

Oth.

Well, thou dost best. 305

Lod.

Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n,

Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter

Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, 308

And here another; the one of them imports

The death of Cassio to be undertook

By Roderigo.

Oth.

O villain!

Cas.

Most heathenish and most gross!

Lod.

Now here’s another discontented paper,

Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems,

Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain,

But that, belike, Iago in the interim 316

Came in and satisfied him.

Oth.

O the pernicious caitiff!

How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief

That was my wife’s?

Cas.

I found it in my chamber;

And he himself confess’d but even now 320

That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose

Which wrought to his desire.

Oth.

O fool! fool! fool!

Cas.

There is besides in Roderigo’s letter

How he upbraids Iago that he made him 324

Brave me upon the watch; whereon it came

That I was cast: and even but now he spake,

After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him,

Iago set him on. 328

Lod.

You must forsake this room and go with us;

Your power and your command is taken off,

And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,

If there be any cunning cruelty 332

That can torment him much and hold him long,

It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest.

Till that the nature of your fault be known

To the Venetian state. Come, bring him away.

Oth.

Soft you; a word or two before you go. 337

I have done the state some service, and they know’t;

No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, 340

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak

Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well; 343

Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,

Perplex’d in the extreme; of one whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdu’d eyes

Albeit unused to the melting mood, 348

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees

Their med’cinable gum. Set you down this;

And say besides, that in Aleppo once,

Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk 352

Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state,

I took by the throat the circumcised dog,

And smote him thus.

[Stabs himself.

Lod

O bloody period!

Gra.

All that’s spoke is marr’d.

Oth.

I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee; no way but this,

[Falling upon Desdemona.

Killing myself to die upon a kiss.

[Dies.

Cas.

This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon;

For he was great of heart.

Lod.

[To Iago.] O Spartan dog! 360

More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea.

Look on the tragic loading of this bed;

This is thy work; the object poisons sight;

Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, 364

And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,

For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor,

Remains the censure of this hellish villain,

The time, the place, the torture; O! enforce it.

Myself will straight aboard, and to the state 369

This heavy act with heavy heart relate.

[Exeunt.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Mark Antony, }	Triumvirs.
Octavius Cæsar, }
M. Æmilius Lepidus, }
Sextus Pompeius.
Domitius Enobarbus, }	Friends to Antony.
Ventidius, }
Eros, }
Scarus, }
Dercetas, }
Demetrius, }
Philo, }
Mecænas, }	Friends to Cæsar.
Agrippa, }
Dolabella, }
Thyreus, }
Gallus, }
Gallus, }
Menas, }	Friends to Pompey.
Menecrates, }
Varrius, }
Taurus,	Lieutenant-General to Cæsar.
Canidius,	Lieutenant-General to Antony.
Silius,	an Officer under Ventidius.
Euphronius,	Ambassador from Antony to Cæsar.
Alexas, }	Attendants on Cleopatra.
Mardian, }
Seleucus, }
Diomedes, }
A Soothsayer.
A Clown.
Cleopatra,	Queen of Egypt.
Octavia,	sister to Cæsar, and wife to Antony.
Charmian, }	Attendants on Cleopatra.
Iras, }	Attendants on Cleopatra.
Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.

Scene.—In several parts of the Roman Empire.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s Palace.

Enter Demetrius and Philo.

Phi.

Nay, but this dotage of our general’s

O’erflows the measure; those his goodly eyes,

That o’er the files and musters of the war

Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now turn 4

The office and devotion of their view

Upon a tawny front; his captain’s heart,

Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst

The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper, 8

And is become the bellows and the fan

To cool a gipsy’s lust. Look! where they come.

Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, with their Trains; Eunuchs fanning her.

Take but good note, and you shall see in him

The triple pillar of the world transform’d 12

Into a strumpet’s fool; behold and see.

Cleo.

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

Ant.

There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.

Cleo.

I’ll set a bourn how far to be belov’d. 16

Ant.

Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

Enter an Attendant.

Att.

News, my good lord, from Rome.

Ant.

Grates me; the sum.

Cleo.

Nay, hear them, Antony:

Fulvia, perchance, is angry; or, who knows 20

If the scarce-bearded Cæsar have not sent

His powerful mandate to you, ‘Do this, or this;

Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that;

Perform ’t, or else we damn thee.’

Ant.

How, my love! 24

Cleo.

Perchance! nay, and most like;

You must not stay here longer; your dismission

Is come from Cæsar; therefore hear it, Antony.

Where’s Fulvia’s process? Cæsar’s I would say? both? 28

Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen,

Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine

Is Cæsar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame

When shrill-tongu’d Fulvia scolds. The messengers! 32

Ant.

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch

Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space.

Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man; the nobleness of life 36

Is to do thus; when such a mutual pair

[Embracing.

And such a twain can do ’t, in which I bind,

On pain of punishment, the world to weet

We stand up peerless.

Cleo.

Excellent falsehood! 40

Why did he marry Fulvia and not love her?

I’ll seem the fool I am not; Antony

Will be himself.

Ant.

But stirr’d by Cleopatra.

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, 44

Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh:

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch

Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?

Cleo.

Hear the ambassadors.

Ant.

Fie, wrangling queen! 48

Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,

To weep; whose every passion fully strives

To make itself, in thee, fair and admir’d.

No messenger, but thine; and all alone, 52

To-night we’ll wander through the streets and note

The qualities of people. Come, my queen;

Last night you did desire it: speak not to us.

[Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra, with their Train.

Dem.

Is Cæsar with Antonius priz’d so slight?

Phi.

Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony,

He comes too short of that great property

Which still should go with Antony.

Dem.

I am full sorry

That he approves the common liar, who 60

Thus speaks of him at Rome; but I will hope

Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Another Room.

Enter Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and a Soothsayer.

Char.

Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most any thing Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to the queen? O! that I knew this husband, which, you say, must charge his horns with garlands. 6

Alex.

Soothsayer!

Sooth.

Your will? 8

Char.

Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?

Sooth.

In nature’s infinite book of secrecy

A little I can read.

Alex.

Show him your hand. 12

Enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough

Cleopatra’s health to drink.

Char.

Good sir, give me good fortune.

Sooth.

I make not, but foresee. 16

Char.

Pray then, foresee me one.

Sooth.

You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

Char

He means in flesh.

Iras.

No, you shall paint when you are old.

Char.

Wrinkles forbid! 21

Alex.

Vex not his prescience; be attentive.

Char.

Hush!

Sooth.

You shall be more beloving than belov’d. 24

Char.

I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

Alex.

Nay, hear him.

Char.

Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all; let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage; find me to marry me with Octavius Cæsar, and companion me with my mistress. 32

Sooth.

You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

Char.

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

Sooth.

You have seen and prov’d a fairer former fortune

Than that which is to approach. 36

Char.

Then, belike, my children shall have no names; prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?

Sooth.

If every of your wishes had a womb,

And fertile every wish, a million. 41

Char.

Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

Alex.

You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes. 44

Char.

Nay, come, tell Iras hers.

Alex.

We’ll know all our fortunes.

Eno.

Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall be,—drunk to bed. 48

Iras.

There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.

Char.

E’en as the overflowing Nilus presageth famine. 52

Iras.

Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

Char.

Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear.

Prithee, tell her but a worky-day fortune. 57

Sooth.

Your fortunes are alike.

Iras.

But how? but how? give me particulars.

Sooth.

I have said. 60

Iras.

Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

Char.

Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?

Iras.

Not in my husband’s nose. 65

Char.

Our worser thoughts heaven mend! Alexas,—come, his fortune, his fortune. O! let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee; and let her die too, and give him a worse; and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee! 74

Iras.

Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! for, as it is a heart-breaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly! 80

Char.

Amen.

Alex.

Lo, now! if it lay in their hands to make me acuckold, they would make themselves whores, but they’d do’t! 84

Eno.

Hush! here comes Antony.

Char.

Not he; the queen.

Enter Cleopatra.

Cleo.

Saw you my lord?

Eno.

No, lady.

Cleo.

Was he not here? 88

Char.

No, madam.

Cleo.

He was dispos’d to mirth; but on the sudden

A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

Eno.

Madam! 92

Cleo.

Seek him, and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?

Alex.

Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

Enter Antony, with a Messenger and Attendants.

Cleo.

We will not look upon him; go with us.

[Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Alexas, Iras, Charmian, Soothsayer, and Attendants.

Mess.

Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

Ant.

Against my brother Lucius? 97

Mess.

Ay:

But soon that war had end, and the time’s state

Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Cæsar, 100

Whose better issue in the war, from Italy

Upon the first encounter drave them.

Ant.

Well, what worst?

Mess.

The nature of bad news infects the teller.

Ant.

When it concerns the fool, or coward. On; 104

Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus:

Who tells me true, though in his tale lay death,

I hear him as he flatter’d.

Mess.

Labienus—

This is stiff news—hath, with his Parthian force

Extended Asia; from Euphrates 109

His conquering banner shook from Syria

To Lydia and to Ionia: whilst—

Ant.

Antony, thou wouldst say,— 112

Mess.

O! my lord.

Ant.

Speak to me home, mince not the general tongue;

Name Cleopatra as she is call’d in Rome;

Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase; and taunt my faults 116

With such full licence as both truth and malice

Have power to utter. O! then we bring forth weeds

When our quick winds lie still; and our ills told us

Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile. 120

Mess.

At your noble pleasure.

[Exit.

Ant.

From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there!

First Att.

The man from Sicyon, is there such an one?

Sec. Att.

He stays upon your will.

Ant.

Let him appear. 124

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,

Or lose myself in dotage.

Enter another Messenger.

What are you?

Sec. Mess.

Fulvia thy wife is dead.

Ant.

Where died she?

Sec. Mess.

In Sicyon: 128

Her length of sickness, with what else more serious

Importeth thee to know, this bears.

[Giving a letter.

Ant.

Forbear me.

[Exit Second Messenger.

There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:

What our contempts do often hurl from us 132

We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,

By revolution lowering, does become

The opposite of itself: she’s good, being gone;

The hand could pluck her back that shov’d her on. 136

I must from this enchanting queen break off;

Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,

My idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus!

Re-enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

What’s your pleasure, sir? 140

Ant.

I must with haste from hence.

Eno.

Why, then, we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they suffer our departure, death’s the word. 144

Ant.

I must be gone.

Eno.

Under a compelling occasion let women die; it were pity to cast them away for nothing; though between them and a great cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying. 154

Ant.

She is cunning past man’s thought.

Eno.

Alack! sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. 162

Ant.

Would I had never seen her!

Eno.

O, sir! you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work which not to have been blessed withal would have discredited your travel.

Ant.

Fulvia is dead.

Eno.

Sir? 168

Ant.

Fulvia is dead.

Eno.

Fulvia!

Ant.

Dead.

Eno.

Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their de ties to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented: this grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat; and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

Ant.

The business she hath broached in the state

Cannot endure my absence. 184

Eno.

And the business you have broached here cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode. 188

Ant.

No more light answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break

The cause of our expedience to the queen,

And get her leave to part. For not alone 192

The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,

Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too

Of many our contriving friends in Rome

Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius 196

Hath given the dare to Cæsar, and commands

The empire of the sea; our slippery people—

Whose love is never link’d to the deserver

Till his deserts are past—begin to throw 200

Pompey the Great and all his dignities

Upon his son; who, high in name and power,

Higher than both in blood and life, stands up

For the main soldier, whose quality, going on,

The sides o’ the world may danger. Much is breeding, 205

Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life,

And not a serpent’s poison. Say, our pleasure,

To such whose place is under us, requires 208

Our quick remove from hence.

Eno.

I shall do it.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Another Room.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas.

Cleo.

Where is he?

Char.

I did not see him since.

Cleo.

See where he is, who’s with him, what he does;

I did not send you: if you find him sad,

Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report 4

That I am sudden sick: quick, and return.

[Exit Alexas.

Char.

Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,

You do not hold the method to enforce

The like from him.

Cleo.

What should I do I do not? 8

Char.

In each thing give him way, cross him in nothing.

Cleo.

Thou teachest like a fool; the way to lose him.

Char.

Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear:

In time we hate that which we often fear. 12

But here comes Antony.

Enter Antony.

Cleo.

I am sick and sullen.

Ant.

I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose,—

Cleo.

Help me away, dear Charmian, I shall fall:

It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature 16

Will not sustain it.

Ant.

Now, my dearest queen,—

Cleo.

Pray you, stand further from me.

Ant.

What’s the matter?

Cleo.

I know, by that same eye, there’s some good news.

What says the married woman? You may go:

Would she had never given you leave to come!

Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here;

I have no power upon you; hers you are.

Ant.

The gods best know,—

Cleo.

O! never was there queen 24

So mightily betray’d; yet at the first

I saw the treasons planted.

Ant.

Cleopatra,—

Cleo.

Why should I think you can be mine and true,

Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, 28

Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,

To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,

Which break themselves in swearing!

Ant.

Most sweet queen,—

Cleo.

Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going, 32

But bid farewell, and go: when you su’d staying

Then was the time for words; no going then:

Eternity was in our lips and eyes,

Bliss in our brows bent; none our parts so poor 36

But was a race of heaven; they are so still,

Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,

Art turn’d the greatest liar.

Ant.

How now, lady!

Cleo.

I would I had thy inches; thou shouldst know 40

There were a heart in Egypt.

Ant.

Hear me, queen:

The strong necessity of time commands

Our services awhile, but my full heart

Remains in use with you. Our Italy 44

Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius

Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;

Equality of two domestic powers

Breeds scrupulous faction. The hated, grown to strength, 48

Are newly grown to love; the condemn’d Pompey,

Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace

Into the hearts of such as have not thriv’d 51

Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;

And quietness, grown aick of rest, would purge

By any desperate change. My more particular,

And that which most with you should safe my going,

Is Fulvia’s death. 56

Cleo.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom,

It does from childishness: can Fulvia die?

Ant.

She’s dead, my queen:

Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read 60

The garboils she awak’d; at the last, best,

See when and where she died.

Cleo.

O most false love!

Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill

With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, 64

In Fulvia’s death, how mine receiv’d shall be.

Ant.

Quarrel no more, but be prepar’d to know

The purposes I bear, which are or cease

As you shall give the advice. By the fire 68

That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence

Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war

As thou affect’st.

Cleo.

Cut my lace, Charmian, come;

But let it be: I am quickly ill, and well; 72

So Antony loves.

Ant.

My precious queen, forbear,

And give true evidence to his love which stands

An honourable trial.

Cleo.

So Fulvia told me.

I prithee, turn aside and weep for her; 76

Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears

Belong to Egypt: good now, play one scene

Of excellent dissembling, and let it look

Like perfect honour.

Ant.

You’ll heat my blood; no more.

Cleo.

You can do better yet, but this is meetly. 81

Ant.

Now, by my sword,—

Cleo.

And target. Still he mends;

But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,

How this Herculean Roman does become 84

The carriage of his chafe.

Ant.

I’ll leave you, lady.

Cleo.

Courteous lord, one word.

Sir, you and I must part, but that ’s not it:

Sir, you and I have lov’d, but there ’s not it; 88

That you know well: something it is I would,—

O! my oblivion is a very Antony,

And I am all forgotten.

Ant.

But that your royalty

Holds idleness your subject, I should take you

For idleness itself.

Cleo.

’Tis sweating labour 93

To bear such idleness so near the heart

As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;

Since my becomings kill me when they do not 96

Eye well to you: your honour calls you hence;

Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,

And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword

Sit laurel victory! and smooth success 100

Be strew’d before your feet!

Ant.

Let us go. Come;

Our separation so abides and flies,

That thou, residing here, go’st yet with me,

And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. 104

Away!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rome. A Room in Cæsar’s House.

Enter Octavius Cæsar, Lepidus, and Attendants.

Cæs.

You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,

It is not Cæsar’s natural vice to hate

Our great competitor. From Alexandria

This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes 4

The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike

Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy

More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or

Vouchsaf’d to think he had partners: you shall find there 8

A man who is the abstract of all faults

That all men follow.

Lep.

I must not think there are

Evils enow to darken all his goodness;

His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, 12

More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary

Rather than purchas’d; what he cannot change

Than what he chooses.

Cæs.

You are too indulgent. Let us grant it is not 16

Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,

To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit

And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,

To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet 20

With knaves that smell of sweat; say this becomes him,—

As his composure must be rare indeed

Whom these things cannot blemish,—yet must Antony

No way excuse his soils, when we do bear 24

So great weight in his lightness. If he fill’d

His vacancy with his voluptuousness,

Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones

Call on him for ’t; but to confound such time 28

That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud

As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid

As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,

Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,

And so rebel to judgment.

Enter a Messenger.

Lep.

Here’s more news. 33

Mess.

Thy biddings have been done, and every hour,

Most noble Cæsar, shalt thou have report

How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea, 36

And it appears he is belov’d of those

That only have fear’d Cæsar; to the ports

The discontents repair, and men’s reports

Give him much wrong’d.

Cæs.

I should have known no less.

It hath been taught us from the primal state, 41

That he which is was wish’d until he were;

And the ebb’d man, ne’er lov’d till ne’er worth love,

Comes dear’d by being lack’d. This common body, 44

Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,

Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,

To rot itself with motion.

Mess.

Cæsar, I bring thee word,

Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, 48

Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound

With keels of every kind: many hot inroads

They make in Italy; the borders maritime

Lack blood to think on’t, and flush youth revolt; 52

No vessel can peep forth, but ’tis as soon

Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more

Than could his war resisted.

Cæs.

Antony,

Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once

Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st

Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel

Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against,

Though daintily brought up, with patience more 60

Than savages could suffer; thou didst drink

The stale of horses and the gilded puddle

Which beasts would cough at; thy palate then did deign

The roughest berry on the rudest hedge; 64

Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,

The barks of trees thou browsed’st; on the Alps

It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,

Which some did die to look on; and all this— 68

It wounds thy honour that I speak it now—

Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek

So much as lank’d not.

Lep.

’Tis pity of him.

Cæs.

Let his shames quickly 72

Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain

Did show ourselves i’ the field; and to that end

Assemble me immediate council; Pompey

Thrives in our idleness.

Lep.

To-morrow, Cæsar, 76

I shall be furnish’d to inform you rightly

Both what by sea and land I can be able

To front this present time.

Cæs.

Till which encounter,

It is my business too. Farewell. 80

Lep.

Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime

Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,

To let me be partaker.

Cæs.

Doubt not, sir;

I knew it for my bond.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian.

Cleo.

Charmian!

Char.

Madam!

Cleo.

Ha, ha!

Give me to drink mandragora.

Char.

Why, madam? 4

Cleo.

That I might sleep out this great gap of time

My Antony is away.

Char.

You think of him too much.

Cleo.

O! ’tis treason.

Char.

Madam, I trust, not so.

Cleo.

Thou, eunuch Mardian!

Mar.

What ’s your highness’ pleasure? 8

Cleo.

Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure

In aught a eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee,

That, being unseminar’d, thy freer thoughts

May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections? 12

Mar.

Yes, gracious madam.

Cleo.

Indeed!

Mar.

Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing

But what in deed is honest to be done; 16

Yet have I fierce affections, and think

What Venus did with Mars.

Cleo.

O Charmian!

Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?

Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? 20

O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!

Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st?

The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm

And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, 24

Or murmuring ‘Where’s my serpent of old Nile?’

For so he calls me. Now I feed myself

With most delicious poison. Think on me,

That am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black,

And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Cæsar, 29

When thou wast here above the ground I was

A morsel for a monarch, and great Pompey

Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow; 32

There would he anchor his aspect and die

With looking on his life.

Enter Alexas.

Alex.

Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

Cleo.

How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!

Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath 36

With his tinct gilded thee.

How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

Alex.

Last thing he did, dear queen,

He kiss’d, the last of many doubled kisses, 40

This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

Cleo.

Mine ear must pluck it thence.

Alex.

‘Good friend,’ quoth he,

‘Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends

This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, 44

To mend the petty present, I will piece

Her opulent throne with kingdoms; all the east,

Say thou, shall call her mistress.’ So he nodded,

And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, 48

Who neigh’d so high that what I would have spoke

Was beastly dumb’d by him.

Cleo.

What! was he sad or merry?

Alex.

Like to the time o’ the year between the extremes

Of hot and cold; he was nor sad nor merry. 52

Cleo.

O well-divided disposition! Note him,

Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him:

He was not sad, for he would shire on those

That make their looks by his; he was not merry, 56

Which seem’d to tell them his remembrance lay

In Egypt with his joy; but between both:

O heavenly mingle! Be’st thou sad or merry,

The violence of either thee becomes, 60

So does it no man else. Mett’st thou my posts?

Alex.

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.

Why do you send so thick?

Cleo.

Who’s born that day

When I forget to send to Antony, 64

Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.

Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,

Ever love Cæsar so?

Char.

O! that brave Cæsar.

Cleo.

Be chok’d with such another emphasis!

Say the brave Antony.

Char.

The valiant Cæsar! 69

Cleo.

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth,

If thou with Cæsar paragon again

My man of men.

Char.

By your most gracious pardon, 72

I sing but after you.

Cleo.

My salad days,

When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,

To say as I said then! But come, away;

Get me ink and paper: 76

He shall have every day a several greeting,

Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Messina. A Room in Pompey’s House.

Enter Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas.

Pom.

If the great gods be just, they shall assist

The deeds of justest men.

Mene.

Know, worthy Pompey,

That what they do delay, they not deny.

Pom.

Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays 4

The thing we sue for.

Mene.

We, ignorant of ourselves,

Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers

Deny us for our good; so find we profit

By losing of our prayers.

Pom.

I shall do well: 8

The people love me, and the sea is mine;

My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope

Says it will come to the full. Mark Antony

In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make 12

No wars without doors; Cæsar gets money where

He loses hearts; Lepidus flatters both,

Of both is flatter’d; but he neither loves,

Nor either cares for him.

Men.

Cæsar and Lepidus 16

Are in the field; a mighty strength they carry.

Pom.

Where have you this? ’tis false.

Men.

From Silvius, sir.

Pom.

He dreams; I know they are in Rome together,

Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,

Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan’d lip! 21

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!

Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,

Keep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooks 24

Sharpen with cloyless sance his appetite,

That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour

Even till a Lethe’d dulness!

Enter Varrius.

How now, Varrius!

Var.

This is most certain that I shall deliver: 28

Mark Antony is every hour in Rome

Expected; since he went from Egypt ’tis

A space for further travel.

Pom.

I could have given less matter

A better ear. Menas, I did not think 32

This amorous surfeiter would have donn’d his helm

For such a petty war; his soldiership

Is twice the other twain. But let us rear

The higher our opinion, that our stirring 36

Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck

The ne’er-lust-wearied Antony.

Men.

I cannot hope

Cæsar and Antony shall well greet together;

His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Cæsar, 40

His brother warr’d upon him, although I think

Not mov’d by Antony.

Pom

I know not, Menas,

How lesser enmities may give way to greater.

Were ’t not that we stand up against them all 44

’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves,

For they have entertained cause enough

To draw their swords; but how the fear of us

May cement their divisions and bind up 48

The petty difference, we yet not know.

Be it as our gods will have ’t! It only stands

Our lives upon, to use our strongest hands.

Come, Menas.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rome. A Room in Lepidus’ House.

Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus.

Lep.

Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed,

And shall become you well, to entreat your captain

To soft and gentle speech.

Eno.

I shall entreat him

To answer like himself: if Cæsar move him, 4

Let Antony look over Cæsar’s head,

And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,

Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard,

I would not shave ’t to-day.

Lep.

’Tis not a time 8

For private stomaching.

Eno.

Every time

Serves for the matter that is then born in ’t.

Lep.

But small to greater matters must give way.

Eno.

Not if the small come first.

Lep.

Your speech is passion; 12

But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes

The noble Antony.

Enter Antony and Ventidius.

Eno.

And yonder, Cæsar.

Enter Cæsar, Mecænas, and Agrippa.

Ant.

If we compose well here, to Parthia:

Hark ye, Ventidius.

Cæs.

I do not know, 16

Mecænas; ask Agrippa.

Lep.

Noble friends,

That which combin’d us was most great, and let not

A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss,

May it be gently heard; when we debate 20

Our trivial difference loud, we do commit

Murder in healing wounds; then, noble partners,—

The rather for I earnestly beseech,—

Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, 24

Nor curstness grow to the matter.

Ant.

’Tis spoken well.

Were we before our armies, and to fight,

I should do thus.

Cæs.

Welcome to Rome. 28

Ant.

Thank you.

Cæs.

Sit.

Ant

Sit, sir.

Cæs.

Nay, then. 32

Ant.

I learn, you take things ill which are not so,

Or being, concern you not.

Cæs.

I must be laugh’d at

If, or for nothing or a little, I

Should say myself offended, and with you 36

Chiefly i’ the world; more laugh’d at that I should

Once name you derogately, when to sound your name

It not concern’d me.

Ant.

My being in Egypt, Cæsar,

What was ’t to you? 40

Cæs.

No more than my residing here at Rome

Might be to you in Egypt; yet, if you there

Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt

Might be my question.

Ant.

How intend you, practis’d? 44

Cæs.

You may be pleas’d to catch at mine intent

By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother

Made wars upon me, and their contestation

Was theme for you, you were the word of war.

Ant.

You do mistake your business; my brother never 49

Did urge me in his act: I did inquire it;

And have my learning from some true reports,

That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather 52

Discredit my authority with yours,

And make the wars alike against my stomach,

Having alike your cause? Of this my letters

Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel, 56

As matter whole you n’ have to make it with,

It must not be with this.

Cæs.

You praise yourself

By laying defects of judgment to me, but

You patch’d up your excuses.

Ant.

Not so, not so; 60

I know you could not lack, I am certain on ’t,

Very necessity of this thought, that I,

Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought,

Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars

Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, 65

I would you had her spirit in such another:

The third o’ the world is yours, which with a snaffle

You may pace easy, but not such a wife. 68

Eno.

Would we had all such wives, that the men might go to wars with the women!

Ant.

So much uncurbable, her garboils, Cæsar,

Made out of her impatience,—which not wanted

Shrewdness of policy too,—I grieving grant 73

Did you too much disquiet; for that you must

But say I could not help it.

Cæs.

I wrote to you

When rioting in Alexandria; you 76

Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts

Did gibe my missive out of audience.

Ant.

Sir,

He fell upon me, ere admitted: then

Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want 80

Of what I was i’ the morning; but next day

I told him of myself, which was as much

As to have ask’d him pardon. Let this fellow

Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, 84

Out of our question wipe him.

Cæs.

You have broken

The article of your oath, which you shall never

Have tongue to charge me with.

Lep.

Soft, Cæsar!

Ant.

No,

Lepidus, let him speak: 88

The honour’s sacred which he talks on now,

Supposing that I lack’d it. But on, Cæsar;

The article of my oath.

Cæs.

To lend me arms and aid when I requir’d them, 92

The which you both denied.

Ant.

Neglected, rather;

And then, when poison’d hours had bound me up

From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,

I’ll play the penitent to you; but mine honesty

Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power 97

Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,

To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;

For which myself, the ignorant motive, do 100

So far ask pardon as befits mine honour

To stoop in such a case.

Lep.

’Tis noble spoken.

Mec.

If it might please you, to enforce no further

The griefs between ye: to forget them quite 104

Were to remember that the present need

Speaks to atone you.

Lep.

Worthily spoken, Mecænas.

Eno.

Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do. 111

Ant.

Thou art a soldier only; speak no more.

Eno.

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

Ant.

You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

Eno.

Go to, then; your considerate stone. 116

Cæs.

I do not much dislike the matter, but

The manner of his speech; for it cannot be

We shall remain in friendship, our conditions

So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew 120

What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge

O’ the world I would pursue it.

Agr.

Give me leave, Cæsar.

Cæs.

Speak, Agrippa.

Agr.

Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side,

Admir’d Octavia; great Mark Antony 125

Is now a widower.

Cæs.

Say not so, Agrippa:

If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof

Were well deserv’d of rashness. 128

Ant.

I am not married, Cæsar; let me hear

Agrippa further speak.

Agr.

To hold you in perpetual amity,

To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts 132

With an unslipping knot, take Antony

Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims

No worse a husband than the best of men,

Whose virtue and whose general graces speak

That which none else can utter. By this marriage, 137

All little jealousies which now seem great,

And all great fears which now import their dangers,

Would then be nothing; truths would be but tales 140

Where now half tales be truths; her love to both

Would each to other and all loves to both

Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke,

For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, 144

By duty ruminated.

Ant.

Will Cæsar speak?

Cæs.

Not till he hears how Antony is touch’d

With what is spoke already.

Ant.

What power is in Agrippa,

If I would say, ‘Agrippa, be it so,’ 148

To make this good?

Cæs.

The power of Cæsar, and

His power unto Octavia.

Ant.

May I never

To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,

Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand;

Further this act of grace, and from this hour 153

The heart of brothers govern in our loves

And sway our great designs!

Cæs.

There is my hand.

A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother

Did ever love so dearly; let her live 157

To join our kingdoms and our hearts, and never

Fly off our loves again!

Lep.

Happily, amen!

Ant.

I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey, 160

For he hath laid strange courtesies and great

Of late upon me; I must thank him only,

Lest my remembrance suffer ill report;

At heel of that, defy him.

Lep.

Time calls upon ’s: 164

Of us must Pompey presently be sought,

Or else he seeks out us.

Ant.

Where lies he?

Cæs.

About the Mount Misenum.

Ant.

What’s his strength

By land?

Cæs.

Great and increasing; but by sea 168

He is an absolute master.

Ant.

So is the fame.

Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it;

Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we

The business we have talk’d of.

Cæs.

With most gladness; 172

And do invite you to my sister’s view,

Whither straight I’ll lead you.

Ant.

Let us, Lepidus,

Not lack your company.

Lep.

Noble Antony,

Not sickness should detain me. 176

[Flourish. Exeunt Cæsar, Antony, and Lepidus.

Mec.

Welcome from Egypt, sir.

Eno.

Half the heart of Cæsar, worthy Mecænas! My honourable friend, Agrippa!

Agr.

Good Enobarbus! 180

Mec.

We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in

Egypt.

Eno.

Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night light with drinking.

Mec.

Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there; is this true? 188

Eno.

This was but as a fly by an eagle; we had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.

Mec.

She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her. 193

Eno.

When she first met Mark Antony she pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus.

Agr.

There she appeared indeed, or my reporter devised well for her. 197

Eno.

I will tell you.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,

Burn’d on the water; the poop was beaten gold,

Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that 201

The winds were love-sick with them, the oars were silver,

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster, 204

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar’d all description; she did lie

In her pavilion,—cloth-of-gold of tissue,—

O’er-picturing that Venus where we see 208

The fancy outwork nature; on each side her

Stood pretty-dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,

With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem

To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,

And what they undid did.

Agr.

O! rare for Antony. 213

Eno.

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,

So many mermaids, tended her i’ the eyes,

And made their bends adornings; at the helm

A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle 217

Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,

That yarely frame the office. From the barge

A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 220

Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast

Her people out upon her, and Antony,

Enthron’d i’ the market-place, did sit alone,

Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,

Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too 225

And made a gap in nature.

Agr.

Rare Egyptian!

Eno.

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,

Invited her to supper; she replied 228

It should be better he became her guest,

Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony,

Whom ne’er the word of ‘No’ woman heard speak,

Being barber’d ten times o’er, goes to the feast,

And, for his ordinary pays his heart 233

For what his eyes eat only.

Agr.

Royal wench!

She made great Cæsar lay his sword to bed;

He plough’d her, and she cropp’d.

Eno.

I saw her once

Hop forty paces through the public street; 237

And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted

That she did make defect perfection,

And, breathless, power breathe forth. 240

Mec.

Now Antony must leave her utterly.

Eno.

Never; he will not:

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety; other women cloy 244

The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies; for vilest things

Become themselves in her, that the holy priests

Bless her when she is riggish. 248

Mec.

If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle

The heart of Antony, Octavia is

A blessed lottery to him.

Agr.

Let us go.

Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest 252

Whilst you abide here.

Eno.

Humbly, sir, I thank you.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same A Room in Cæsar’s House.

Enter Cæsar, Antony, Octavia between them; Attendants.

Ant.

The world and my great office will sometimes

Divide me from your bosom.

Oct.

All which time

Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers

To them for you.

Ant.

Good night, sir. My Octavia, 4

Read not my blemishes in the world’s report;

I have not kept my square, but that to come

Shall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady.

Oct

Good night, sir. 8

Cæs.

Good night.

[Exeunt Cæsar and Octavia.

Enter Soothsayer.

Ant.

Now, sirrah; you do wish yourself in Egypt?

Sooth.

Would I had never come from thence, nor you

Thither! 12

Ant.

If you can, your reason?

Sooth.

I see it in

My motion, have it not in my tongue: but yet

Hie you to Egypt again.

Ant.

Say to me,

Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Cæsar’s or mine? 16

Sooth.

Cæsar’s.

Therefore, O Antony! stay not by his side;

Thy demon—that’s thy spirit which keeps thee,—is

Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, 20

Where Cæsar’s is not; but near him thy angel

Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d; therefore

Make space enough between you.

Ant.

Speak this no more.

Sooth.

To none but thee; no more but when to thee. 24

If thou dost play with him at any game

Thou art sure to lose, and, of that natural luck,

He beats thee ’gainst the odds; thy lustre thickens

When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit 28

Is all afraid to govern thee near him,

But he away, ’tis noble.

Ant.

Get thee gone:

Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.

[Exit Soothsayer.

He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap 32

He hath spoken true; the very dice obey him.

And in our sports my better cunning faints

Under his chance; if we draw lots he speeds,

His cocks do win the battle still of mine 36

When it is all to nought, and his quails ever

Beat mine, inhoop’d, at odds. I will to Egypt;

And though I make this marriage for my peace,

I’ the east my pleasure lies.

Enter Ventidius.

O! come, Ventidius, 40

You must to Parthia; your commission’s ready;

Follow me, and receive ’t.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Lepidus, Mecænas, and Agrippa.

Lep.

Trouble yourselves no further; pray you hasten

Your generals after.

Agr.

Sir, Mark Antony

Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.

Lep.

Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress,

Which will become you both, farewell.

Mec.

We shall,

As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount

Before you, Lepidus.

Lep.

Your way is shorter;

My purposes to draw me much about: 8

You ’ll win two days upon me.

Mec.

Sir, good success!

Agr.

Sir, good success!

Lep.

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and Attendant.

Cleo.

Give me some music; music, moody food

Of us that trade in love.

Attend.

The music, ho!

Enter Mardian.

Cleo.

Let it alone; let ’s to billiards: come, Charmian.

Char.

My arm is sore; best play with Mardian. 4

Cleo.

As well a woman with a eunuch play’d

As with a woman. Come, you ’ll play with me, sir?

Mar.

As well as I can, madam.

Cleo.

And when good will is show’d, though’t come too short, 8

The actor may plead pardon. I ’ll none now.

Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river: there—

My music playing far off—I will betray

Tawny-finn’d fishes; my bended hook shall pierce 12

Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up,

I’ll think them every one an Antony,

And say, ‘Ah, ha!’ you’re caught.

Char.

’Twas merry when

You wager’d on your angling; when your diver

Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he 17

With fervency drew up.

Cleo.

That time—O times!—

I laugh’d him out of patience; and that night

I laugh’d him into patience: and next morn, 20

Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;

Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst

I wore his sword Philippan.

Enter a Messenger.

O! from Italy;

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, 24

That long time have been barren.

Mess.

Madam, madam,—

Cleo.

Antony’s dead! if thou say so, villain,

Thou kill’st thy mistress; but well and free,

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here 28

My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings

Have lipp’d, and trembled kissing.

Mess.

First, madam, he is well.

Cleo.

Why, there’s more gold.

But, sirrah, mark, we use 32

To say the dead are well: bring it to that,

The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour

Down thy ill-uttering throat.

Mess.

Good madam, hear me.

Cleo.

Well, go to, I will; 36

But there’s no goodness in thy face; if Antony

Be free and healthful, so tart a favour

To trumpet such good tidings! if not well,

Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown’d with snakes, 40

Not like a formal man.

Mess.

Will’t please you hear me?

Cleo.

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st:

Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well,

Or friends with Cæsar, or not captive to him,

I’ll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail 45

Rich pearls upon thee.

Mess.

Madam, he’s well.

Cleo.

Well said.

Mess.

And friends with Cæsar.

Cleo.

Thou’rt an honest man.

Mess.

Cæsar and he are greater friends than ever. 48

Cleo.

Make thee a fortune from me.

Mess.

But yet, madam,—

Cleo.

I do not like ‘but yet,’ it does allay

The good precedence; fie upon ‘but yet!’

‘But yet’ is as a gaoler to bring forth 52

Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend,

Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear,

The good and bad together. He’s friends with Cæsar;

In state of health, thou sayst; and thou sayst, free. 56

Mess.

Free, madam! no; I made no such report:

He’s bound unto Octavia.

Cleo.

For what good turn?

Mess.

For the best turn i’ the bed.

Cleo.

I am pale, Charmian!

Mess.

Madam, he’s married to Octavia. 60

Cleo.

The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

[Strikes him down.

Mess.

Good madam, patience.

Cleo.

What say you? Hence,

[Strikes him again.

Horrible villain! or I’ll spurn thine eyes

Like balls before me; I’ll unhair thy head: 64

[She hales him up and down.

Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d in brine,

Smarting in lingering pickle.

Mess.

Gracious madam,

I, that do bring the news made not the match.

Cleo.

Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee, 68

And make thy fortunes proud; the blow thou hadst

Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage,

And I will boot thee with what gift beside

Thy modesty can beg.

Mess.

He’s married, madam. 72

Cleo.

Rogue! thou hast liv’d too long.

[Draws a knife.

Mess.

Nay, then I’ll run.

What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

[Exit.

Char.

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself;

The man is innocent. 76

Cleo.

Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt.

Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures

Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again:

Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call. 80

Char.

He is afeard to come.

Cleo.

I will not hurt him.

[Exit Charmian.

These hands do lack nobility, that they strike

A meaner than myself; since I myself

Have given myself the cause.

Re-enter Charmian, and Messenger.

Come hither, sir. 84

Though it be honest, it is never good

To bring bad news; give to a gracious message

A host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell

Themselves when they be felt.

Mess.

I have done my duty.

Cleo.

Is he married? 89

I cannot hate thee worser than I do

If thou again say ‘Yes.’

Mess.

He’s married, madam.

Cleo.

The gods confound thee! dost thou hold there still? 92

Mess.

Should I lie, madam?

Cleo.

O! I would thou didst,

So half my Egypt were submerg’d and made

A cistern for scal’d snakes. Go, get thee hence;

Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me 96

Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?

Mess.

I crave your highness’ pardon.

Cleo.

He is married?

Mess.

Take no offence that I would not offend you;

To punish me for what you make me do 100

Seems much unequal; he’s married to Octavia.

Cleo.

O! that his fault should make a knave of thee,

That art not what thou’rt sure of. Get thee hence;

The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome 104

Are all too dear for me; lie they upon thy hand

And be undone by ’em!

[Exit Messenger.

Char.

Good your highness, patience.

Cleo.

In praising Antony I have disprais’d Cæsar.

Char.

Many times, madam.

Cleo.

I am paid for ’t now. 108

Lead me from hence;

I faint. O Iras! Charmian! ’Tis no matter.

Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him

Report the feature of Octavia, her years, 112

Her inclination, let him not leave out

The colour of her hair: bring me word quickly.

[Exit Alexas.

Let him forever go:—let him not—Charmian!—

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,

The other way’s a Mars. [To Mardian.] Bid you Alexas 117

Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian,

But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Near Misenum.

Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas, at one side, with drum and trumpet; at the other, Cæsar, Antony, Lepidus, Enobarbus, Mecænas, with Soldiers marching.

Pom.

Your hostages I have, so have you mine;

And we shall talk before we fight.

Cæs.

Most meet

That first we come to words, and therefore have we

Our written purposes before us sent; 4

Which if thou hast consider’d, let us know

If ’twill tie up thy discontented sword,

And carry back to Sicily much tall youth

That else must perish here.

Pom.

To you all three, 8

The senators alone of this great world,

Chief factors for the gods, I do not know

Wherefore my father should revengers want,

Having a son and friends; since Julius Cæsar,

Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted, 13

There saw you labouring for him. What was ’t

That mov’d pale Cassius to conspire? and what

Made the all-honour’d, honest Roman, Brutus,

With the arm’d rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, 17

To drench the Capitol, but that they would

Have one man but a man? And that is it

Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden 20

The anger’d ocean foams, with which I meant

To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome

Cast on my noble father.

Cæs.

Take your time.

Ant.

Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails; 24

We ’ll speak with thee at sea: at land, thou know’st

How much we do o’er-count thee.

Pom.

At land, indeed,

Thou dost o’er-count me of my father’s house;

But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself, 28

Remain in ’t as thou mayst.

Lep.

Be pleas’d to tell us—

For this is from the present—how you take

The offers we have sent you.

Cæs.

There’s the point.

Ant.

Which do not be entreated to, but weigh 32

What it is worth embrac’d.

Cæs.

And what may follow,

To try a larger fortune.

Pom.

You have made me offer

Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must

Rid all the sea of pirates; then, to send 36

Measures of wheat to Rome; this ’greed upon,

To part with unhack’d edges, and bear back

Our targets undinted.

Cæs.

That’s our offer.

Ant.

That’s our offer.

Lep.

That’s our offer.

Pom.

Know, then,

I came before you here a man prepar’d 40

To take this offer; but Mark Antony

Put me to some impatience. Though I lose

The praise of it by telling, you must know,

When Cæsar and your brother were at blows, 44

Your mother came to Sicily and did find

Her welcome friendly.

Ant.

I have heard it, Pompey;

And am well studied for a liberal thanks

Which I do owe you.

Pom.

Let me have your hand: 48

I did not think, sir, to have met you here.

Ant.

The beds i’ the east are soft; and thanks to you,

That call’d me timelier than my purpose hither,

For I have gain’d by ’t.

Cæs.

Since I saw you last, 52

There is a change upon you.

Pom.

Well, I know not

What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my face,

But in my bosom shall she never come

To make my heart her vassal.

Lep.

Well met here. 56

Pom.

I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed.

I crave our composition may be written

And seal’d between us.

Cæs.

That ’s the next to do.

Pom.

We’ll feast each other ere we part; and let’s 60

Draw lots who shall begin.

Ant.

That will I, Pompey.

Pom.

No, Antony, take the lot:

But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery

Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Cæsar 64

Grew fat with feasting there.

Ant.

You have heard much.

Pom.

I have fair meanings, sir.

Ant.

And fair words to them.

Pom.

Then, so much have I heard;

And I have heard Apollodorus carried— 68

Eno.

No more of that: he did so.

Pom.

What, I pray you?

Eno.

A certain queen to Cæsar in a mattress.

Pom.

I know thee now; how far’st thou, soldier?

Eno.

Well;

And well am like to do; for I perceive 72

Four feasts are toward.

Pom.

Let me shake thy hand;

I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight,

When I have envied thy behaviour.

Eno.

Sir,

I never lov’d you much, but I ha’ prais’d ye 76

When you have well deserv’d ten times as much

As I have said you did.

Pom.

Enjoy thy plainness,

It nothing ill becomes thee.

Aboard my galley I invite you all: 80

Will you lead, lords?

Cæs.

Show us the way, sir.

Ant.

Show us the way, sir.

Lep.

Show us the way, sir.

Pom.

Come.

[Exeunt all except Menas and Enobarbus.

Men.

Thy father, Pompey, would ne’er have made this treaty. You and I have known, sir.

Eno.

At sea, I think. 84

Men.

We have, sir.

Eno.

You have done well by water.

Men.

And you by land.

Eno.

I will praise any man that will praise me; though it cannot be denied what I have done by land. 90

Men.

Nor what I have done by water.

Eno.

Yes, something you can deny for your own safety; you have been a great thief by sea.

Men.

And you by land. 94

Eno.

There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas; if our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.

Men.

All men’s faces are true, whatsoe’er their hands are. 100

Eno.

But there is never a fair woman has a true face.

Men.

No slander; they steal hearts.

Eno.

We came hither to fight with you. 104

Men.

For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.

Eno.

If he do, sure, he cannot weep it back again. 109

Men.

You have said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here: pray you, is he married to Cleopatra? 112

Eno.

Cæsar’s sister is called Octavia.

Men.

True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

Eno.

But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius. 117

Men.

Pray ye, sir?

Eno.

’Tis true.

Men.

Then is Cæsar and he for ever knit together. 121

Eno.

If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.

Men.

I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties. 126

Eno.

I think so too; but you shall find the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation. 130

Men.

Who would not have his wife so?

Eno.

Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again; then, shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Cæsar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is; he married but his occasion here.

Men.

And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for you. 141

Eno.

I shall take it, sir: we have used our throats in Egypt.

Men.

Come; let ’s away.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— On board Pompey’s Galley off Misenum.

Music. Enter two or three Servants, with a banquet.

First Serv.

Here they’ll be, man. Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ the world will blow them down.

Sec. Serv.

Lepidus is high-coloured. 4

First Serv.

They have made him drink alms-drink.

Sec. Serv.

As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out, ‘No more;’ reconciles them to his entreaty, and himself to the drink.

First Serv.

But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion. 11

Sec. Serv.

Why, this it is to have a name in great men’s fellowship; I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave. 15

First Serv.

To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in’t, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.

A sennet sounded. Enter Cæsar, Antony, Lepidus, Pompey, Agrippa, Mecænas, Enobarbus, Menas, with other Captains.

Ant.

Thus do they, sir. They take the flow o’ the Nile 20

By certain scales i’ the pyramid; they know

By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth

Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells

The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman

Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, 25

And shortly comes to harvest.

Lep.

You’ve strange serpents there.

Ant.

Ay, Lepidus. 28

Lep.

Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.

Ant.

They are so. 32

Pom.

Sit,—and some wine! A health to Lepidus!

Lep.

I am not so well as I should be, but I’ll ne’er out. 36

Eno.

Not till you have slept; I fear me you’ll be in till then.

Lep.

Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises are very goodly things; without contradiction, I have heard that. 41

Men.

Pompey, a word.

Pom.

Say in mine ear; what is’t?

Men.

Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain, 44

And bear me speak a word.

Pom.

Forbear me till anon.

This wine for Lepidus!

Lep.

What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

Ant.

It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs; it lives by that which nourisheth it; and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates. 52

Lep.

What colour is it of?

Ant.

Of it own colour too.

Lep.

’Tis a strange serpent.

Ant.

’Tis so; and the tears of it are wet. 56

Cæs.

Will this description satisfy him?

Ant.

With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.

Pom.

Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that? away! 60

Do as I bid you. Where’s this cup I call’d for?

Men.

If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me,

Rise from thy stool.

Pom.

I think thou’rt mad. The matter?

[Walks aside.

Men.

I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes. 64

Pom.

Thou hast serv’d me with much faith. What ’s else to say?

Be jolly, lords.

Ant.

These quick-sands, Lepidus,

Keep off them, for you sink.

Men.

Wilt thou be lord of all the world?

Pom.

What sayst thou? 68

Men.

Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That ’s twice.

Pom.

How should that be?

Men.

But entertain it,

And though thou think me poor, I am the man

Will give thee all the world.

Pom.

Hast thou drunk well? 72

Men.

No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.

Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove:

Whate’er the ocean pales, or sky inclips,

Is thine, if thou wilt ha ’t.

Pom.

Show me which way. 76

Men.

These three world-sharers, these competitors,

Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable;

And, when we are put off, fall to their throats:

All there is thine.

Pom.

Ah! this thou shouldst have done,

And not have spoke on ’t. In me ’tis villany; 81

In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know

’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;

Mine honour it. Repent that e’er thy tongue

Hath so betray’d thine act; being done unknown, 85

I should have found it afterwards well done,

But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.

Men.

[Aside.] For this, 88

I’ll never follow thy pall’d fortunes more.

Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offer’d,

Shall never find it more.

Pom.

This health to Lepidus!

Ant.

Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, Pompey. 92

Eno.

Here’s to thee, Menas!

Men.

Enobarbus, welcome!

Pom.

Fill till the cup be hid.

Eno.

There’s a strong fellow, Menas.

[Pointing to the Attendant who carries off Lepidus.

Men.

Why? 96

Eno.

A’ bears the third part of the world, man; see’st not?

Men.

The third part then is drunk; would it were all,

That it might go on wheels! 100

Eno.

Drink thou; increase the reels.

Men.

Come.

Pom.

This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

Ant.

It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho! 104

Here is to Cæsar!

Cæs.

I could well forbear’t.

It’s monstrous labour, when I wash my brain,

And it grows fouler.

Ant.

Be a child o’ the time.

Cæs.

Possess it, I’ll make answer; 108

But I had rather fast from all four days

Than drink so much in one.

Eno.

[To Antony.] Ha! my brave emperor;

Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals,

And celebrate our drink?

Pom.

Let ’s ha ’t, good soldier. 112

Ant.

Come, let ’s all take hands,

Till that the conquering wine hath steep’d our sense

In soft and delicate Lethe.

Eno.

All take hands.

Make battery to our ears with the loud music; 116

The while I’ll place you; then the boy shall sing,

The holding every man shall bear as loud

As his strong sides can volley.

[Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand in hand.

SONG.

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 120

Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne!

In thy fats our cares be drown’d,

With thy grapes our hairs be crown’d:

Cup us, till the world go round, 124

Cup us, till the world go round!

Cæs.

What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,

Let me request you off; our graver business

Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let’s part;

You see we have burnt our cheeks; strong Enobarb 129

Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue

Splits what it speaks; the wild disguise hath almost

Antick’d us all. What needs more words? Good night. 132

Good Antony, your hand.

Pom.

I’ll try you on the shore.

Ant.

And shall, sir. Give’s your hand.

Pom.

O, Antony!

You have my father s house,—But, what? we are friends.

Come down into the boat.

Eno.

Take heed you fall not. 136

[Exeunt Pompey, Cæsar, Antony, and Attendants.

Menas, I’ll not on shore.

Men.

No, to my cabin.

These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what!

Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell

To these great fellows: sound and be hang’d! sound out! 140

[A flourish of trumpets with drums.

Eno.

Hoo! says a’. There’s my cap.

Men.

Hoo! noble captain! come.

[Exeunt

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Plain in Syria.

Enter Ventidius, in triumph, with Silius and other Romans, Officers, and Soldiers; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him.

Ven.

Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck; and now

Pleas’d fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death

Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body

Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, 4

Pays this for Marcus Crassus.

Sil.

Noble Ventidius,

Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm,

The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,

Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither 8

The routed fly; so thy grand captain Antony

Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and

Put garlands on thy head.

Ven.

O Silius, Silius!

I have done enough; a lower place, note well, 12

May make too great an act; for learn this, Silius,

Better to leave undone than by our deed

Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away.

Cæsar and Antony have ever won 16

More in their officer than person; Sossius,

One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,

For quick accumulation of renown,

Which he achiev’d by the minute, lost his favour. 20

Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can

Becomes his captain’s captain; and ambition,

The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss

Than gain which darkens him. 24

I could do more to do Antonius good,

But ’twould offend him; and in his offence

Should my performance perish.

Sil.

Thou hast, Ventidius, that

Without the which a soldier, and his sword, 28

Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?

Ven.

I’ll humbly signify what in his name,

That magical word of war, we have effected;

How, with his banners and his well-paid ranks,

The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia 33

We have jaded out o’ the field.

Sil.

Where is he now?

Ven.

He purposeth to Athens; whither, with what haste

The weight we must convey with ’s will permit,

We shall appear before him. On, there; pass along.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rome. A Room in Cæsar’s House.

Enter Agrippa and Enobarbus, meeting.

Agr.

What! are the brothers parted?

Eno.

They have dispatch’d with Pompey; he is gone;

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps

To part from Rome; Cæsar is sad; and Lepidus,

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled

With the green sickness.

Agr.

’Tis a noble Lepidus.

Eno.

A very fine one. O! how he loves Cæsar.

Agr.

Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! 8

Eno.

Cæsar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men.

Agr.

What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.

Eno.

Spake you of Cæsar? How! the non-pareil!

Agr.

O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird! 12

Eno.

Would you praise Cæsar, say, ‘Cæsar,’ go no further.

Agr.

Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.

Eno.

But he loves Cæsar best; yet he loves Antony.

Hoo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot 16

Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number; hoo!

His love to Antony. But as for Cæsar,

Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

Agr.

Both he loves.

Eno.

They are his shards, and he their beetle.

[Trumpets within.] So;

This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa. 21

Agr.

Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.

Enter Cæsar, Antony, Lepidus, and Octavia.

Ant.

No further, sir.

Cæs.

You take from me a great part of myself; 24

Use me well in’t. Sister, prove such a wife

As my thoughts make thee, and as my furthest band

Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,

Let not the piece of virtue, which is set 28

Betwixt us as the cement of our love

To keep it builded, be the ram to batter

The fortress of it; for better might we

Have lov’d without this mean, if on both parts

This be not cherish’d.

Ant.

Make me not offended 33

In your distrust.

Cæs.

I have said.

Ant.

You shall not find,

Though you be therein curious, the least cause

For what you seem to fear. So, the gods keep you, 36

And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!

We will here part.

Cæs.

Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well:

The elements be kind to thee, and make 40

Thy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well.

Oct.

My noble brother!

Ant.

The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring,

And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. 44

Oct.

Sir, look well to my husband’s house; and—

Cæs.

What,

Octavia?

Oct.

I’ll tell you in your ear.

Ant.

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can

Her heart obey her tongue; the swan’s downfeather, 48

That stands upon the swell at full of tide,

And neither way inclines.

Eno.

[Aside to Agrippa.] Will Cæsar weep?

Agr.

He has a cloud in’s face.

Eno.

He were the worse for that were he a horse; 52

So is he, being a man.

Agr.

Why, Enobarbus,

When Antony found Julius Cæsar dead

He cried almost to roaring; and he wept

When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. 56

Eno.

That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum;

What willingly he did confound he wail’d,

Believe ’t, till I wept too.

Cæs.

No, sweet Octavia,

You shall hear from me still; the time shall not

Out-go my thinking on you.

Ant.

Come, sir, come; 61

I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love:

Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,

And give you to the gods.

Cæs.

Adieu; be happy! 64

Lep.

Let all the number of the stars give light

To thy fair way!

Cæs.

Farewell, farewell!

[Kisses Octavia.

Ant.

Farewell!

[Trumpets sound. Exeunt.

Scene III.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas.

Cleo.

Where is the fellow?

Alex.

Half afeard to come.

Cleo.

Go to, go to.

Enter a Messenger.

Come hither, sir.

Alex.

Good majesty,

Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you

But when you are well pleas’d.

Cleo.

That Herod’s head 4

I’ll have; but how, when Antony is gone

Through whom I might command it? Come thou near.

Mess.

Most gracious majesty!

Cleo.

Didst thou behold

Octavia?

Mess.

Ay, dread queen.

Cleo.

Where?

Mess.

Madam, in Rome; 8

I look’d her in the face, and saw her led

Between her brother and Mark Antony.

Cleo.

Is she as tall as me?

Mess.

She is not, madam.

Cleo.

Didst hear her speak? is she shrill-tongu’d, or low? 12

Mess.

Madam, I heard her speak; she is low-voic’d.

Cleo.

That’s not so good. He cannot like her long.

Char.

Like her! O Isis! ’tis impossible.

Cleo.

I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue, and dwarfish! 16

What majesty is in her gait? Remember,

If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.

Mess.

She creeps;

Her motion and her station are as one;

She shows a body rather than a life, 20

A statue than a breather.

Cleo.

Is this certain?

Mess.

Or I have no observance.

Char.

Three in Egypt

Cannot make better note.

Cleo.

He’s very knowing,

I do perceive ’t. There’s nothing in her yet. 24

The fellow has good judgment.

Char.

Excellent.

Cleo.

Guess at her years, I prithee.

Mess.

Madam,

She was a widow,—

Cleo.

Widow! Charmian, hark.

Mess.

And I do think she’s thirty. 28

Cleo.

Bear’st thou her face in mind? is’t long or round?

Mess.

Round even to faultiness.

Cleo.

For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.

Her hair, what colour? 32

Mess.

Brown, madam; and her forehead

As low as she would wish it.

Cleo.

There’s gold for thee:

Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.

I will employ thee back again; I find thee 36

Most fit for business. Go, make thee ready;

Our letters are prepar’d.

[Exit Messenger.

Char.

A proper man.

Cleo.

Indeed, he is so; I repent me much

That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,

This creature’s no such thing.

Char.

Nothing, madam. 41

Cleo.

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Char.

Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,

And serving you so long! 44

Cleo.

I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian:

But ’tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me

Where I will write. All may be well enough. 47

Char.

I warrant you, madam.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Athens. A Room in Antony’s House.

Enter Antony and Octavia.

Ant.

Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,

That were excusable, that, and thousands more

Of semblable import, but he hath wag’d

New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it 4

To public ear:

Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not

But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly

He vented them; most narrow measure lent me; 8

When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t,

Or did it from his teeth.

Oct.

O my good lord!

Believe not all; or, if you must believe,

Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, 12

If this division chance, ne’er stood between,

Praying for both parts:

The good gods will mock me presently,

When I shall pray, ‘O! bless my lord and husband;’ 16

Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud,

‘O! bless my brother!’ Husband win, win brother,

Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway

’Twixt these extremes at all.

Ant.

Gentle Octavia, 20

Let your best love draw to that point which seeks

Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour

I lose myself; better I were not yours

Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, 24

Yourself shall go between’s; the mean time, lady,

I’ll raise the preparation of a war

Shall stain your brother; make your soonest haste,

So your desires are yours.

Oct.

Thanks to my lord. 28

The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,

Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be

As if the world should cleave, and that slain men

Should solder up the rift. 32

Ant.

When it appears to you where this begins,

Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults

Can never be so equal that your love

Can equally move with them. Provide your going; 36

Choose your own company, and command what cost

Your heart has mind to.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Another Room.

Enter Enobarbus and Eros, meeting.

Eno.

How now, friend Eros!

Eros.

There’s strange news come, sir.

Eno.

What, man?

Eros.

Cæsar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey. 5

Eno.

This is old: what is the success?

Eros.

Cæsar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality, would not let him partake in the glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him: so the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. 13

Eno.

Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more;

And throw between them all the food thou hast,

They’ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony? 16

Eros.

He’s walking in the garden—thus: and spurns

The rush that lies before him; cries, ‘Fool, Lepidus!’

And threats the throat of that his officer

That murder’d Pompey.

Eno.

Our great navy’s rigg’d. 20

Eros.

For Italy and Cæsar. More, Domitius;

My lord desires you presently: my news

I might have told hereafter.

Eno.

’Twill be naught;

But let it be. Bring me to Antony. 24

Eros.

Come, sir.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Rome. A Room in Cæsar’s House.

Enter Cæsar, Agrippa, and Mecænas.

Cæs.

Contemning Rome, he has done all this and more

In Alexandria; here’s the manner of ’t;

I’ the market-place, on a tribunal silver’d,

Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold 4

Were publicly enthron’d; at the feet sat

Cæsarion, whom they call my father’s son,

And all the unlawful issue that their lust

Since then hath made between them. Unto her

He gave the ’stablishment of Egypt; made her 9

Of Lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,

Absolute queen.

Mec.

This in the public eye?

Cæs.

I’ the common show-place, where they exercise. 12

His sons he there proclaim’d the kings of kings;

Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia

He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign’d

Syria, Cilicia, and Phœnicia. She 16

In the habiliments of the goddess Isis

That day appear’d; and oft before gave audience,

As ’tis reported, so.

Mec.

Let Rome be thus

Informed.

Agr.

Who, queasy with his insolence 20

Already, will their good thoughts call from him.

Cæs.

The people know it; and have now receiv’d

His accusations.

Agr.

Whom does he accuse?

Cæs.

Cæsar; and that, having in Sicily 24

Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we had not rated him

His part o’ the isle; then does he say, he lent me

Some shipping unrestor’d; lastly, he frets

That Lepidus of the triumvirate 28

Should be depos’d; and, being, that we detain

All his revenue.

Agr.

Sir, this should be answer’d.

Cæs.

’Tis done already, and the messenger gone.

I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel; 32

That he his high authority abus’d,

And did deserve his change: for what I have conquer’d,

I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia,

And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I 36

Demand the like.

Mec.

He’ll never yield to that.

Cæs.

Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

Enter Octavia, with her Train.

Oct.

Hail, Cæsar, and my lord! hail, most dear Cæsar!

Cæs.

That ever I should call thee cast-away! 40

Oct.

You have not call’d me so, nor have you cause.

Cæs.

Why have you stol’n upon us thus? You come not

Like Cæsar’s sister; the wife of Antony

Should have an army for an usher, and 44

The neighs of horse to tell of her approach

Long ere she did appear; the trees by the way

Should have borne men; and expectation fainted,

Longing for what it had not; nay, the dust 48

Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,

Rais’d by your populous troops. But you are come

A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, 52

Is often left unlov’d: we should have met you

By sea and land, supplying every stage

With an augmented greeting.

Oct.

Good my lord,

To come thus was I not constrain’d, but did it 56

On my free-will. My lord, Mark Antony,

Hearing that you prepar’d for war, acquainted

My grieved ear withal; whereon, I begg’d

His pardon for return.

Cæs.

Which soon he granted, 60

Being an obstruct ’tween his lust and him.

Oct.

Do not say so, my lord.

Cæs.

I have eyes upon him,

And his affairs come to me on the wind.

Where is he now?

Oct.

My lord, in Athens. 64

Cæs.

No, my most wrong’d sister; Cleopatra

Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire

Up to a whore; who now are levying

The kings o’ the earth for war. He hath assembled 68

Bocchus, the King of Libya; Archelaus,

Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, King

Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;

King Malchus of Arabia; King of Pont; 72

Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, King

Of Comagene; Polemon and Amintas,

The Kings of Mede and Lycaonia,

With a more larger list of sceptres.

Oct.

Ay me, most wretched, 76

That have my heart parted betwixt two friends

That do afflict each other!

Cæs.

Welcome hither:

Your letters did withhold our breaking forth,

Till we perceiv’d both how you were wrong led 80

And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart;

Be you not troubled with the time, which drives

O’er your content these strong necessities,

But let determin’d things to destiny 84

Hold unbewail’d their way. Welcome to Rome;

Nothing more dear to me. You are abus’d

Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods,

To do you justice, make their ministers 88

Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort,

And ever welcome to us.

Agr.

Welcome, lady.

Mec.

Welcome, dear madam.

Each heart in Rome does love and pity you; 92

Only the adulterous Antony, most large

In his abominations, turns you off,

And gives his potent regiment to a trull,

That noises it against us.

Oct.

Is it so, sir? 96

Cæs.

Most certain. Sister, welcome; pray you,

Be ever known to patience; my dearest sister!

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Antony’s Camp, near to the Promontory of Actium.

Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus.

Cleo.

I will be even with thee, doubt it not.

Eno.

But why, why, why?

Cleo.

Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,

And sayst it is not fit.

Eno.

Well, is it, is it? 4

Cleo.

If not denounc’d against us, why should not we

Be there in person?

Eno.

[Aside.] Well, I could reply:

If we should serve with horse and mares together,

The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear 8

A soldier and his horse.

Cleo.

What is ’t you say?

Eno.

Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;

Take from his heart, take from his brain, from ’s time,

What should not then be spar’d. He is already

Traduc’d for levity, and ’tis said in Rome 13

That Photinus a eunuch and your maids

Manage this war.

Cleo.

Sink Rome, and their tongues rot

That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ the war, 16

And, as the president of my kingdom, will

Appear there for a man. Speak not against it;

I will not stay behind.

Eno.

Nay, I have done.

Here comes the emperor.

Enter Antony and Canidius.

Ant.

Is it not strange, Canidius, 20

That from Tarentum and Brundusium

He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,

And take in Toryne? You have heard on ’t, sweet?

Cleo.

Celerity is never more admir’d 24

Than by the negligent.

Ant.

A good rebuke,

Which might have well becom’d the best of men,

To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we

Will fight with him by sea.

Cleo.

By sea! What else? 28

Can.

Why will my lord do so?

Ant.

For that he dares us to ’t.

Eno.

So hath my lord dar’d him to single fight.

Can.

Ay, and to wage his battle at Pharsalia,

Where Cæsar fought with Pompey; but these offers, 32

Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off;

And so should you.

Eno.

Your ships are not well mann’d;

Your mariners are muleters, reapers, people

Ingross’d by swift impress; in Cæsar’s fleet 36

Are those that often have gainst Pompey fought:

Their ships are yare; yours, heavy. No disgrace

Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,

Being prepar’d for land.

Ant.

By sea, by sea. 40

Eno.

Most worthy sir, you therein throw away

The absolute soldiership you have by land;

Distract your army, which doth most consist

Of war-mark’d footmen; leave unexecuted 44

Your own renowned knowledge; quite forego

The way which promises assurance; and

Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard

From firm security.

Ant.

I’ll fight at sea. 48

Cleo.

I have sixty sails, Cæsar none better.

Ant.

Our overplus of shipping will we burn;

And with the rest, full-mann’d, from the head of Actium

Beat the approaching Cæsar. But if we fail, 52

We then can do ’t at land.

Enter a Messenger.

Thy business?

Mess.

The news is true, my lord; he is descried;

Cæsar has taken Toryne.

Ant.

Can he be there in person? ’tis impossible; 56

Strange that his power should be. Canidius,

Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,

And our twelve thousand horse. We’ll to our ship:

Away, my Thetis!

Enter a Soldier.

How now, worthy soldier! 60

Sold.

O noble emperor! do not fight by sea;

Trust not to rotten planks: do you misdoubt

This sword and these my wounds? Let the Egyptians

And the Phœnicians go a-ducking; we 64

Have used to conquer, standing on the earth,

And fighting foot to foot.

Ant.

Well, well: away!

[Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra, and Enobarbus.

Sold.

By Hercules, I think I am i’ the right.

Can.

Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows 68

Not in the power on ’t: so our leader’s led,

And we are women’s men.

Sold.

You keep by land

The legions and the horse whole, do you not?

Can.

Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius, 72

Publicola, and Cælius, are for sea;

But we keep whole by land. This speed of Cæsar’s

Carries beyond belief.

Sold.

While he was yet in Rome

His power went out in such distractions as 76

Beguil’d all spies.

Can.

Who’s his lieutenant, hear you?

Sold.

They say, one Taurus.

Can.

Well I know the man.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

The emperor calls Canidius.

Can.

With news the time’s with labour, and throes forth 80

Each minute some.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— A Plain near Actium.

Enter Cæsar, Taurus, Officers, and Others.

Cæs.

Taurus!

Taur.

My lord?

Cæs.

Strike not by land; keep whole: provoke not battle.

Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed 4

The prescript of this scroll: our fortune lies

Upon this jump.

[Exeunt.

Enter Antony and Enobarbus.

Ant.

Set we our squadrons on yond side o’ the hill,

In eye of Cæsar’s battle; from which place 8

We may the number of the ships behold,

And so proceed accordingly.

[Exeunt.

Enter Canidius, marching with his land army one way over the stage; and Taurus, the lieutenant of Cæsar, the other way. After their going in is heard the noise of a sea-fight.

Alarum. Re-enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer.

The Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, 12

With all their sixty, fly, and turn the rudder;

To see ’t mine eyes are blasted.

Enter Scarus.

Scar.

Gods and goddesses,

All the whole synod of them!

Eno.

What’s thy passion?

Scar.

The greater cantle of the world is lost

With very ignorance; we have kiss’d away 17

Kingdoms and provinces.

Eno.

How appears the fight?

Scar.

On our side like the token’d pestilence,

Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt, 20

Whom leprosy o’ertake! i’ the midst o’ the fight,

When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d,

Both as the same, or rather ours the elder,

The breese upon her, like a cow in June, 24

Hoists sails and flies.

Eno.

That I beheld:

Mine eyes did sicken at the sight, and could not

Endure a further view.

Scar.

She once being loof’d,

The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, 28

Clapson his sea-wing, and like a doting mallard,

Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.

I never saw an action of such shame;

Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before 32

Did violate so itself.

Eno.

Alack, alack!

Enter Canidius.

Can.

Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,

And sinks most lamentably. Had our general

Been what he knew himself, it had gone well: 36

O! he has given example for our flight

Most grossly by his own.

Eno.

Ay, are you thereabouts?

Why, then, good night, indeed.

Can.

Towards Peloponnesus are they fled. 40

Scar.

’Tis easy to ’t; and there I will attend

What further comes.

Can.

To Cæsar will I render

My legions and my horse; six kings already

Show me the way of yielding.

Eno.

I’ll yet follow 44

The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason

Sits in the wind against me.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony and Attendants.

Ant.

Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon ’t;

It is asham’d to bear me. Friends, come hither:

I am so lated in the world that I

Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship 4

Laden with gold; take that, divide it; fly,

And make your peace with Cæsar.

Att.

Fly! not we.

Ant.

I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards

To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone; 8

I have myself resolv’d upon a course

Which has no need of you; be gone:

My treasure’s in the harbour, take it. O!

I follow’d that I blush to look upon: 12

My very hairs do mutiny, for the white

Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them

For fear and doting. Friends, be gone; you shall 15

Have letters from me to some friends that will

Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad,

Nor make replies of loathness; take the hint

Which my despair proclaims; let that be left

Which leaves itself; to the sea-side straightway;

I will possess you of that ship and treasure. 21

Leave me, I pray, a little; pray you now:

Nay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command,

Therefore I pray you. I’ll see you by and by. 24

[Sits down.

Enter Eros following Cleopatra, led by Charmian and Iras.

Eros.

Nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort him.

Iras.

Do, most dear queen.

Char.

Do! Why, what else?

Cleo.

Let me sit down. O Juno! 28

Ant.

No, no, no, no, no.

Eros.

See you here, sir?

Ant.

O fie, fie, fie!

Char.

Madam! 32

Iras.

Madam; O good empress!

Eros.

Sir, sir!

Ant.

Yes, my lord, yes. He, at Philippi kept

His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck 36

The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’twas I

That the mad Brutus ended: he alone

Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had

In the brave squares of war: yet now—No matter. 40

Cleo.

Ah! stand by.

Eros.

The queen, my lord, the queen.

Iras.

Go to him, madam, speak to him;

He is unqualitied with very shame. 44

Cleo.

Well then, sustain me: O!

Eros.

Most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches:

Her head’s declin’d, and death will seize her, but

Your comfort makes the rescue. 48

Ant.

I have offended reputation,

A most unnoble swerving.

Eros.

Sir, the queen.

Ant.

O! whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See,

How I convey my shame out of thine eyes 52

By looking back what I have left behind

’Stroy’d in dishonour.

Cleo.

O my lord, my lord!

Forgive my fearful sails: I little thought

You would have follow’d.

Ant

Egypt, thou knew’st too well 56

My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,

And thou shouldst tow me after; o’er my spirit

Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that

Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods 60

Command me.

Cleo.

O! my pardon.

Ant.

Now I must

To the young man send humble treaties, dodge

And palter in the shifts of lowness, who

With half the bulk o’ the world play’d as I pleas’d, 64

Making and marring fortunes. You did know

How much you were my conqueror, and that

My sword, made weak by my affection, would

Obey it on all cause.

Cleo.

Pardon, pardon! 68

Ant.

Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates

All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;

Even this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster;

Is he come back? Love, I am full of lead. 72

Some wine, within there, and our viands! Fortune knows,

We scorn her most when most she offers blows.

[Exeunt.

Scene X.— Egypt. Cæsar’s Camp.

Enter Cæsar, Dolabella, Thyreus, and Others.

Cæs.

Let him appear that’s come from Antony.

Know you him?

Dol.

Cæsar, ’tis his schoolmaster:

An argument that he is pluck’d, when hither

He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, 4

Which had superfluous kings for messengers

Not many moons gone by.

Enter Euphronius.

Cæs.

Approach, and speak.

Euph.

Such as I am, I come from Antony:

I was of late as petty to his ends 8

As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf

To his grand sea.

Cæs.

Be ’t so. Declare thine office.

Euph.

Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and

Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted, 12

He lessens his requests, and to thee sues

To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,

A private man in Athens; this for him.

Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness, 16

Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves

The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,

Now hazarded to thy grace.

Cæs.

For Antony,

I have no ears to his request. The queen 20

Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she

From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,

Or take his life there; this if she perform,

She shall not sue unheard. So to them both. 24

Euph.

Fortune pursue thee!

Cæs.

Bring him through the bands.

[Exit Euphronius.

[To Thyreus.] To try thy eloquence, now ’tis time; dispatch.

From Antony win Cleopatra; promise,

And in our name, what she requires; add more, 28

From thine invention, offers. Women are not

In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure

The ne’er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus;

Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we 32

Will answer as a law.

Thyr.

Cæsar, I go.

Cæs.

Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,

And what thou think’st his very action speaks

In every power that moves.

Thyr.

Cæsar, I shall.

[Exeunt.

Scene XI.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, and Iras.

Cleo.

What shall we do, Enobarbus?

Eno.

Think, and die.

Cleo.

Is Antony or we, in fault for this?

Eno.

Antony only, that would make his will

Lord of his reason. What though you fled 4

From that great face of war, whose several ranges

Frighted each other, why should he follow?

The itch of his affection should not then

Have nick’d his captainship; at such a point, 8

When half to half the world oppos’d, he being

The mered question. ’Twas a shame no less

Than was his loss, to course your flying flags,

And leave his navy gazing.

Cleo.

Prithee, peace. 12

Enter Antony, with Euphronius.

Ant.

Is that his answer?

Euph.

Ay, my lord.

Ant.

The queen shall then have courtesy, so she

Will yield us up?

Euph.

He says so.

Ant.

Let her know’t. 16

To the boy Cæsar send this grizzled head,

And he will fill thy wishes to the brim

With principalities.

Cleo.

That head, my lord?

Ant.

To him again. Tell him he wears the rose 20

Of youth upon him, from which the world should note

Something particular; his coin, ships, legions,

May be a coward’s, whose ministers would prevail

Under the service of a child as soon 24

As i’ the command of Cæsar: I dare him therefore

To lay his gay comparisons apart,

And answer me declin’d, sword against sword,

Ourselves alone. I’ll write it: follow me. 28

[Exeunt Antony and Euphronius.

Eno.

[Aside.] Yes, like enough, high-battled Cæsar will

Unstate his happiness, and be stag’d to the show

Against a sworder! I see men’s judgments are

A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward

Do draw the inward quality after them, 33

To suffer all alike. That he should dream,

Knowing all measures, the full Cæsar will

Answer his emptiness! Cæsar, thou hast subdu’d 36

His judgment too.

Enter an Attendant.

Att.

A messenger from Cæsar.

Cleo.

What! no more ceremony? See! my women;

Against the blown rose may they stop their nose,

That kneel’d unto the buds. Admit him, sir. 40

[Exit Attendant.

Eno.

[Aside.] Mine honesty and I begin to square.

The loyalty well held to fools does make

Our faith mere folly; yet he that can endure

To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord, 44

Does conquer him that did his master conquer,

And earns a place i’ the story.

Enter Thyreus.

Cleo.

Cæsar’s will?

Thyr.

Hear it apart.

Cleo.

None but friends; say boldly.

Thyr.

So, haply, are they friends to Antony. 48

Eno.

He needs as many, sir, as Cæsar has,

Or needs not us. If Cæsar please, our master

Will leap to be his friend; for us, you know

Whose he is we are, and that is Cæsar’s.

Thyr.

So. 52

Thus then, thou most renown’d: Cæsar entreats,

Not to consider in what case thou stand’st,

Further than he is Cæsar.

Cleo.

Go on; right royal.

Thyr.

He knows that you embrace not Antony 56

As you did love, but as you fear’d him.

Cleo.

O!

Thyr.

The scars upon your honour therefore he

Does pity, as constrained blemishes,

Not as deserv’d.

Cleo.

He is a god, and knows 60

What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded,

But conquer’d merely.

Eno.

[Aside.] To be sure of that,

I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou’rt so leaky,

That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for 64

Thy dearest quit thee.

[Exit.

Thyr.

Shall I say to Cæsar

What you require of him? for he partly begs

To be desir’d to give. It much would please him,

That of his fortunes you should make a staff 68

To lean upon; but it would warm his spirits

To hear from me you had left Antony,

And put yourself under his shroud,

The universal landlord.

Cleo.

What’s your name? 72

Thyr.

My name is Thyreus.

Cleo.

Most kind messenger,

Say to great Cæsar this: in deputation

I kiss his conqu’ring hand; tell him, I am prompt

To lay my crown at ’s feet, and there to kneel; 76

Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear

The doom of Egypt.

Thyr.

’Tis your noblest course.

Wisdom and fortune combating together,

If that the former dare but what it can, 80

No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay

My duty on your hand.

Cleo.

Your Cæsar’s father oft,

When he hath mus’d of taking kingdoms in,

Bestow’d his lips on that unworthy place, 84

As it rain’d kisses.

Re-enter Antony and Enobarbus.

Ant.

Favours, by Jove that thunders!

What art thou, fellow?

Thyr.

One that but performs

The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest

To have command obey’d.

Eno.

[Aside.] You will be whipp’d. 88

Ant.

Approach there! Ah, you kite! Now, gods and devils!

Authority melts from me: of late, when I cried ‘Ho!’

Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth,

And cry, ‘Your will?’ Have you no ears? I am

Antony yet.

Enter Attendants.

Take hence this Jack and whip him. 93

Eno.

[Aside.] ’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp

Than with an old one dying.

Ant.

Moon and stars!

Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tributaries 96

That do acknowledge Cæsar, should I find them

So saucy with the hand of—she here, what’s her name,

Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows,

Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face 100

And whine aloud for mercy; take him hence.

Thyr.

Mark Antony,—

Ant.

Tug him away; being whipp’d,

Bring him again; this Jack of Cæsar’s shall

Bear us an errand to him. 104

[Exeunt Attendants with Thyreus.

You were half blasted ere I knew you: ha!

Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome,

Forborne the getting of a lawful race,

And by a gem of women, to be abus’d 108

By one that looks on feeders?

Cleo.

Good my lord,—

Ant.

You have been a boggler ever:

But when we in our viciousness grow hard,—

O misery on ’t!—the wise gods seel our eyes; 112

In our own filth drop our clear judgments; make us

Adore our errors; laugh at ’s while we strut

To our confusion.

Cleo.

O! is’t come to this?

Ant.

I found you as a morsel, cold upon 116

Dead Cæsar’s trencher; nay, you were a fragment

Of Cneius Pompey’s; besides what hotter hours,

Unregister’d in vulgar fame, you have

Luxuriously pick’d out; for, I am sure, 120

Though you can guess what temperance should be,

You know not what it is.

Cleo.

Wherefore is this?

Ant.

To let a fellow that will take rewards

And say ‘God quit you!’ be familiar with 124

My playfellow, your hand; this kingly seal

And plighter of high hearts. O! that I were

Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar

The horned herd; for I have savage cause; 128

And to proclaim it civilly were like

A halter’d neck, which does the hangman thank

For being yare about him.

Re-enter Attendants, with Thyreus.

Is he whipp’d?

First Att.

Soundly, my lord.

Ant.

Cried he? and begg’d a’ pardon?

First Att.

He did ask favour. 133

Ant.

If that thy father live, let him repent

Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry

To follow Cæsar in his triumph, since 136

Thou hast been whipp’d for following him: henceforth,

The white hand of a lady fever thee,

Shake thou to look on ’t. Get thee back to Cæsar,

Tell him thy entertainment; look, thou say 140

He makes me angry with him; for he seems

Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,

Not what he knew I was: he makes me angry;

And at this time most easy ’tis to do ’t, 144

When my good stars, that were my former guides,

Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires

Into the abysm of hell. If he mislike

My speech and what is done, tell him he has 148

Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom

He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,

As he shall like, to quit me: urge it thou:

Hence with thy stripes; be gone! 152

[Exit Thyreus.

Cleo.

Have you done yet?

Ant.

Alack! our terrene moon

Is now eclips’d; and it portends alone

The fall of Antony.

Cleo.

I must stay his time.

Ant.

To flatter Cæsar, would you mingle eyes 156

With one that ties his points?

Cleo.

Not know me yet?

Ant.

Cold-hearted toward me?

Cleo.

Ah! dear, if I be so,

From my cold heart let heaven engender hail,

And poison it in the source; and the first stone

Drop in my neck: as it determines, so 161

Dissolve my life. The next Cæsarion smite,

Till by degrees the memory of my womb,

Together with my brave Egyptians all, 164

By the discandying of this pelleted storm,

Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile

Have buried them for prey!

Ant.

I am satisfied.

Cæsar sits down in Alexandria, where 168

I will oppose his fate. Our force by land

Hath nobly held; our sever’d navy too

Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sea-like.

Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? 172

If from the field I shall return once more

To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;

I and my sword will earn our chronicle:

There’s hope in ’t yet.

Cleo.

That’s my brave lord! 176

Ant.

I will betreble-sinew’d, hearted, breath’d,

And fight maliciously; for when mine hours

Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives

Of me for jests; but now I’ll set my teeth, 180

And send to darkness all that stop me. Come,

Let’s have one other gaudy night: call to me

All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;

Let’s mock the midnight bell.

Cleo.

It is my birth-day: 184

I had thought to have held it poor; but, since my lord

Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

Ant.

We will yet do well.

Cleo.

Call all his noble captains to my lord.

Ant.

Do so, we’ll speak to them; and to-night I’ll force 189

The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen;

There’s sap in ’t yet. The next time I do fight

I’ll make death love me, for I will contend 192

Even with his pestilent scythe.

[Exeunt all but Enobarbus.

Eno.

Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious

Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood

The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still, 196

A diminution in our captain’s brain

Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason

It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek

Some way to leave him.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Before Alexandria. Cæsar’s Camp.

Enter Cæsar, reading a letter; Agrippa, Mecænas, and Others.

Cæs.

He calls me boy, and chides as he had power

To beat me out of Egypt; my messenger

He hath whipp’d with rods; dares me to personal combat,

Cæsar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know 4

I have many other ways to die; meantime

Laugh at his challenge.

Mec.

Cæsar must think,

When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted

Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now 8

Make boot of his distraction: never anger

Made good guard for itself.

Cæs.

Let our best heads

Know that to-morrow the last of many battles

We mean to fight. Within our files there are, 12

Of those that serv’d Mark Antony but late,

Enough to fetch him in. See it done;

And feast the army; we have store to do ’t,

And they have earn’d the waste. Poor Antony!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas, and Others.

Ant.

He will not fight with me, Domitius.

Eno.

No.

Ant.

Why should he not?

Eno.

He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,

He is twenty men to one.

Ant.

To-morrow, soldier, 4

By sea and land I’ll fight: or I will live,

Or bathe my dying honour in the blood

Shall make it live again. Woo’t thou fight well?

Eno.

I’ll strike, and cry, ‘Take all.’

Ant.

Well said; come on. 8

Call forth my household servants; let’s to-night

Be bounteous at our meal.

Enter three or four Servitors.

Give me thy hand,

Thou hast been rightly honest; so hast thou;

Thou; and thou, and thou: you have serv’d me well, 12

And kings have been your fellows.

Cleo.

What means this?

Eno.

[Aside to Cleopatra.] ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots

Out of the mind.

Ant.

And thou art honest too.

I wish I could be made so many men, 16

And all of you clapp’d up together in

An Antony, that I might do you service

So good as you have done.

Servants.

The gods forbid!

Ant.

Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night, 20

Scant not my cups, and make as much of me

As when mine empire was your fellow too,

And suffer’d my command.

Cleo.

[Aside to Enobarbus.] What does he mean?

Eno.

[Aside to Cleopatra.] To make his followers weep.

Ant.

Tend me to-night; 24

May be it is the period of your duty:

Haply, you shall not see me more; or if,

A mangled shadow: perchance to-morrow

You’ll serve another master. I look on you 28

As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,

I turn you not away; but, like a master

Married to your good service, stay till death.

Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more, 32

And the gods yield you for ’t!

Eno.

What mean you, sir,

To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;

And I, an ass, am onion-ey’d: for shame,

Transform us not to women.

Ant.

Ho, ho, ho! 36

Now, the witch take me, if I meant it thus!

Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends,

You take me in too dolorous a sense,

For I spake to you for your comfort; did desire you 40

To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,

I hope well of to-morrow; and will lead you

Where rather I’ll expect victorious life

Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come, 44

And drown consideration.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter two Soldiers to their guard.

First Sold.

Brother, good night; to-morrow is the day.

Sec. Sold.

It will determine one way; fare you well.

Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?

First Sold.

Nothing. What news? 4

Sec. Sold.

Belike, ’tis but a rumour. Good night to you.

First Sold.

Well, sir, good night.

Enter two other Soldiers.

Sec. Sold.

Soldiers, have careful watch.

Third Sold.

And you. Good night, good night.

[The first two place themselves at their posts.

Fourth Sold.

Here we:

[They take their posts.

And if to-morrow 9

Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope

Our landmen will stand up.

Third Sold.

’Tis a brave army,

And full of purpose.

[Music of hautboys under the stage.

Fourth Sold.

Peace! what noise?

First Sold.

List, list! 12

Sec. Sold.

Hark!

First Sold.

Music i’ the air.

Third Sold.

Under the earth.

Fourth Sold.

It signs well, does it not?

Third Sold.

No.

First Sold.

Peace, I say!

What should this mean?

Sec. Sold.

’Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov’d, 16

Now leaves him.

First Sold.

Walk; let’s see if other watchmen

Do hear what we do.

[They advance to another post.

Sec. Sold.

How now, masters!

Soldiers.

How now!—

How now!—do you hear this?

First Sold.

Ay; is ’t not strange?

Third Sold.

Do you hear, masters? do you hear? 20

First Sold.

Follow the noise so far as we have quarter;

Let’s see how ’t will give off.

Soldiers.

[Speaking together.] Content.—’Tis strange.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony and Cleopatra; Charmian, and Others, attending.

Ant.

Eros! mine armour, Eros!

Cleo.

Sleep a little.

Ant.

No, my chuck. Eros, come; mine armour, Eros!

Enter Eros, with armour.

Come, good fellow, put mine iron on:

If Fortune be not ours to-day, it is 4

Because we brave her. Come.

Cleo.

Nay, I’ll help too.

What’s this for?

Ant.

Ah! let be, let be; thou art

The armourer of my heart: false, false; this, this.

Cleo.

Sooth, la! I’ll help: thus it must be.

Ant.

Well, well; 8

We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow?

Go put on thy defences.

Eros.

Briefly, sir.

Cleo.

Is not this buckled well?

Ant.

Rarely, rarely:

He that unbuckles this, till we do please 12

To daff ’t for our repose, shall hear a storm.

Thou fumblest, Eros; and my queen’s a squire

More tight at this than thou: dispatch. O love!

That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew’st 16

The royal occupation, thou shouldst see

A workman in ’t.

Enter an armed Soldier.

Good morrow to thee; welcome;

Thou look’st like him that knows a war-like charge:

To business that we love we rise betime, 20

And go to ’t with delight.

Sold.

A thousand, sir,

Early though ’t be, have on their riveted trim,

And at the port expect you.

[Shout. Trumpets flourish.

Enter Captains and Soldiers.

Capt.

The morn is fair. Good morrow, general. 24

All.

Good morrow, general.

Ant.

’Tis well blown, lads.

This morning, like the spirit of a youth

That means to be of note, begins betimes.

So, so; come, give me that: this way; well said. 28

Fare thee well, dame, whate’er becomes of me;

This is a soldier’s kiss. [Kisses her.] Rebukeable

And worthy shameful check it were, to stand

On more mechanic compliment; I’ll leave thee

Now, like a man of steel. You that will fight, 33

Follow me close; I’ll bring you to ’t. Adieu.

[Exeunt Antony, Eros, Captains, and Soldiers.

Char.

Please you, retire to your chamber.

Cleo.

Lead me.

He goes forth gallantly. That he and Cæsar might 36

Determine this great war in single fight!

Then, Antony,—but now.—Well, on.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Alexandria. Antony’s Camp.

Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros; a Soldier meeting them.

Sold.

The gods make this a happy day to Antony!

Ant.

Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail’d

To make me fight at land!

Sold.

Hadst thou done so,

The kings that have revolted, and the soldier 4

That has this morning left thee, would have still

Follow’d thy heels.

Ant.

Who’s gone this morning?

Sold.

Who!

One ever near thee: call for Enobarbus,

He shall not hear thee; or from Cæsar’s camp 8

Say, ‘I am none of thine.’

Ant.

What sayst thou?

Sold.

Sir,

He is with Cæsar.

Eros.

Sir, his chests and treasure

He has not with him.

Ant.

Is he gone?

Sold.

Most certain.

Ant.

Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;

Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him— 13

I will subscribe—gentle adieus and greetings;

Say that I wish he never find more cause

To change a master. O! my fortunes have 16

Corrupted honest men. Dispatch. Enobarbus!

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Before Alexandria. Cæsar’s Camp.

Flourish. Enter Cæsar, with Agrippa, Enobarbus, and Others.

Cæs.

Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight:

Our will is Antony be took alive;

Make it so known.

Agr.

Cæsar, I shall.

[Exit.

Cæs.

The time of universal peace is near: 5

Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook’d world

Shall bear the olive freely.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Antony

Is come into the field.

Cæs.

Go charge Agrippa 8

Plant those that have revolted in the van,

That Antony may seem to spend his fury

Upon himself.

[Exeunt Cæsar and his Train.

Eno.

Alexas did revolt, and went to Jewry on

Affairs of Antony; there did persuade 13

Great Herod to incline himself to Cæsar,

And leave his master Antony: for this pains

Cæsar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the rest

That fell away have entertainment, but 17

No honourable trust. I have done ill,

Of which I do accuse myself so sorely

That I will joy no more.

Enter a Soldier of Cæsar’s.

Sold.

Enobarbus, Antony 20

Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with

His bounty overplus: the messenger

Came on my guard; and at thy tent is now

Unloading of his mules.

Eno.

I give it you. 24

Sold.

Mock not, Enobarbus.

I tell you true: best you saf’d the bringer

Out of the host; I must attend mine office

Or would have done ’t myself. Your emperor 28

Continues still a Jove.

[Exit.

Eno.

I am alone the villain of the earth,

And feel I am so most. O Antony!

Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid 32

My better service, when my turpitude

Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart:

If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean

Shall outstrike thought; but thought will do ’t, I feel. 36

I fight against thee! No: I will go seek

Some ditch, wherein to die; the foul’st best fits

My latter part of life.

[Exit.

Scene VII.— Field of Battle between the Camps.

Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter Agrippa and Others.

Agr.

Retire, we have engag’d ourselves too far.

Cæsar himself has work, and our oppression

Exceeds what we expected.

[Exeunt.

Alarum. Enter Antony, and Scarus wounded.

Scar.

O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed! 4

Had we done so at first, we had droven them home

With clouts about their heads.

Ant.

Thou bleed’st apace.

Scar.

I had a wound here that was like a T,

But now ’tis made an H.

Ant.

They do retire. 8

Scar.

We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes: I have yet

Room for six scotches more.

Enter Eros.

Eros.

They are beaten, sir; and our advantage serves

For a fair victory.

Scar.

Let us score their backs, 12

And snatch ’em up, as we take hares, behind:

’Tis sport to maul a runner.

Ant.

I will reward thee

Once for thy sprightly comfort, and ten-fold

For thy good valour. Come thee on.

Scar.

I’ll halt after.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— Under the Walls of Alexandria.

Alarum. Enter Antony, marching; Scarus, and Forces.

Ant.

We have beat him to his camp; run one before

And let the queen know of our gests. To-morrow,

Before the sun shall see ’s, we’ll spill the blood

That has to-day escap’d. I thank you all; 4

For doughty-handed are you, and have fought

Not as you serv’d the cause, but as ’t had been

Each man’s like mine; you have shown all Hectors.

Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, 8

Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears

Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss

The honour’d gashes whole. [To Scarus.] Give me thy hand:

Enter Cleopatra, attended.

To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts, 12

Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o’ the world!

Chain mine arm’d neck; leap thou, attire and all,

Through proof of harness to my heart, and there

Ride on the pants triumphing.

Cleo.

Lord of lords! 16

O infinite virtue! com’st thou smiling from

The world’s great snare uncaught?

Ant.

My nightingale,

We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey

Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we 20

A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can

Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;

Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand:

Kiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day 24

As if a god, in hate of mankind, had

Destroy’d in such a shape.

Cleo.

I’ll give thee, friend,

An armour all of gold; it was a king’s.

Ant.

He has deserv’d it, were it carbuncled

Like holy Phœbus’ car. Give me thy hand: 29

Through Alexandria make a jolly march;

Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe them:

Had our great palace the capacity 32

To camp this host, we all would sup together

And drink carouses to the next day’s fate,

Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,

With brazen din blast you the city’s ear, 36

Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,

That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,

Applauding our approach.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Cæsar’s Camp.

Sentinels on their post.

First Sold.

If we be not reliev’d within this hour,

We must return to the court of guard: the night

Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle

By the second hour i’ the morn.

Sec. Sold.

This last day was 4

A shrewd one to ’s.

Enter Enobarbus.

Eno.

O! bear me witness, night,—

Third Sold.

What man is this?

Sec. Sold.

Stand close and list him.

Eno.

Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,

When men revolted shall upon record 8

Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did

Before thy face repent!

First Sold.

Enobarbus!

Third Sold.

Peace!

Hark further.

Eno.

O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,

The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, 13

That life, a very rebel to my will,

May hang no longer on me; throw my heart

Against the flint and hardness of my fault, 16

Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,

And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony!

Nobler than my revolt is infamous,

Forgive me in thine own particular; 20

But let the world rank me in register

A master-leaver and a fugitive.

O Antony! O Antony!

[Dies.

Sec. Sold.

Let’s speak to him. 24

First Sold.

Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks

May concern Cæsar.

Third Sold.

Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

First Sold.

Swounds rather; for so bad a prayer as his

Was never yet for sleep.

Sec. Sold.

Go we to him. 28

Third Sold.

Awake, sir, awake! speak to us.

Sec. Sold

Hear you, sir?

First Sold.

The Land of death hath raught him.

[Drums afar off.

Hark! the drums

Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him

To the court of guard; he is of note: our hour

Is fully out.

Third Sold.

Come on, then; 33

He may recover yet.

[Exeunt with the body.

Scene X.— Between the two Camps.

Enter Antony and Scarus, with Forces, marching.

Ant.

Their preparation is to-day by sea;

We please them not by land.

Scar.

For both, my lord.

Ant.

I would they’d fight i’ the fire or i’ the air;

We’d fight there too. But this it is; our foot 4

Upon the hills adjoining to the city

Shall stay with us; order for sea is given,

They have put forth the haven, 7

Where their appointment we may best discover

And look on their endeavour.

[Exeunt.

Enter Cæsar, and his Forces, marching.

Cæs.

But being charg’d, we will be still by land,

Which, as I take ’t, we shall; for his best force

Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales, 12

And hold our best advantage!

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Antony and Scarus.

Ant.

Yet they are not join’d. Where yond pine does stand

I shall discover all; I’ll bring thee word

Straight how ’tis like to go.

[Exit.

Scar.

Swallows have built 16

In Cleopatra’s sails their nests; the augurers

Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,

And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony

Is valiant, and dejected; and, by starts, 20

His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear

Of what he has and has not.

[Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight.

Re-enter Antony.

Ant.

All is lost!

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me;

My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder 24

They cast their caps up and carouse together

Like friends long lost. Triple-turn’d whore! ’tis thou

Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart

Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; 28

For when I am reveng’d upon my charm,

I have done all. Bid them all fly; be gone.

[Exit Scarus.

O sun! thy uprise shall I see no more;

Fortune and Antony part here; even here 32

Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts

That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave

Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets

On blossoming Cæsar; and this pine is bark’d,

That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d I am. 37

O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,

Whose eyes beck’d forth my wars, and call’d them home,

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end, 40

Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,

Beguil’d me to the very heart of loss.

What, Eros! Eros!

Enter Cleopatra.

Ah! thou spell. Avaunt!

Cleo.

Why is my lord enrag’d against his love? 44

Ant.

Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,

And blemish Cæsar’s triumph. Let him take thee,

And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians;

Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot 48

Of all thy sex; most monster-like, be shown

For poor’st diminutives, for doits; and let

Patient Octavia plough thy visage up

With her prepared nails.

[Exit Cleopatra.

’Tis well thou’rt gone, 52

If it be well to live; but better ’twere

Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death

Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!

The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me, 56

Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage;

Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ the moon;

And with those hands, that grasp’d the heaviest club,

Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die:

To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall 61

Under this plot; she dies for ’t. Eros, ho!

[Exit.

Scene XI.— Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian.

Cleo.

Help me, my women! O! he is more mad

Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly

Was never so emboss’d.

Char.

To the monument!

There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead. 4

The soul and body rive not more in parting

Than greatness going off.

Cleo.

To the monument!

Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself;

Say that the last I spoke was ‘Antony,’ 8

And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence,

Mardian, and bring me how he takes my death.

To the monument!

[Exeunt.

Scene XII.— The Same. Another Room.

Enter Antony and Eros.

Ant.

Eros, thou yet behold’st me?

Eros.

Ay, noble lord.

Ant.

Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish;

A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,

A tower’d citadel, a pendant rock, 4

A forked mountain, or blue promontory

With trees upon ’t, that nod unto the world

And mock our eyes with air: thou hast seen these signs;

They are black vesper’s pageants.

Eros.

Ay, my lord. 8

Ant.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought

The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,

As water is in water.

Eros.

It does, my lord.

Ant.

My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is 12

Even such a body: here I am Antony;

Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.

I made these wars for Egypt; and the queen, 15

Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,

Which whilst it was mine had annex’d unto ’t

A million more, now lost; she, Eros, has

Pack’d cards with Cæsar, and false-play’d my glory

Unto an enemy’s triumph. 20

Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us

Ourselves to end ourselves.

Enter Mardian.

O! thy vile lady;

She has robb’d me of my sword.

Mar.

No, Antony;

My mistress lov’d thee, and her fortunes mingled 24

With thine entirely.

Ant.

Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!

She hath betray’d me and shall die the death.

Mar.

Death of one person can be paid but once,

And that she has discharg’d. What thou wouldst do 28

Is done unto thy hand; the last she spake

Was, ‘Antony! most noble Antony!’

Then in the midst a tearing groan did break

The name of Antony; it was divided 32

Between her heart and lips. She render’d life,

Thy name so buried in her.

Ant.

Dead, then?

Mar.

Dead.

Ant.

Unarm, Eros; the long day’s task is done,

And we must sleep. [To Mardian.] That thou depart’st hence safe, 36

Does pay thy labour richly; go.

[Exit Mardian.

Off, pluck off:

The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep

The battery from my heart. O! cleave, my sides;

Heart, once be stronger than thy continent, 40

Crack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace.

No more a soldier; bruised pieces, go;

You have been nobly borne. From me awhile.

[Exit Eros.

I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and 44

Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now

All length is torture; since the torch is out,

Lie down, and stray no further. Now all labour

Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles 48

Itself with strength; seal then, and all is done.

Eros!—I come, my queen.—Eros!—Stay for me:

Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand,

And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze; 52

Dido and her Æneas shall want troops,

And all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros! Eros!

Re-enter Eros.

Eros.

What would my lord?

Ant.

Since Cleopatra died,

I have liv’d in such dishonour, that the gods 56

Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword

Quarter’d the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back

With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack

The courage of a woman; less noble mind 60

Than she, which by her death our Cæsar tells

‘I am conqueror of myself.’ Thou art sworn, Eros,

That, when the exigent should come,—which now

Is come indeed,—when I should see behind me

The inevitable prosecution of 65

Disgrace and horror, that, on my command,

Thou then wouldst kill me: do ’t; the time is come.

Thou strik’st not me, ’tis Cæsar thou defeat’st.

Put colour in thy cheek.

Eros.

The gods withhold me!

Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,

Though enemy, lost aim and could not?

Ant.

Eros,

Wouldst thou be window’d in great Rome, and see 72

Thy master thus with pleach’d arms, bending down

His corrigible neck, his face subdu’d

To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel’d seat

Of fortunate Cæsar, drawn before him, branded

His baseness that ensu’d?

Eros.

I would not see’t.

Ant.

Come, then; for with a wound I must be cur’d.

Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn

Most useful for thy country.

Eros.

O, sir! pardon me. 80

Ant.

When I did make thee free, swor’st thou not then

To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,

Or thy precedent services are all

But accidents unpurpos’d. Draw, and come. 84

Eros.

Turn from me then that noble countenance,

Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Ant.

Lo thee!

[Turning from him.

Eros.

My sword is drawn.

Ant.

Then let it do at once 88

The thing why thou hast drawn it.

Eros.

My dear master,

My captain, and my emperor, let me say,

Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.

Ant.

’Tis said, man; and farewell. 92

Eros.

Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?

Ant.

Now, Eros.

Eros.

Why, there then; thus do I escape the sorrow

[Kills himself.

Of Antony’s death.

Ant.

Thrice-nobler than myself!

Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what 96

I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros

Have by their brave instruction got upon me

A nobleness in record; but I will be

A bridegroom in my death, and run into ’t 100

As to a lover’s bed. Come, then; and, Eros,

Thy master dies thy scholar: to do thus

[Falls on his sword.

I learn’d of thee. How! not dead? not dead?

The guard, ho! O! dispatch me.

Enter Dercetas and Guard.

First Guard.

What’s the noise? 104

Ant.

I have done my work ill, friends: O! make an end

Of what I have begun.

Sec. Guard.

The star is fallen.

First Guard.

And time is at his period.

All.

Alas, and woe!

Ant.

Let him that loves me strike me dead.

First Guard.

Not I. 108

Sec. Guard.

Nor I.

Third Guard.

Nor any one.

[Exeunt Guard.

Der.

Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.

This sword but shown to Cæsar, with this tidings, 112

Shall enter me with him.

Enter Diomedes.

Dio.

Where’s Antony?

Der.

There, Diomed, there.

Dio.

Lives he?

Wilt thou not answer, man?

[Exit Dercetas.

Ant.

Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword, and give me 116

Sufficing strokes for death.

Dio.

Most absolute lord,

My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.

Ant.

When did she send thee?

Dio.

Now, my lord.

Ant.

Where is she?

Dio.

Lock’d in her monument. She had a prophesying fear 120

Of what hath come to pass; for when she saw—

Which never shall be found—you did suspect

She had dispos’d with Cæsar, and that your rage

Would not be purg’d, she sent you word she was dead; 124

But, fearing since how it might work, hath sent

Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,

I dread, too late.

Ant.

Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee. 128

Dio.

What, ho! the emperor’s guard! The guard, what, ho!

Come, your lord calls!

Enter four or five of the Guard of Antony.

Ant.

Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;

’Tis the last service that I shall command you.

First Guard.

Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear 133

All your true followers out.

All.

Most heavy day!

Ant.

Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate

To grace it with your sorrows; bid that welcome

Which comes to punish us, and we punish it 137

Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up;

I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,

And have my thanks for all. 140

[Exeunt, bearing Antony.

Scene XIII.— The Same. A Monument.

Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras.

Cle.

O Charmian! I will never go from hence.

Char.

Be comforted, dear madam.

Cleo.

No, I will not.

All strange and terrible events are welcome,

But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow, 4

Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great

As that which makes it.

Enter, below, Diomedes.

How now! is he dead?

Dio.

His death’s upon him, but not dead.

Look out o’ the other side your monument; 8

His guard have brought him thither.

Enter, below, Antony, borne by the Guard.

Cleo.

O sun!

Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in; darkling stand

The varying star o’ the world. O Antony,

Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help; 12

Help, friends below! let’s draw him hither.

Ant.

Peace!

Not Cæsar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony,

But Antony’s hath triumph’d on itself.

Cleo.

So it should be, that none but Antony 16

Should conquer Antony; but woe ’tis so!

Ant.

I am dying, Egypt, dying; only

I here importune death awhile, until

Of many thousand kisses the poor last 20

I lay upon thy lips.

Cleo.

I dare not, dear,—

Dear my lord, pardon,—I dare not,

Lest I be taken: not the imperious show

Of the full-fortun’d Cæsar ever shall 24

Be brooch’d with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have

Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe:

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour 28

Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,—

Help me, my women,—we must draw thee up.

Assist, good friends.

Ant.

O! quick, or I am gone.

Cleo.

Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! 32

Our strength is all gone into heaviness,

That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power,

The strong-wing’d Mercury should fetch thee up,

And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little, 36

Wishers were ever fools. O! come, come, come;

[They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra.

And welcome, welcome! die where thou hastliv’d;

Quicken with kissing; had my lips that power,

Thus would I wear them out.

All.

A heavy sight! 40

Ant.

I am dying, Egypt, dying:

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

Cleo.

No, let me speak; and let me rail so high,

That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel, 44

Provok’d by my offence.

Ant.

One word, sweet queen.

Of Cæsar seek your honour with your safety. O!

Cleo.

They do not go together.

Ant.

Gentle, hear me:

None about Cæsar trust, but Proculeius. 48

Cleo.

My resolution and my hands I’ll trust;

None about Cæsar.

Ant.

The miserable change now at my end

Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts

In feeding them with those my former fortunes

Wherein I liv’d, the greatest prince o’ the world,

The noblest; and do now not basely die,

Not cowardly put off my helmet to 56

My countryman; a Roman by a Roman

Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going;

I can no more.

Cleo.

Noblest of men, woo ’t die?

Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide 60

In this dull world, which in thy absence is

No better than a sty? O! see my women,

[Antony dies.

The crown o’ the earth doth melt. My lord!

O! wither’d is the garland of the war, 64

The soldier’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls

Are level now with men; the odds is gone,

And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.

[Swoons.

Char.

O, quietness, lady! 68

Iras.

She is dead too, our sovereign.

Char.

Lady!

Iras.

Madam!

Char.

O madam, madam, madam!

Iras.

Royal Egypt!

Empress!

Char.

Peace, peace, Iras! 72

Cleo.

No more, but e’en a woman, and commanded

By such poor passion as the maid that milks

And does the meanest chares. It were for me

To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods; 76

To tell them that this world did equal theirs

Till they had stol’n our jewel. All’s but naught;

Patience is sottish, and impatience does

Become a dog that’s mad; then is it sin 80

To rush into the secret house of death,

Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?

What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!

My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look! 84

Our lamp is spent, it’s out. Good sirs, take heart;—

We’ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what’s noble,

Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us. Come, away; 88

This case of that huge spirit now is cold;

Ah! women, women. Come; we have no friend

But resolution, and the briefest end.

[Exeunt; those above bearing off Antony’s body.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Alexandria. Cæsar’s Camp.

Enter Cæsar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Mecænas, Gallus, Proculeius, and Others.

Cæs.

Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;

Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks

The pauses that he makes.

Dol.

Cæsar, I shall.

[Exit.

Enter Dercetas, with the sword of Antony.

Cæs.

Wherefore is that? and what art thou that dar’st 4

Appear thus to us?

Der.

I am call’d Dercetas;

Mark Antony I serv’d, who best was worthy

Best to be serv’d; whilst he stood up and spoke

He was my master, and I wore my life 8

To spend upon his haters. If thou please

To take me to thee, as I was to him

I’ll be to Cæsar; if thou pleasest not,

I yield thee up my life.

Cæs.

What is ’t thou sayst? 12

Der.

I say, O Cæsar, Antony is dead.

Cæs.

The breaking of so great a thing should make

A greater crack; the round world

Should have shook lions into civil streets, 16

And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony

Is not a single doom; in the name lay

A moiety of the world.

Der.

He is dead, Cæsar;

Not by a public minister of justice, 20

Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand,

Which writ his honour in the acts it did,

Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,

Splitted the heart. This is his sword; 24

I robb’d his wound of it; behold it stain’d

With his most noble blood.

Cæs.

Look you sad, friends?

The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings

To wash the eyes of kings.

Agr.

And strange it is, 28

That nature must compel us to lament

Our most persisted deeds.

Mec.

His taints and honours

Wag’d equal with him.

Agr.

A rarer spirit never

Did steer humanity; but you, gods, will give us

Some faults to make us men. Cæsar is touch’d.

Mec.

When such a spacious mirror’s set before him,

He needs must see himself.

Cæs.

O Antony!

I have follow’d thee to this; but we do lance 36

Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce

Have shown to thee such a declining day,

Or look on thine; we could not stall together

In the whole world. But yet let me lament, 40

With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,

That thou, my brother, my competitor

In top of all design, my mate in empire,

Friend and companion in the front of war, 44

The arm of mine own body, and the heart

Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars,

Unreconciliable, should divide

Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends,—

Enter an Egyptian.

But I will tell you at some meeter season: 49

The business of this man looks out of him;

We’ll hear him what he says. Whence are you?

Egyp.

A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mistress, 52

Confin’d in all she has, her monument,

Of thy intents desires instruction,

That she preparedly may frame herself

To the way she’s forc’d to.

Cæs.

Bid her have good heart; 56

She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,

How honourable and how kindly we

Determine for her; for Cæsar cannot live

To be ungentle.

Egyp.

So the gods preserve thee! 60

[Exit.

Cæs.

Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say,

We purpose her no shame; give her what comforts

The quality of her passion shall require,

Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke 64

She do defeat us; for her life in Rome

Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,

And with your speediest bring us what she says,

And how you find of her.

Pro.

Cæsar, I shall.

[Exit.

Cæs.

Gallus, go you along.

[Exit Gallus. Where’s Dolabella,

To second Proculeius?

Agr.

Dolabella!

Mec.

Dolabella!

Cæs.

Let him alone, for I remember now

How he’s employ’d, he shall in time be ready.

Go with me to my tent; where you shall see 73

How hardly I was drawn into this war;

How calm and gentle I proceeded still

In all my writings. Go with me, and see 76

What I can show in this.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The Monument.

Enter aloft, Cleopatra, Charmian, and Iras.

Cleo.

My desolation does begin to make

A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Cæsar;

Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave,

A minister of her will; and it is great 4

To do that thing that ends all other deeds,

Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change,

Which sleeps, and never palates more the dug,

The beggar’s nurse and Cæsar’s. 8

Enter, below, Proculeius, Gallus, and Soldiers.

Pro.

Cæsar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt;

And bids thee study on what fair demands

Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

Cleo.

What’s thy name?

Pro.

My name is Proculeius.

Cleo.

Antony 12

Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but

I do not greatly care to be deceiv’d,

That have no use for trusting. If your master

Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him, 16

That majesty, to keep decorum, must

No less beg than a kingdom; if he please

To give me conquer’d Egypt for my son,

He gives me so much of mine own as I 20

Will kneel to him with thanks.

Pro.

Be of good cheer;

You’re fall’n into a princely hand, fear nothing.

Make your full reference freely to my lord,

Who is so full of grace, that it flows over 24

On all that need; let me report to him

Your sweet dependancy, and you shall find

A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness

Where he for grace is kneel’d to.

Cleo.

Pray you, tell him 28

I am his fortune’s vassal, and I send him

The greatness he has got. I hourly learn

A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly

Look him i’ the face.

Pro.

This I’ll report, dear lady: 32

Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied

Of him that caus’d it.

Gal.

You see how easily she may be surpris’d.

[Proculeius and two of the Guard ascend the monument by a ladder, and come behind Cleopatra. Some of the Guard unbar and open the gates, discovering the lower room of the monument.

[To Proculeius and the Guard.] Guard her till Cæsar come.

[Exit.

Iras.

Royal queen! 37

Char.

O Cleopatra! thou art taken, queen.

Cleo.

Quick, quick, good hands.

[Drawing a dagger.

Pro.

Hold, worthy lady, hold!

[Seizes and disarms her.

Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this 40

Reliev’d, but not betray’d.

Cleo.

What, of death too,

That rids our dogs of languish?

Pro.

Cleopatra,

Do not abuse my master’s bounty by

The undoing of yourself; let the world see 44

His nobleness well acted, which your death

Will never let come forth.

Cleo.

Where art thou, death?

Come hither, come! come, come, and take a queen

Worth many babes and beggars!

Pro.

O! temperance, lady.

Cleo.

Sir, I will eat no meat, I’ll not drink, sir; 49

If idle talk will once be necessary,

I’ll not sleep neither. This mortal house I’ll ruin,

Do Cæsar what he can. Know, sir, that I 52

Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court,

Nor once be chastis’d with the sober eye

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up

And show me to the shouting varletry 56

Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt

Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus’ mud

Lay me stark nak’d, and let the water-flies

Blow me into abhorring! rather make 60

My country’s high pyramides my gibbet,

And hang me up in chains!

Pro.

You do extend

These thoughts of horror further than you shall

Find cause in Cæsar.

Enter Dolabella.

Dol.

Proculeius, 64

What thou hast done thy master Cæsar knows,

And he hath sent for thee; as for the queen,

I’ll take her to my guard.

Pro.

So, Dolabella,

It shall content me best; be gentle to her. 68

[To Cleopatra.] To Cæsar I will speak what you shall please,

If you’ll employ me to him.

Cleo.

Say, I would die.

[Exeunt Proculeius and Soldiers.

Dol.

Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

Cleo.

I cannot tell.

Dol.

Assuredly you know me. 72

Cleo.

No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.

You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;

Is ’t not your trick?

Dol.

I understand not, madam.

Cleo.

I dream’d there was an Emperor Antony: 76

O! such another sleep, that I might see

But such another man.

Dol.

If it might please ye,—

Cleo.

His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck

A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted 80

The little O, the earth.

Dol.

Most sovereign creature,—

Cleo.

His legs besfrid the ocean; his rear’d arm

Crested the world; his voice was propertied

As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; 84

But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,

He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,

There was no winter in ’t, an autumn ’twas

That grew the more by reaping; his delights 88

Were dolphin-like, they show’d his back above

The element they liv’d in; in his livery

Walk’d crowns and crownets, realms and islands were

As plates dropp’d from his pocket.

Dol.

Cleopatra,— 92

Cleo.

Think you there was, or might be, such a man

As this I dream’d of?

Dol.

Gentle madam, no.

Cleo.

You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.

But, if there be, or ever were, one such, 96

It’s past the size of dreaming; nature wants stuff

To vie strange forms with fancy; yet to imagine

An Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy,

Condemning shadows quite.

Dol.

Hear me, good madam. 100

Your loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it

As answering to the weight: would I might never

O’ertake pursu’d success, but I do feel,

By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites 104

My very heart at root.

Cleo.

I thank you, sir.

Know you what Cæsar means to do with me?

Dol.

I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.

Cleo.

Nay, pray you, sir,—

Dol.

Though he be honourable,— 108

Cleo.

He’ll lead me then in triumph?

Dol.

Madam, he will; I know ’t.

[Within, ‘Make way there!—Cæsar!’

Enter Cæsar, Gallus, Proculeius, Mecænas, Seleucus, and Attendants.

Cæs.

Which is the Queen of Egypt?

Dol.

It is the emperor, madam. 112

[Cleopatra kneels.

Cæs.

Arise, you shall not kneel.

I pray you, rise; rise, Egypt.

Cleo.

Sir, the gods

Will have it thus; my master and my lord

I must obey.

Cæs.

Take to you no hard thoughts; 116

The record of what injuries you did us,

Though written in our flesh, we shall remember

As things but done by chance.

Cleo.

Sole sir o’ the world,

I cannot project mine own cause so well 120

To make it clear; but do confess I have

Been laden with like frailties which before

Have often sham’d our sex.

Cæs.

Cleopatra, know,

We will extenuate rather than enforce: 124

If you apply yourself to our intents,—

Which towards you are most gentle,—you shall find

A benefit in this change; but if you seek

To lay on me a cruelty, by taking 128

Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself

Of my good purposes, and put your children

To that destruction which I’ll guard them from,

If thereon you rely. I’ll take my leave. 132

Cleo.

And may through all the world: ’tis yours; and we,

Your scutcheons, and your signs of conquest, shall

Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.

Cæs.

You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.

Cleo.

[Giving a Scroll.] This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels, 137

I am possess’d of: ’tis exactly valued;

Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus?

Sel.

Here, madam. 140

Cleo.

This is my treasurer; let him speak, my lord,

Upon his peril, that I have reserv’d

To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.

Sel.

Madam, 144

I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril,

Speak that which is not.

Cleo.

What have I kept back?

Sel.

Enough to purchase what you have made known.

Cæs.

Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve

Your wisdom in the deed.

Cleo.

See! Cæsar! O, behold, 149

How pomp is follow’d; mine will now be yours;

And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine.

The ingratitude of this Seleucus does 152

Even make me wild. O slave! of no more trust

Than love that’s hir’d. What! goest thou back? thou shalt

Go back, I warrant thee; but I’ll catch thine eyes,

Though they had wings: slave, soulless villain, dog! 156

O rarely base!

Cæs.

Good queen, let us entreat you.

Cleo.

O Cæsar! what a wounding shame is this,

That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me,

Doing the honour of thy lordliness 160

To one so meek, that mine own servant should

Parcel the sum of my disgraces by

Addition of his envy. Say, good Cæsar,

That I some lady trifles have reserv’d, 164

Immoment toys, things of such dignity

As we greet modern friends withal; and say,

Some nobler token I have kept apart

For Livia and Octavia, to induce 168

Their mediation; must I be unfolded

With one that I have bred? The gods! it smites me

Beneath the fall I have. [To Seleucus.] Prithee, go hence;

Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits 172

Through the ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man,

Thou wouldst have mercy on me.

Cæs.

Forbear, Seleucus.

[Exit Seleucus.

Cleo.

Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought

For things that others do; and, when we fall, 176

We answer others’ merits in our name,

Are therefore to be pitied.

Cæs.

Cleopatra,

Not what you have reserv’d, nor what acknowledg’d,

Put we i’ the roll of conquest: still be ’t yours,

Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe, 181

Cæsar’s no merchant, to make prize with you

Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer’d;

Make not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear queen; 184

For we intend so to dispose you as

Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep:

Our care and pity is so much upon you,

That we remain your friend; and so, adieu. 188

Cleo.

My master, and my lord!

Cæs.

Not so. Adieu.

[Flourish. Exeunt Cæsar and his Train.

Cleo.

He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not

Be noble to myself: but, hark thee, Charmian.

[Whispers Charmian.

Iras.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, 192

And we are for the dark.

Cleo.

Hie thee again:

I have spoke already, and it is provided;

Go, put it to the haste.

Char.

Madam, I will.

Re-enter Dolabella.

Dol.

Where is the queen?

Char.

Behold, sir.

[Exit.

Cleo.

Dolabella! 196

Dol.

Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,

Which my love makes religion to obey,

I tell you this: Cæsar through Syria

Intends his journey; and within three days 200

You with your children will be send before.

Make your best use of this; I have perform’d

Your pleasure and my promise.

Cleo.

Dolabella,

I shall remain your debtor.

Dol.

I your servant. 204

Adieu, good queen; I must attend on Cæsar.

Cleo.

Farewell, and thanks.

[Exit Dolabella.

Now, Iras, what think’st thou?

Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown

In Rome, as well as I; mechanic slaves 208

With greasy aprons, rules and hammers, shall

Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,

Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,

And forc’d to drink their vapour.

Iras.

The gods forbid! 212

Cleo.

Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors

Will catch at us, like strumpets, and scald rimers

Ballad us out o’ tune; the quick comedians

Extemporally will stage us, and present 216

Our Alexandrian revels. Antony

Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see

Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness

I’ the posture of a whore.

Iras.

O, the good gods! 220

Cleo.

Nay, that’s certain.

Iras.

I’ll never see it; for, I am sure my nails

Are stronger than mine eyes.

Cleo.

Why, that’s the way

To fool their preparation, and to conquer 224

Their most absurd intents.

Re-enter Charmian.

Now, Charmian,

Show me, my women, like a queen; go fetch

My best attires; I am again for Cydnus,

To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah Iras, go. 228

Now, noble Charmian, we’ll dispatch indeed;

And, when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave

To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all.

[Exit Iras. A noise heard.

Wherefore’s this noise?

Enter one of the Guard.

Guard.

Here is a rural fellow 232

That will not be denied your highness’ presence:

He brings you figs.

Cleo.

Let him come in. [Exit Guard.] What poor an instrument

May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty. 236

My resolution’s plac’d, and I have nothing

Of woman in me; now from head to foot

I am marble-constant, now the fleeting moon

No planet is of mine.

Re-enter Guard, with a Clown bringing in a basket.

Guard.

This is the man. 240

Cleo.

Avoid, and leave him.

[Exit Guard.

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there,

That kills and pains not?

Clo.

Truly, I have him; but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.

Cleo.

Remember’st thou any that have died on ’t? 248

Clo.

Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday; a very honest woman, but something given to lie, as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty, how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly, she makes a very good report o’ the worm; but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is most fallible, the worm’s an odd worm. 258

Cleo.

Get thee hence; farewell.

Clo.

I wish you all joy of the worm. 260

[Sets down the basket.

Cleo.

Farewell.

Clo.

You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.

Cleo.

Ay, ay; farewell. 264

Clo.

Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.

Cleo.

Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.

Clo.

Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding. 270

Cleo.

Will it eat me?

Clo.

You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman; I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But, truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five. 278

Cleo.

Well, get thee gone; farewell.

Clo.

Yes, forsooth; I wish you joy of the worm.

[Exit.

Re-enter Iras, with a robe, crown, &c.

Cleo.

Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have 282

Immortal longings in me; now no more

The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip.

Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear

Antony call; I see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act; I hear him mock

The luck of Cæsar, which the gods give men 288

To excuse their after wrath: husband, I come:

Now to that name my courage prove my title!

I am fire, and air; my other elements

I give to baser life. So; have you done? 292

Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.

Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.

[Kisses them. Iras falls and dies.

Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?

If thou and nature can so gently part, 296

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,

Which hurts, and is desir’d. Dost thou lie still?

If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world

It is not worth leave-taking. 300

Char.

Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say,

The gods themselves do weep.

Cleo.

This proves me base:

If she first meet the curled Antony,

He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss

Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal wretch, 305

[To the asp, which she applies to her breast.

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate

Of life at once untie; poor venomous fool,

Be angry, and dispatch. O! couldst thou speak, 308

That I might hear thee call great Cæsar ass

Unpolicied.

Char.

O eastern star!

Cleo.

Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,

That sucks the nurse asleep?

Char.

O, break! O, break! 312

Cleo.

As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,—

O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.

[Applying another asp to her arm.

What should I stay—

[Dies.

Char.

In this vile world? So, fare thee well. 316

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies

A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close;

And golden Phœbus never be beheld

Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry; 320

I’ll mend it, and then play.

Enter the Guard, rushing in.

First Guard.

Where is the queen?

Char.

Speak softly, wake her not.

First Guard.

Cæsar hath sent—

Char.

Too slow a messenger.

[Applies an asp.

O! come apace, dispatch; I partly feel thee. 324

First Guard.

Approach, ho! All’s not well; Cæsar’s beguil’d.

Sec. Guard.

There’s Dolabella sent from Cæsar; call him.

First Guard.

What work is here! Charmian, is this well done?

Char.

It is well done, and fitting for a princess 328

Descended of so many royal kings.

Ah! soldier.

[Dies.

Re-enter Dolabella.

Dol.

How goes it here?

Sec. Guard.

All dead.

Dol.

Cæsar, thy thoughts

Touch their effects in this; thyself art coming

To see perform’d the dreaded act which thou 333

So sought’st to hinder.

[Within, ‘A way there!—a way for Cæsar!’

Re-enter Cæsar and all his Train.

Dol.

O! sir, you are too sure an augurer;

That you did fear is done.

Cæs.

Bravest at the last, 336

She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal,

Took her own way. The manner of their deaths?

I do not see them bleed.

Dol.

Who was last with them?

First Guard.

A simple countryman that brought her figs: 340

This was his basket.

Cæs.

Poison’d then.

First Guard.

O Cæsar!

This Charmian liv’d but now; she stood, and spake:

I found her trimming up the diadem

On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood, 344

And on the sudden dropp’d.

Cæs.

O noble weakness!

If they had swallow’d poison ’twould appear

By external swelling; but she looks like sleep,

As she would catch another Antony 348

In her strong toil of grace.

Dol.

Here, on her breast,

There is a vent of blood, and something blown;

The like is on her arm.

First Guard.

This is an aspic’s trail; and these fig-leaves 352

Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves

Upon the caves of Nile.

Cæs.

Most probable

That so she died; for her physician tells me

She hath pursu’d conclusions infinite 356

Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed;

And bear her women from the monument.

She shall be buried by her Antony:

No grave upon the earth shall clip in it 360

A pair so famous. High events as these

Strike those that make them; and their story is

No less in pity than his glory which

Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall,

In solemn show, attend this funeral, 365

And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see

High order in this great solemnity.

[Exeunt.

CYMBELINE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Cymbeline,	King of Britain.
Cloten,	Son to the Queen by a former Husband.
Posthumus Leonatus,	a Gentleman, Husband to Imogen.
Belarius,	a banished Lord, disguised under the name of Morgan.
Guiderius, {	Sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of Polydore and Cadwal, supposed Sons to Morgan.
Arviragus, {
Philario, Friend to Posthumus, }	Italians.
Iachimo, Friend to Philario, }	Italians.
A French Gentleman, Friend to Philario.
Caius Lucius,	General of the Roman Forces.
A Roman Captain.
Two British Captains.
Pisanio,	Servant to Posthumus.
Cornelius,	a Physician.
Two Lords of Cymbeline’s Court.
Two Gentlemen of the same.
Two Gaolers.
Queen,	Wife to Cymbeline.
Imogen,	Daughter to Cymbeline by a former Queen.
Helen,	a Lady attending on Imogen.
Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Dutch Gentleman, a Spanish Gentleman, a Soothsayer, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.
Apparitions.

Scene.—Sometimes in Britain, sometimes in Italy.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Britain. The Garden of Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter two Gentlemen.

First Gent.

You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods

No more obey the heavens than our courtiers

Still seem as does the king.

Sec. Gent.

But what’s the matter?

First Gent.

His daughter, and the heir of ’s kingdom, whom 4

He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son,—a widow

That late he married,—hath referr’d herself

Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s wedded;

Her husband banish’d, she imprison’d: all 8

Is outward sorrow, though I think the king

Be touch’d at very heart.

Sec. Gent.

None but the king?

First Gent.

He that hath lost her too; so is the queen,

That most desir’d the match; but not a courtier,

Although they wear their faces to the bent 13

Of the king’s looks, hath a heart that is not

Glad at the thing they scowl at.

Sec. Gent.

And why so?

First Gent.

He that hath miss’d the princess is a thing 16

Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her,—

I mean that married her, alack! good man!

And therefore banish’d—is a creature such

As, to seek through the regions of the earth 20

For one his like, there would be something failing

In him that should compare. I do not think

So fair an outward and such stuff within

Endows a man but he.

Sec. Gent.

You speak him far. 24

First Gent.

I do extend him, sir, within himself,

Crush him together rather than unfold

His measure duly.

Sec. Gent.

What’s his name and birth?

First Gent.

I cannot delve him to the root: his father 28

Was called Sicilius, who did join his honour

Against the Romans with Cassibelan,

But had his titles by Tenantius whom

He serv’d with glory and admir’d success, 32

So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus;

And had, besides this gentleman in question,

Two other sons, who in the wars o’ the time

Died with their swords in hand; for which their father— 36

Then old and fond of issue—took such sorrow

That he quit being, and his gentle lady,

Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas’d

As he was born. The king, he takes the babe 40

To his protection; calls him Posthumus Leonatus;

Breeds him and makes him of his bedchamber,

Puts to him all the learnings that his time

Could make him the receiver of; which he took,

As we do air, fast as ’twas minister’d, 45

And in’s spring became a harvest; liv’d in court,—

Which rare it is to do—most prais’d, most lov’d;

A sample to the youngest, to the more mature

A glass that feated them, and to the graver 49

A child that guided dotards; to his mistress,

For whom he now is banish’d, her own price

Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue;

By her election may be truly read 53

What kind of man he is.

Sec. Gent.

I honour him,

Even out of your report. But pray you, tell me,

Is she sole child to the king?

First Gent.

His only child. 56

He had twosons,—if this be worth your hearing,

Mark it,—the eldest of them at three years old,

I’ the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery

Were stol’n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge 60

Which way they went.

Sec. Gent.

How long is this ago?

First Gent.

Some twenty years.

Sec. Gent.

That a king’s children should be so convey’d,

So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, 64

That could not trace them!

First Gent.

Howsoe’er ’tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at,

Yet is it true, sir.

Sec. Gent.

I do well believe you.

First Gent.

We must forbear. Here comes the gentleman, 68

The queen, and princess.

[Exeunt.

Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen.

Queen.

No, be assur’d you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most step-mothers,

Evil-ey’d unto you; you’re my prisoner, but 72

Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,

So soon as I can win the offended king,

I will be known your advocate; marry, yet 76

The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good

You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience

Your wisdom may inform you.

Post.

Please your highness,

I will from hence to-day.

Queen.

You know the peril: 80

I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

The pangs of barr’d affections, though the king

Hath charg’d you should not speak together.

[Exit.

Imo.

O!

Dissembling courtesy. How fine this tyrant 84

Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,

I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing,—

Always reserv’d my holy duty,—what

His rage can do on me. You must be gone; 88

And I shall here abide the hourly shot

Of angry eyes, not comforted to live,

But that there is this jewel in the world

That I may see again.

Post.

My queen! my mistress! 92

O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause

To be suspected of more tenderness

Than doth become a man. I will remain

The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth.

My residence in Rome at one Philario’s, 97

Who to my father was a friend, to me

Known but by letter; thither write, my queen,

And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send, 100

Though ink be made of gall.

Re-enter Queen.

Queen.

Be brief, I pray you;

If the king come, I shall incur I know not

How much of his displeasure. [Aside.] Yet I’ll move him

To walk this way. I never do him wrong, 104

But he does buy my injuries to be friends,

Pays dear for my offences.

[Exit.

Post.

Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,

The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

Imo.

Nay, stay a little: 109

Were you but riding forth to air yourself

Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;

This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart;

But keep it till you woo another wife, 113

When Imogen is dead.

Post.

How! how! another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,

And sear up my embracements from a next 116

With bonds of death!—Remain, remain thou here

[Putting on the ring.

While sense can keep it on! And, sweetest, fairest,

As I my poor self did exchange for you,

To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 120

I still win of you; for my sake wear this;

It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it

Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Putting a bracelet on her arm.

Imo.

O the gods!

When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline and Lords.

Post.

Alack! the king! 124

Cym.

Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!

If after this command thou fraught the court

With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!

Thou’rt poison to my blood.

Post.

The gods protect you 128

And bless the good remainders of the court!

I am gone.

[Exit.

Imo.

There cannot be a pinch in death

More sharp than this is.

Cym.

O disloyal thing,

That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st instead 132

A year’s age on me.

Imo.

I beseech you, sir,

Harm not yourself with your vexation;

I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare

Subdues all pangs, all fears.

Cym.

Past grace? obedience?

Imo.

Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. 137

Cym.

That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

Imo.

O bless’d, that I might not! I chose an eagle

And did avoid a puttock. 140

Cym.

Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne

A seat for baseness.

Imo.

No; I rather added

A lustre to it.

Cym.

O thou vile one!

Imo.

Sir,

It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus;

You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 145

A man worth any woman, overbuys me

Almost the sum he pays.

Cym.

What! art thou mad?

Imo.

Almost, sir; heaven restore me! Would I were 148

A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus

Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

Cym.

Thou foolish thing!

Re-enter Queen.

They were again together; you have done

Not after our command. Away with her, 152

And pen her up.

Queen.

Beseech your patience. Peace!

Dear lady daughter, peace! Sweet sovereign,

Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort

Out of your best advice.

Cym.

Nay, let her languish 156

A drop of blood a day; and, being aged,

Die of this folly!

[Exeunt Cymbeline and Lords.

Queen.

Fie! you must give way:

Enter Pisanio.

Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?

Pis.

My lord your son drew on my master.

Queen.

Ha! 160

No harm, I trust, is done?

Pis.

There might have been,

But that my master rather play’d than fought,

And had no help of anger; they were parted

By gentlemen at hand.

Queen.

I am very glad on ’t. 164

Imo.

Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part.

To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!

I would they were in Afric both together,

Myself by with a needle, that I might prick 168

The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

Pis.

On his command: he would not suffer me

To bring him to the haven; left these notes

Of what commands I should be subject to, 172

When ’t pleas’d you to employ me.

Queen.

This hath been

Your faithful servant; I dare lay mine honour

He will remain so.

Pis.

I humbly thank your highness.

Queen.

Pray, walk awhile.

Imo.

[To Pisanio.] About some half-hour hence, 176

I pray you, speak with me. You shall at least

Go see my lord aboard; for this time leave me.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Public Place.

Enter Cloten and two Lords.

First Lord.

Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. 5

Clo.

If my shirt were bloody, them to shift it. Have I hurt him?

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] No faith; not so much as his patience. 9

First Lord.

Hurt him! his body’s a passable carcass if he be not hurt; it is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. 12

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] His steel was in debt; it went o’ the backside the town.

Clo.

The villain would not stand me.

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face. 17

First Lord.

Stand you! You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. 20

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!

Clo.

I would they had not come between us. 24

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] So would I till you had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

Clo.

And that she should love this fellow and refuse me! 29

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damned.

First Lord.

Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her. 37

Clo.

Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done!

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.

Clo.

You’ll go with us?

First Lord.

I’ll attend your lordship. 44

Clo.

Nay, come, let’s go together.

Sec. Lord.

Well, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter Imogen and Pisanio.

Imo.

I would thou grew’st unto the shores of the haven,

And question’dst every sail: if he should write,

And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost,

As offer’d mercy is. What was the last 4

That he spake to thee?

Pis.

It was his queen, his queen!

Imo.

Then wav’d his handkerchief?

Pis.

And kiss’d it, madam.

Imo.

Senseless linen, happier therein than I!

And that was all?

Pis.

No, madam; for so long 8

As he could make me with this eye or ear

Distinguish him from others, he did keep

The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,

Still waving, as the fits and stirs of ’s mind 12

Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,

How swift his ship.

Imo.

Thou shouldst have made him

As little as a crow, or less, ere left

To after-eye him.

Pis.

Madam, so I did. 16

Imo.

I would have broke mine eye-strings, crack’d them, but

To look upon him, till the diminution

Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle,

Nay, follow’d him, till he had melted from 20

The smallness of a gnat to air, and then

Have turn’d mine eye, and wept. But, good Pisanio,

When shall we hear from him?

Pis.

Be assur’d, madam,

With his next vantage. 24

Imo.

I did not take my leave of him, but had

Most pretty things to say; ere I could tell him

How I would think on him at certain hours

Such thoughts and such, or I could make him swear 28

The shes of Italy should not betray

Mine interest and his honour, or have charg’d him,

At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at mid-night,

To encounter me with orisons, for then 32

I am in heaven for him; or ere I could

Give him that parting kiss which I had set

Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,

And like the tyrannous breathing of the north

Shakes all our buds from growing.

Enter a Lady.

Lady.

The queen, madam, 37

Desires your highness’ company.

Imo.

Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d.

I will attend the queen.

Pis.

Madam, I shall.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rome. A Room in Philario’s House.

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a Spaniard.

Iach.

Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain; he was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of; but I could then have looked on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side and I to peruse him by items. 8

Phi.

You speak of him when he was less furnished than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

French.

I have seen him in France: we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. 14

Iach.

This matter of marrying his king’s daughter,—wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own,—words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

French.

And then, his banishment. 19

Iach.

Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him; be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar without less quality. But how comes it, he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance? 26

Phi.

His father and I were soldiers together; to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Here comes the Briton: let him be so entertained amongst you as suits, with gentlemen of your knowing, to a stranger of his quality. 32

Enter Posthumus.

I beseech you all, be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you, as a noble friend of mine; how worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing. 37

French.

Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

Post.

Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still. 42

French.

Sir, you o’er-rate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature. 48

Post.

By your pardon, sir, I was then a young traveller; rather shunned to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others’ experiences; but, upon my mended judgment,—if I offend not to say it is mended,—my quarrel was not altogether slight. 54

French.

Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other, or have fallen both.

Iach.

Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference? 60

French.

Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching—and upon warrant of bloody affirmation—his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France.

Iach.

That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion by this worn out. 72

Post.

She holds her virtue still and I my mind.

Iach.

You must not so far prefer her ’fore ours of Italy. 76

Post.

Being so far provoked as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend. 79

Iach.

As fair and as good—a kind of hand-in-hand comparison—had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady. 87

Post.

I praised her as I rated her; so do I my stone.

Iach.

What do you esteem it at?

Post.

More than the world enjoys.

Iach.

Either your unparagoned mistress is dead, or she’s outprized by a trifle. 93

Post.

You are mistaken; the one may be sold, or given; or if there were wealth enough for the purchase, or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods.

Iach.

Which the gods have given you?

Post.

Which, by their graces, I will keep. 100

Iach.

You may wear her in little yours, but, you know, strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stolen, too; so your brace of unprizeable estimations, the one is but frail and the other causal; a cunning thief, or a that way accomplished courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last. 107

Post.

Your Italy contains none so accomplished a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if, in the holding or loss of that, you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding I fear not my ring. 113

Phi.

Let us leave here, gentlemen.

Post.

Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first. 117

Iach.

With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress, make her go back, even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend. 121

Post.

No, no.

Iach.

I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something; but I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.

Post.

You are a great deal abused in too bold a persuasion; and I doubt not you sustain what you’re worthy of by your attempt.

Iach.

What’s that? 132

Post.

A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserves more,—a punishment too.

Phi.

Gentlemen, enough of this; it came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and, I pray you, be better acquainted. 137

Iach.

Would I had put my estate and my neighbour’s on the approbation of what I have spoke! 140

Post.

What lady would you choose to assail?

Iach.

Yours; whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring, that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserved.

Post.

I will wage against your gold, gold to it: my ring I hold dear as my finger; ’tis part of it.

Iach.

You are afraid, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear. 154

Post.

This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope.

Iach.

I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what’s spoken, I swear. 158

Post.

Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between ’s: my mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking; I dare you to this match. Here’s my ring.

Phi.

I will have it no lay. 164

Iach.

By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoyed the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too: if I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours; provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment. 173

Post.

I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her and give me directly to understand that you have prevailed, I am no further your enemy; she is not worth our debate: if she remain unseduced,—you not making it appear otherwise,—for your ill opinion, and the assault you have made to her chastity, you shall answer me with your sword. 183

Iach.

Your hand; a covenant. We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. 188

Post.

Agreed.

[Exeunt Posthumus and Iachimo.

French.

Will this hold, think you?

Phi.

Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray, let us follow ’em.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Britain. A Room in Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter Queen, Ladies, and Cornelius.

Queen.

Whiles yet the dew ’s on ground, gather those flowers:

Make haste; who has the note of them?

First Lady.

I, madam.

Queen.

Dispatch.

[Exeunt Ladies.

Now, Master doctor, have you brought those drugs? 4

Cor.

Pleaseth your highness, ay; here they are, madam:

[Presenting a small box.

But I beseech your Grace, without offence,—

My conscience bids me ask,—wherefore you have

Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds, 8

Which are the movers of a languishing death,

But though slow, deadly?

Queen.

I wonder, doctor,

Thou ask’st me such a question: have I not been

Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how

To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so 13

That our great king himself doth woo me oft

For my confections? Having thus far proceeded,—

Unless thou think’st me devilish,—is ’t not meet 16

That I did amplify my judgment in

Other conclusions? I will try the forces

Of these thy compounds on such creatures as

We count not worth the hanging,—but none human,— 20

To try the vigour of them and apply

Allayments to their act, and by them gather

Their several virtues and effects.

Cor.

Your highness

Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; 24

Besides, the seeing these effects will be

Both noisome and infectious.

Queen.

O! content thee.

Enter Pisanio.

[Aside.] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him

Will I first work: he’s for his master, 28

And enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio:

Doctor, your service for this time is ended;

Take your own way.

Cor.

[Aside.] I do suspect you, madam;

But you shall do no harm.

Queen.

[To Pisanio.] Hark thee, a word.

Cor.

[Aside.] I do not like her. She doth think she has 33

Strange lingering poisons; I do know her spirit,

And will not trust one of her malice with

A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has

Will stupify and dull the sense awhile; 37

Which first, perchance, she’ll prove on cats and dogs,

Then afterward up higher; but there is

No danger in what show of death it makes, 40

More than the locking-up the spirits a time,

To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d

With a most false effect; and I the truer,

So to be false with her.

Queen.

No further service, doctor, 44

Until I send for thee.

Cor.

I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.

Queen.

Weeps she still, sayst thou? Dost thou think in time

She will not quench, and let instructions enter

Where folly now possesses? Do thou work: 48

When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son,

I’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then

As great as is thy master; greater, for

His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name 52

Is at last gasp; return he cannot, nor

Continue where he is; to shift his being

Is to exchange one misery with another,

And every day that comes comes to decay 56

A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect,

To be depender on a thing that leans,

Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends,

So much as but to prop him?

[The Queen drops the box; Pisanio takes it up.

Thou tak’st up 60

Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy labour:

It is a thing I made, which hath the king

Five times redeem’d from death; I do not know

What is more cordial: nay, I prithee, take it; 64

It is an earnest of a further good

That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how

The case stands with her; do ’t as from thyself.

Think what a chance thou changest on, but think 68

Thou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son,

Who shall take notice of thee. I’ll move the king

To any shape of thy preferment such

As thou’lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, 72

That set thee on to this desert, am bound

To load thy merit richly. Call my women;

Think on my words.

[Exit Pisanio.

A sly and constant knave,

Not to be shak’d; the agent for his master, 76

And the remembrancer of her to hold

The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that

Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her

Of leigers for her sweet, and which she after, 80

Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d

To taste of too.

Re-enter Pisanio and Ladies.

So, so;—well done, well done.

The violets, cowslips, and the prime-roses

Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio: 84

Think on my words.

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies.

Pis.

And shall do:

But when to my good lord I prove untrue,

I’ll choke myself; there’s all I’ll do for you.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter Imogen.

Imo.

A father cruel, and a step-dame false;

A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,

That hath her husband banish’d: O! that husband,

My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated

Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n, 5

As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable

Is the desire that’s glorious: bless’d be those,

How mean so’er, that have their honest wills, 8

Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.

Pis.

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,

Comes from my lord with letters.

Iach.

Change you, madam?

The worthy Leonatus is in safety, 12

And greets your highness dearly.

[Presents a letter.

Imo.

Thanks, good sir:

You are kindly welcome.

Iach.

[Aside.] All of her that is out of door most rich!

If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, 16

She is alone the Arabian bird, and I

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!

Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; 20

Rather, directly fly.

Imo.

He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your truest

Leonatus.

So far I read aloud;

But even the very middle of my heart 27

Is warm’d by the rest, and takes it thankfully.

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I

Have words to bid you; and shall find it so

In all that I can do.

Iach.

Thanks, fairest lady.

What! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes 32

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop

Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt

The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones

Upon the number’d beach? and can we not 36

Partition make with spectacles so precious

’Twixt fair and foul?

Imo.

What makes your admiration?

Iach.

It cannot be i’ the eye; for apes and monkeys

’Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and 40

Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ the judgment,

For idiots in this case of favour would

Be wisely definite; nor i’ the appetite;

Sluttery to such neat excellence oppos’d 44

Should make desire vomit emptiness,

Not so allur’d to feed.

Imo.

What is the matter, trow?

Iach.

The cloyed will,—

That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub 48

Both fill’d and running,—ravening first the lamb,

Longs after for the garbage.

Imo.

What, dear sir,

Thus raps you? are you well?

Iach.

Thanks, madam, well.

[To Pisanio.] Beseech you, sir, 52

Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him;

He’s strange and peevish.

Pis.

I was going, sir,

To give him welcome.

[Exit.

Imo.

Continues well my lord his health, beseech you? 56

Iach.

Well, madam.

Imo.

Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.

Iach.

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there

So merry and so gamesome: he is call’d 60

The Briton reveller.

Imo.

When he was here

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times

Not knowing why.

Iach.

I never saw him sad.

There is a Frenchman his companion, one, 64

An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves

A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces

The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton—

Your lord, I mean—laughs from ’s free lungs, cries, ‘O! 68

Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows

By history, report, or his own proof,

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose

But must be, will his free hours languish for 72

Assured bondage?’

Imo.

Will my lord say so?

Iach.

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:

It is a recreation to be by

And hear him mock the Frenchman; but, heavens know, 76

Some men are much to blame.

Imo.

Not he, I hope.

Iach.

Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might

Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much;

In you,—which I account his beyond all talents,— 80

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too.

Imo.

What do you pity, sir?

Iach.

Two creatures, heartily.

Imo.

Am I one, sir?

You look on me: what wrack discern you in me 84

Deserves your pity?

Iach.

Lamentable! What!

To hide me from the radiant sun and solace

I’ the dungeon by a snuff!

Imo.

I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers 88

To my demands. Why do you pity me?

Iach.

That others do,

I was about to say, enjoy your—But

It is an office of the gods to venge it, 92

Not mine to speak on ’t.

Imo.

You do seem to know

Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you,—

Since doubting things go ill often hurts more

Than to be sure they do; for certainties 96

Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,

The remedy then born,—discover to me

What both you spur and stop.

Iach.

Had I this cheek

To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,

Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul

To the oath of loyalty; this object, which 102

Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

Firing it only here; should I—damn’d then—

Slaver with lips as common as the stairs 105

That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands

Made hard with hourly falsehood,—falsehood, as

With labour;—then by-peeping in an eye, 108

Base and illustrous as the smoky light

That’s fed with stinking tallow; it were fit

That all the plagues of hell should at one time

Encounter such revolt.

Imo.

My lord, I fear, 112

Has forgot Britain.

Iach.

And himself. Not I,

Inclin’d to this intelligence, pronounce

The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces

That from my mutest conscience to my tongue

Charms this report out.

Imo.

Let me hear no more. 117

Iach.

O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart

With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady

So fair,—and fasten’d to an empery 120

Would make the great’st king double,—to be partner’d

With tom-boys hir’d with that self-exhibition

Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures

That play with all infirmities for gold 124

Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil’d stuff

As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d;

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

Recoil from your great stock.

Imo.

Reveng’d! 128

How should I be reveng’d? If this be true,—

As I have such a heart, that both mine ears

Must not in haste abuse,—if it be true,

How should I be reveng’d?

Iach.

Should be make me 132

Live like Diana’s priest, betwixt cold sheets,

Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,

In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, 136

More noble than that runagate to your bed,

And will continue fast to your affection,

Still close as sure.

Imo.

What ho, Pisanio!

Iach.

Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imo.

Away! I do condemn mine ears that have 141

So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not

For such an end thou seek’st; as base as strange. 144

Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far

From thy report as thou from honour, and

Solicit’st here a lady that disdains

Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio! 148

The king my father shall be made acquainted

Of thy assault; if he shall think it fit,

A saucy stranger in his court to mart

As in a Romish stew and to expound 152

His beastly mind to us, he hath a court

He little cares for and a daughter who

He not respects at all. What ho, Pisanio!

Iach.

O happy Leonatus! I may say: 156

The credit that thy lady hath of thee

Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness

Her assur’d credit. Blessed live you long!

A lady to the worthiest sir that ever 160

Country call’d his; and you his mistress, only

For the most worthiest fit. Give me your pardon.

I have spoken this, to know if your affiance

Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord

That which he is, new o’er; and he is one 165

The truest manner’d; such a holy witch

That he enchants societies into him;

Half all men’s hearts are his.

Imo.

You make amends. 168

Iach.

He sits ’mongst men like a descended god:

He hath a kind of honour sets him off,

More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,

Most mighty princess, that I have adventur’d 172

To try your taking of a false report; which hath

Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment

In the election of a sir so rare,

Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him 176

Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you,

Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

Imo.

All’s well, sir. Take my power i’ the court for yours.

Iach.

My humble thanks. I had almost forget 180

To entreat your Grace but in a small request,

And yet of moment too, for it concerns

Your lord, myself, and other noble friends,

Are partners in the business.

Imo.

Pray, what is ’t? 184

Iach.

Some dozen Romans of us and your lord,

The best feather of our wing, have mingled sums

To buy a present for the emperor;

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done 188

In France; ’tis plate of rare device, and jewels

Of rich and exquisite form; their values great;

And I am something curious, being strange,

To have them in safe stowage. May it please you 192

To take them in protection?

Imo.

Willingly;

And pawn mine honour for their safety: since

My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them

In my bedchamber.

Iach.

They are in a trunk, 196

Attended by my men; I will make bold

To send them to you, only for this night;

I must aboard to-morrow.

Imo.

O! no, no.

Iach.

Yes, I beseech, or I shall short my word 200

By lengthening my return. From Gallia

I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise

To see your Grace.

Imo.

I thank you for your pains;

But not away to-morrow!

Iach.

O! I must, madam: 204

Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please

To greet your lord with writing, do ’t to-night:

I have outstood my time, which is material

To the tender of our present.

Imo.

I will write. 208

Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,

And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Britain. Before Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter Cloten and two Lords.

Clo.

Was there ever man had such luck! when I kissed the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on ’t; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure.

First Lord.

What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. 8

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

Clo.

When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha? 13

Sec. Lord.

No, my lord; [Aside.] nor crop the ears of them.

Clo.

Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction!

Would he had been one of my rank! 17

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] To have smelt like a fool.

Clo.

I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth. A pox on ’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am. They dare not fight with me because of the queen my mother. Every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.

Clo.

Sayest thou? 28

Sec. Lord.

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.

Clo.

No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. 33

Sec. Lord.

Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Clo.

Why, so I say. 36

First Lord.

Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court to-night?

Clo.

A stranger, and I not know on ’t!

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not. 41

First Lord.

There’s an Italian come; and ’tis thought, one of Leonatus’ friends.

Clo.

Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

First Lord.

One of your lordship’s pages.

Clo.

Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in ’t? 49

First Lord.

You cannot derogate, my lord.

Clo.

Not easily, I think.

Sec. Lord.

[Aside.] You are a fool, granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

Clo.

Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I’ll win to-night of him. Come, go. 57

Sec. Lord.

I’ll attend your lordship.

[Exeunt Cloten and First Lord.

That such a crafty devil as is his mother

Should yield the world this ass! a woman that 60

Bears all down with her brain, and this her son

Cannot take two from twenty for his heart

And leave eighteen. Alas! poor princess,

Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st 64

Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d,

A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer

More hateful than the foul expulsion is

Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act 68

Of the divorce he’d make. The heavens hold firm

The walls of thy dear honour; keep unshak’d

That temple, thy fair mind; that thou mayst stand,

To enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Bedchamber; in one part of it a Trunk.

Imogen reading in her bed; a Lady attending.

Imo.

Who’s there? my woman Helen?

Lady.

Please you, madam.

Imo.

What hour is it?

Lady.

Almost midnight, madam.

Imo.

I have read three hours then; mine eyes are weak;

Fold down the leaf where I have left; to bed: 4

Take not away the taper, leave it burning,

And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock,

I prithee, call me. Sleep has seized me wholly.

[Exit Lady.

To your protection I commend me, gods! 8

From fairies and the tempters of the night

Guard me, beseech ye!

[Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk.

Iach.

The crickets sing, and man’s o’erlabour’d sense

Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus 12

Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! freshlily,

And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! 16

But kiss: one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d,

How dearly they do ’t! ’Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus; the flame of the taper

Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, 20

To see the enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows, white and azure lac’d

With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design,

To note the chamber: I will write all down: 24

Such and such pictures; there the window; such

Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures,

Why, such and such; and the contents o’ the story.

Ah! but some natural notes about her body, 28

Above ten thousand meaner moveables

Would testify, to enrich mine inventory.

O sleep! thou ape of death, lie dull upon her;

And be her senses but as a monument 32

Thus in a chapel lying. Come off, come off;—

[Taking off her bracelet.

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!

’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,

As strongly as the conscience does within, 36

To the madding of her lord. On her left breast

A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops

I’ the bottom of a cowslip: here’s a voucher;

Stronger than ever law could make: this secret 40

Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en

The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?

Why should I write this down, that’s riveted,

Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late 44

The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down

Where Philomel gave up. I have enough:

To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.

Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning 48

May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;

Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

[Clock strikes.

One, two, three: time, time!

[Goes into the trunk. The scene closes.

Scene III.— An Ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s Apartments.

Enter Cloten and Lords.

First Lord.

Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.

Clo.

It would make any man cold to lose. 4

First Lord.

But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

Clo.

Winning will put any man into courage.

If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, is ’t not?

First Lord.

Day, my lord. 11

Clo.

I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music o’ mornings; they say it will penetrate.

Enter Musicians.

Come on; tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so; we’ll try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it: and then let her consider. 21

SONG.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

And Phœbus ’gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs 24

On chalic’d flowers that lies,

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:

With every thing that pretty is, 28

My lady sweet, arise.

Arise, arise!

So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves’-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.

[Exeunt Musicians.

Sec. Lord.

Here comes the king. 36

Clo.

I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early; he cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.

Enter Cymbeline and Queen.

Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother. 41

Cym.

Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?

Will she not forth?

Clo.

I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. 45

Cym.

The exile of her minion is too new,

She hath not yet forgot him; some more time

Must wear the print of his remembrance out, 48

And then she’s yours.

Queen.

You are most bound to the king,

Who lets go by no vantages that may

Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself

To orderly soliciting, and be friended 52

With aptness of the season; make denials

Increase your services; so seem as if

You were inspir’d to do those duties which

You tender to her; that you in all obey her 56

Save when command to your dismission tends,

And therein you are senseless.

Clo.

Senseless! not so.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;

The one is Caius Lucius.

Cym.

A worthy fellow, 60

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that’s no fault of his: we must receive him

According to the honour of his sender;

And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, 64

We must extend our notice. Our dear son,

When you have given good morning to your mistress,

Attend the queen and us; we shall have need

To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

[Exeunt all but Cloten.

Clo.

If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,

Let her lie still, and dream. By your leave, ho!

[Knocks.

I know her women are about her. What

If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold 72

Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes

Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up

Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer; and ’tis gold

Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; 76

Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What

Can it not do and undo? I will make

One of her women lawyer to me, for

I yet not understand the case myself. 80

By your leave.

[Knocks.

Enter a Lady.

Lady.

Who’s there, that knocks?

Clo.

A gentleman.

Lady.

No more?

Clo.

Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.

Lady.

[Aside.] That’s more

Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours 84

Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?

Clo.

Your lady’s person: is she ready?

Lady.

Ay,

To keep her chamber.

Clo.

There’s gold for you; sell me your good report. 88

Lady.

How! my good name? or to report of you

What I shall think is good?—The princess!

Enter Imogen.

Clo.

Good morrow, fairest; sister, your sweet hand.

[Exit Lady.

Imo.

Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains 92

For purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks

And scarce can spare them.

Clo.

Still, I swear I love you.

Imo.

If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me: 96

If you swear still, your recompense is still

That I regard it not.

Clo.

This is no answer.

Imo.

But that you shall not say I yield being silent

I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: faith,

I shall unfold equal discourtesy 101

To your best kindness. One of your great knowing

Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Clo.

To leave you in your madness, ’twere my sin: 104

I will not.

Imo.

Fools cure not mad folks.

Clo.

Do you call me fool?

Imo.

As I am mad, I do:

If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; 108

That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,

You put me to forget a lady’s manners,

By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,

That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce

By the very truth of it, I care not for you; 113

And am so near the lack of charity,—

To accuse myself,—I hate you; which I had rather

You felt than make ’t my boast.

Clo.

You sin against 116

Obedience, which you owe your father. For

The contract you pretend with that base wretch,

One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes,

With scraps o’ the court, it is no contract, none; 120

And though it be allow’d in meaner parties—

Yet who than he more mean?—to knit their souls—

On whom there is no more dependancy

But brats and beggary—in self-figur’d knot; 124

Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by

The consequence o’ the crown, and must not soil

The precious note of it with a base slave,

A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, 128

A pantler, not so eminent.

Imo.

Profane fellow!

Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more

But what thou art besides, thou wert too base

To be his groom; thou wert dignified enough,

Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made 133

Comparative for your virtues, to be styl’d

The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated

For being preferr’d so well.

Clo.

The south-fog rot him!

Imo.

He never can meet more mischance than come 137

To be but nam’d of thee. His meanest garment

That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer

In my respect than all the hairs above thee, 140

Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio.

Clo.

‘His garment!’ Now, the devil—

Imo.

To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently,—

Clo.

‘His garment!’

Imo.

I am sprighted with a fool, 144

Frighted, and anger’d worse. Go, bid my woman

Search for a jewel that too casually

Hath left mine arm; it was thy master’s, ’shrew me

If I would lose it for a revenue 148

Of any king’s in Europe. I do think

I saw ’t this morning; confident I am

Last night ’twas on mine arm, I kiss’d it;

I hope it be not gone to tell my lord 152

That I kiss aught but he.

Pis.

’Twill not be lost.

Imo.

I hope so; go, and search.

[Exit Pisanio.

Clo.

You have abus’d me:

‘His meanest garment!’

Imo.

Ay, I said so, sir: 155

If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t.

Clo.

I will inform your father.

Imo.

Your mother too:

She’s my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,

But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,

To the worst of discontent.

[Exit.

Clo.

I’ll be reveng’d. 160

‘His meanest garment!’ Well.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Rome. A Room in Philario’s House.

Enter Posthumus and Philario.

Post.

Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure

To win the king as I am bold her honour

Will remain hers.

Phi.

What means do you make to him?

Post.

Not any, but abide the change of time,

Quake in the present winter’s state and wish 5

That warmer days would come; in these sear’d hopes,

I barely gratify your love; they failing,

I must die much your debtor. 8

Phi.

Your very goodness and your company

O’erpays all I can do. By this, your king

Hath heard of great Augustus; Caius Lucius

Will do ’s commission throughly, and I think

He’ll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, 13

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance

Is yet fresh in their grief.

Post.

I do believe—

Statist though I am none, nor like to be— 16

That this will prove a war; and you shall hear

The legions now in Gallia sooner landed

In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings

Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen 20

Are men more order’d than when Julius Cæsar

Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage

Worthy his frowning at: their discipline,—

Now winged,—with their courage will make known 24

To their approvers they are people such

That mend upon the world.

Phi.

See! Iachimo!

Enter Iachimo.

Post.

The swiftest harts have posted you by land,

And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, 28

To make your vessel nimble.

Phi.

Welcome, sir.

Post.

I hope the briefness of your answer made

The speediness of your return.

Iach.

Your lady

Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon. 32

Post.

And therewithal the best; or let her beauty

Look through a casement to allure false hearts

And be false with them.

Iach.

Here are letters for you.

Post.

Their tenour good, I trust.

Iach.

’Tis very like. 36

Phi.

Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court

When you were there?

Iach.

He was expected then,

But not approach’d.

Post.

All is well yet.

Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is’t not 40

Too dull for your good wearing?

Iach.

If I have lost it,

I should have lost the worth of it in gold.

I’ll make a journey twice as far to enjoy

A second night of such sweet shortness which 44

Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.

Post.

The stone’s too hard to come by.

Iach.

Not a whit,

Your lady being so easy.

Post.

Make not, sir,

Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we

Must not continue friends.

Iach.

Good sir, we must, 49

If you keep covenant. Had I not brought

The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant

We were to question further, but I now 52

Profess myself the winner of her honour,

Together with your ring; and not the wronger

Of her or you, having proceeded but

By both your wills.

Post.

If you can make ’t apparent 56

That you have tasted her in bed, my hand

And ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion

You had of her pure honour gains or loses

Your sword or mine or masterless leaves both 60

To who shall find them.

Iach.

Sir, my circumstances

Being so near the truth as I will make them,

Must first induce you to believe: whose strength

I will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not, 64

You’ll give me leave to spare, when you shall find

You need it not.

Post.

Proceed.

Iach.

First, her bedchamber,—

Where I confess I slept not, but profess

Had that was well worth watching,—it was hang’d 68

With tapestry of silk and silver; the story

Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,

And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for

The press of boats or pride; a piece of work 72

So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive

In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d

Could be rarely and exactly wrought,

Since the true life on ’t was—

Post.

This is true; 76

And this you might have heard of here, by me,

Or by some other.

Iach.

More particulars

Must justify my knowledge.

Post.

So they must,

Or do your honour injury.

Iach.

The chimney 80

Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece

Chaste Dian bathing; never saw I figures

So likely to report themselves; the cutter

Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, 84

Motion and breath left out.

Post.

This is a thing

Which you might from relation likewise reap,

Being, as it is, much spoke of.

Iach.

The roof o’ the chamber

With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons— 88

I had forgot them—were two winking Cupids

Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely

Depending on their brands.

Post.

This is her honour!

Let it be granted you have seen all this,—and praise 92

Be given to your remembrance,—the description

Of what is in her chamber nothing saves

The wager you have laid.

Iach.

Then, if you can,

Be pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see!

[Showing the bracelet.

And now ’tis up again; it must be married 97

To that your diamond; I’ll keep them.

Post.

Jove!

Once more let me behold it. Is it that

Which I left with her?

Iach.

Sir,—I thank her,—that: 100

She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet;

Her pretty action did outsell her gift,

And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said

She priz’d it once.

Post.

May be she pluck’d it off 104

To send it me.

Iach.

She writes so to you, doth she?

Post.

O! no, no, no, ’tis true. Here, take this too;

[Gives the ring.

It is a basilisk unto mine eye,

Kills me to look on ’t. Let there be no honour

Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love 109

Where there’s another man; the vows of women

Of no more bondage be to where they are made

Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. 112

O! above measure false.

Phi.

Have patience, sir,

And take your ring again; ’tis not yet won:

It may be probable she lost it; or

Who knows if one of her women, being corrupted, 116

Hath stol’n it from her?

Post.

Very true;

And so I hope he came by ’t. Back my ring.

Render to me some corporal sign about her,

More evident than this; for this was stol’n. 120

Iach.

By Jupiter, I had it from her arm.

Post.

Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears.

’Tis true; nay, keep the ring; ’tis true: I am sure

She would not lose it; her attendants are 124

All sworn and honourable; they induc’d to steal it!

And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy’d her;

The cognizance of her incontinency

Is this; she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. 128

There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell

Divide themselves between you!

Phi.

Sir, be patient:

This is not strong enough to be believ’d

Of one persuaded well of—

Post.

Never talk on ’t; 132

She hath been colted by him.

Iach.

If you seek

For further satisfying, under her breast,

Worthy the pressing, lies a mole, right proud

Of that most delicate lodging: by my life, 136

I kiss’d it, and it gave me present hunger

To feed again, though full. You do remember

This stain upon her?

Post.

Ay, and it doth confirm

Another stain, as big as hell can hold, 140

Were there no more but it.

Iach.

Will you hear more?

Post.

Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns;

Once, and a million!

Iach.

I’ll be sworn,—

Post.

No swearing.

If you will swear you have not done ’t, you lie;

And I will kill thee if thou dost deny 145

Thou’st made me cuckold.

Iach.

I’ll deny nothing.

Post.

O! that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal.

I will go there and do ’t, i’ the court, before 148

Her father. I’ll do something—

[Exit.

Phi.

Quite besides

The government of patience! You have won:

Let’s follow him, and pervert the present wrath

He hath against himself.

Iach.

With all my heart. 152

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Another Room in the Same.

Enter Posthumus.

Post.

Is there no way for men to be, but women

Must be half-workers? We are all bastards; all,

And that most venerable man which I

Did call my father was I know not where 4

When I was stamp’d; some coiner with his tools

Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d

The Dian of that time; so doth my wife

The nonpareil of this. O! vengeance, vengeance; 8

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d

And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with

A pudency so rosy the sweet view on ’t

Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her 12

As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O! all the devils!

This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,—was ’t not?

Or less—at first?—perchance he spoke not, but

Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, 16

Cried ‘O!’ and mounted; found no opposition

But what he look’d for should oppose and she

Should from encounter guard. Could I find out

The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion

That tends to vice in man but I affirm 21

It is the woman’s part; be it lying, note it,

The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;

Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; 24

Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,

Nice longing, slanders, mutability,

All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows,

Why, hers, in part, or all; but rather, all; 28

For even to vice

They are not constant, but are changing still

One vice but of a minute old for one

Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them,

Detest them, curse them. Yet ’tis greater skill 33

In a true hate to pray they have their will:

The very devils cannot plague them better.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Britain. A Hall in Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter at one door Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords; and at another Caius Lucius and Attendants.

Cym.

Now say what would Augustus Cæsar with us?

Luc.

When Julius Cæsar—whose remembrance yet

Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues

Be theme and hearing ever—was in this Britain,

And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,— 5

Famous in Cæsar’s praises, no whit less

Than in his feats deserving it,—for him

And his succession, granted Rome a tribute, 8

Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately

Is left untender’d.

Queen.

And, to kill the marvel,

Shall be so ever.

Clo.

There be many Cæsars

Ere such another Julius. Britain is 12

A world by itself, and we will nothing pay

For wearing our own noses.

Queen.

That opportunity,

Which then they had to take from ’s, to resume,

We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, 16

The kings your ancestors, together with

The natural bravery of your isle, which stands

As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in

With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters, 20

With sands, that will not bear your enemies’ boats,

But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest

Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag

Of ‘came, and saw, and overcame:’ with shame— 24

The first that ever touch’d him—he was carried

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping—

Poor ignorant baubles!—on our terrible seas,

Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’d

As easily ’gainst our rocks: for joy whereof 29

The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point—

O giglot fortune!—to master Cæsar’s sword,

Made Lud’s town with rejoicing-fires bright, 32

And Britons stiut with courage.

Clo.

Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Cæsars; other of them may have crooked noses, but to owe such straight arms, none.

Cym.

Son, let your mother end. 39

Clo.

We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan; I do not say I am one, but I have a hand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

Cym.

You must know,

Till the injurious Romans did extort 48

This tribute from us, we were free; Cæsar’s ambition—

Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch

The sides o’ the world—against all colour here

Did put the yoke upon ’s; which to shake off 52

Becomes a war-like people, whom we reckon

Ourselves to be. We do say then to Cæsar

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which

Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Cæsar

Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise 57

Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,

Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws,

Who was the first of Britain which did put 60

His brows within a golden crown, and call’d

Himself a king.

Luc.

I am sorry, Cymbeline,

That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar—

Cæsar, that hath more kings his servants than

Thyself domestic officers—thine enemy. 65

Receive it from me, then: war and confusion

In Cæsar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee: look

For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, 68

I thank thee for myself.

Cym.

Thou art welcome, Caius.

Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent

Much under him; of him I gather’d honour;

Which he, to seek of me again, perforce, 72

Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect

That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for

Their liberties are now in arms; a precedent

Which not to read would show the Britons cold:

So Cæsar shall not find them.

Luc.

Let proof speak. 77

Clo.

His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer; if you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle; if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end. 84

Luc.

So, sir.

Cym.

I know your master’s pleasure and he mine:

All the remain is ‘Welcome!’

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Pisanio, reading a letter.

Pis.

How! of adultery! Wherefore write you not

What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus!

O master! what a strange infection

Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian— 4

As poisonous-tongu’d as handed—hath prevail’d

On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No:

She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes,

More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults 8

As would take in some virtue. O my master!

Thy mind to her is now as low as were

Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her?

Upon the love and truth and vows which I 12

Have made to thy command? I, her? her blood?

If it be so to do good service, never

Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,

That I should seem to lack humanity 16

So much as this fact comes to?—Do’t: the letter

That I have sent her by her own command

Shall give thee opportunity:—O damn’d paper!

Black as the ink that’s on thee. Senseless bauble, 20

Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st

So virgin-like without? Lo! here she comes.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

Enter Imogen.

Imo.

How now, Pisanio! 24

Pis.

Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

Imo.

Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus.

O! learn’d indeed were that astronomer

That knew the stars as I his characters; 28

He’d lay the future open. You good gods,

Let what is here contain’d relish of love,

Of my lord’s health, of his content, yet not

That we two are asunder; let that grieve him,—

Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, 33

For it doth physic love,—of his content,

All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Bless’d be

You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers 36

And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;

Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet

You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!

Justice, and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would not even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven; what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So, he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love,

Leonatus Posthumus.

O! for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio? 49

He is at Milford-Haven; read, and tell me

How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs

May plod it in a week, why may not I 52

Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,—

Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,—

O! let me ’bate,—but not like me; yet long’st,

But in a fainter kind:—O! not like me, 56

For mine’s beyond beyond; say, and speak thick;—

Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,

To the smothering of the sense,—how far it is

To this same blessed Milford; and, by the way,

Tell me how Wales was made so happy as 61

T’ inherit such a haven; but, first of all,

How we may steal from hence, and, for the gap

That we shall make in time, from our hencegoing 64

And our return, to excuse; but first, how get hence.

Why should excuse be born or ere begot?

We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,

How many score of miles may we well ride 68

’Twixt hour and hour?

Pis.

One score ’twixt sun and sun,

Madam, ’s enough for you, and too much too.

Imo.

Why, one that rode to ’s execution, man,

Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers, 72

Where horses have been nimbler than the sands

That run i’ the clock’s behalf. But this is foolery;

Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say

She’ll home to her father; and provide me presently 76

A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit

A franklin’s housewife.

Pis.

Madam, you’re best consider.

Imo.

I see before me, man; nor here, nor here,

Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, 80

That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;

Do as I bid thee. There’s no more to say;

Accessible is none but Milford way.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Wales. A mountainous Country with a Cave.

Enter from the Cave, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel.

A goodly day not to keep house, with such

Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate

Instructs you how to adore the heavens, and bows you

To a morning’s holy office; the gates of monarchs 4

Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through

And keep their impious turbans on, without

Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! 7

We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly

As prouder livers do.

Gui.

Hail, heaven!

Arv.

Hail, heaven!

Bel.

Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill;

Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider,

When you above perceive me like a crow, 12

That it is place which lessens and sets off;

And you may then revolve what tales I have told you

Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war;

This service is not service, so being done, 16

But being so allow’d; to apprehend thus

Draws us a profit from all things we see,

And often, to our comfort, shall we find

The sharded beetle in a safer hold 20

Than is the full wing’d eagle. O! this life

Is nobler than attending for a check,

Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,

Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk; 24

Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine,

Yet keeps his book uncross’d; no life to ours.

Gui.

Out of your proof you speak; we, poor unfledg’d,

Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know not 28

What air’s from home. Haply this life is best,

If quiet life be best; sweeter to you

That have a sharper known, well corresponding

With your stiff age; but unto us it is 32

A cell of ignorance, travelling a-bed,

A prison for a debtor, that not dares

To stride a limit.

Arv.

What should we speak of

When we are old as you? when we shall hear 36

The rain and wind beat dark December, how

In this our pinching cave shall we discourse

The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;

We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey, 40

Like war-like as the wolf for what we eat;

Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage

We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird,

And sing our bondage freely.

Bel

How you speak! 44

Did you but know the city’s usuries

And felt them knowingly; the art o’ the court,

As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb

Is certain falling, or so slippery that 48

The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil of the war,

A pain that only seems to seek out danger

I’ the name of fame and honour; which dies i’ the search,

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph 52

As record of fair act; nay, many times,

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,

Must curtsy at the censure: O boys! this story

The world may read in me; my body’s mark’d

With Roman swords, and my report was once

First with the best of note; Cymbeline lov’d me,

And when a soldier was the theme, my name

Was not far off; then was I as a tree 60

Whose boughs did bend with fruit, but, in one night,

A storm or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,

And left me bare to weather.

Gui.

Uncertain favour! 64

Bel.

My fault being nothing,—as I have told you oft,—

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d

Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline

I was confederate with the Romans; so 68

Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years

This rock and these demesnes have been my world,

Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid

More pious debts to heaven than in all 72

The fore-end of my time. But, up to the mountains!

This is not hunter’s language. He that strikes

The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast;

To him the other two shall minister; 76

And we will fear no poison which attends

In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.

[Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus.

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

These boys know little they are sons to the king;

Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. 81

They think they are mine; and, though train’d up thus meanly

I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them

In simple and low things to prince it much 85

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

The king his father call’d Guiderius,—Jove! 88

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

The war-like feats I have done, his spirits fly out

Into my story: say, ‘Thus mine enemy fell,

And thus I set my foot on ’s neck;’ even then 92

The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture

That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,—

Once Arviragus,—in as like a figure, 96

Strikes life into my speech and shows much more

His own conceiving. Hark! the game is rous’d.

O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows

Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon, 100

At three and two years old, I stole these babes,

Thinking to bar thee of succession, as

Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, 104

And every day do honour to her grave:

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d,

They take for natural father. The game is up.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Near Milford-Haven.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

Imo.

Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so

To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio! man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, 4

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

Beyond self-explication; put thyself 8

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with

A look untender? If ’t be summer news, 12

Smile to ’t before; if winterly, thou need’st

But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand!

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue 16

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

Pis.

Please you, read;

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain’d of fortune. 20

Imo.

Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour and equally to me disloyal. 33

Pis.

What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper

Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue 36

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave 40

This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

Imo.

False to his bed! What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there and to think on him?

To weep ’twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature, 44

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that’s false to ’s bed, is it?

Pis.

Alas! good lady.

Imo.

I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, 48

Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

Thou then look’dst like a villain; now methinks

Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy,

Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him: 52

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,

And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,

I must be ripp’d; to pieces with me! O!

Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, 56

By thy revolt, O husband! shall be thought

Put on for villany; not born where ’t grows,

But worn a bait for ladies.

Pis.

Good madam, hear me.

Imo.

True honest men being heard, like false Æneas, 60

Were in his time thought false, and Sinon’s weeping

Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity

From most true wretchedness; so thou, Posthumus,

Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men; 64

Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d

From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest;

Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou seest him,

A little witness my obedience; look! 68

I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit

The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.

Fear not, ’tis empty of all things but grief;

Thy master is not there, who was indeed 72

The riches of it: do his bidding; strike.

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,

But now thou seem’st a coward.

Pis.

Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo.

Why, I must die; 76

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter

There is a prohibition so divine

That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart. 80

Something’s afore ’t; soft, soft! we’ll no defence;

Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus

All turn’d to heresy! Away, away! 84

Corrupters of my faith; you shall no more

Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools

Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor 88

Stands in worse case of woe.

And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up

My disobedience ’gainst the king my father,

And make me put into contempt the suits 92

Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find

It is no act of common passage, but

A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself

To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her 96

That now thou tir’st on, how thy memory

Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch;

The lamb entreats the butcher; where’s thy knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,

When I desire it too.

Pis.

O, gracious lady! 101

Since I receiv’d command to do this business

I have not slept one wink.

Imo.

Do ’t, and to bed then.

Pis.

I’ll wake mine eyeballs blind first.

Imo.

Wherefore then

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d 105

So many miles with a pretence? this place?

Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?

The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court, 108

For my being absent?—whereunto I never

Purpose return.—Why hast thou gone so far,

To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,

The elected deer before thee?

Pis.

But to win time 112

To lose so bad employment, in the which

I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,

Hear me with patience.

Imo.

Talk thy tongue weary; speak:

I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, 116

Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,

Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

Pis.

Then, madam,

I thought you would not back again.

Imo.

Most like,

Bringing me here to kill me.

Pis.

Not so, neither; 120

But if I were as wise as honest, then

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be

But that my master is abus’d; some villain,

Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, 124

Hath done you both this cursed injury.

Imo.

Some Roman courtezan.

Pis.

No, on my life.

I’ll give but notice you are dead and send him

Some bloody sign of it; for ’tis commanded 128

I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court,

And that will well confirm it.

Imo.

Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?

Or in my life what comfort, when I am 132

Dead to my husband?

Pis.

If you’ll back to the court,—

Imo.

No court, no father; nor no more ado

With that harsh, noble, simple nothing Cloten!

That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me

As fearful as a siege.

Pis.

If not at court, 137

Then not in Britain must you bide.

Imo.

Where then?

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,

Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s volume 140

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t;

In a great pool a swan’s nest: prithee, think

There’s livers out of Britain.

Pis.

I am most glad

You think of other place. The ambassador, 144

Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven

To-morrow; now, if you could wear a mind

Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise

That which, t’ appear itself, must not yet be 148

But by self-danger, you should tread a course

Pretty, and full of view; yea, haply, near

The residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least

That though his actions were not visible, yet 152

Report should render him hourly to your ear

As truly as he moves.

Imo.

O! for such means:

Though peril to my modesty, not death on ’t,

I would adventure.

Pis.

Well, then, here’s the point:

You must forget to be a woman; change 157

Command into obedience; fear and niceness—

The handmaids of all women, or more truly

Woman it pretty self—into a waggish courage;

Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and 161

As quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must

Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

Exposing it—but, O! the harder heart, 164

Alack! no remedy—to the greedy touch

Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein

You made great Juno angry.

Imo.

Nay, be brief: 168

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

Pis.

First, make yourself but like one.

Forethinking this, I have already fit—

’Tis in my cloak-bag—doublet, hat, hose, all 172

That answer to them; would you in their serving,

And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius

Present yourself, desire his service, tell him 176

Wherein you are happy,—which you’ll make him know,

If that his head have ear in music,—doubtless

With joy he will embrace you, for he’s honourable,

And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad, 180

You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment.

Imo.

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away;

There’s more to be consider’d, but we’ll even 184

All that good time will give us; this attempt

I’m soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

Pis.

Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, 188

Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,

Here is a box, I had it from the queen,

What’s in ’t is precious; if you are sick at sea, 192

Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this

Will drive away distemper. To some shade,

And fit you to your manhood. May the gods

Direct you to the best!

Imo.

Amen. I thank thee

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Room in Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, Lords, and Attendants.

Cym.

Thus far; and so farewell.

Luc.

Thanks, royal sir.

My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;

And am right sorry that I must report ye

My master’s enemy.

Cym.

Our subjects, sir, 4

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself

To show less sovereignty than they, must needs

Appear unking-like.

Luc.

So, sir: I desire of you

A conduct over land to Milford-Haven. 8

Madam, all joy befall your Grace.

Queen.

And you!

Cym.

My lords, you are appointed for that office;

The due of honour in no point omit.

So, farewell, noble Lucius.

Luc.

Your hand, my lord. 12

Clo.

Receive it friendly; but from this time forth

I wear it as your enemy.

Luc.

Sir, the event

Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

Cym.

Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, 16

Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!

[Exeunt Lucius and Lords.

Queen.

He goes hence frowning; but it honours us

That we have given him cause.

Clo.

’Tis all the better;

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. 20

Cym.

Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor

How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely

Our chariots and horsemen be in readiness;

The powers that he already hath in Gallia 24

Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves

His war for Britain.

Queen.

’Tis not sleepy business;

But must be look’d to speedily and strongly. 27

Cym.

Our expectation that it would be thus

Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,

Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d

Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d

The duty of the day; she looks us like 32

A thing more made of malice than of duty:

We have noted it. Call her before us, for

We have been too slight in sufferance.

[Exit an Attendant.

Queen.

Royal sir.

Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d 36

Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,

’Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,

Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a lady

So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, 40

And strokes death to her.

Re-enter Attendant.

Cym.

Where is she, sir? How

Can her contempt be answer’d?

Atten.

Please you, sir,

Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer

That will be given to the loudest noise we make.

Queen.

My lord, when last I went to visit her, 45

She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,

Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity,

She should that duty leave unpaid to you, 48

Which daily she was bound to proffer; this

She wish’d me to make known, but our great court

Made me to blame in memory.

Cym.

Her doors lock’d!

Not seen of late! Grant, heavens, that which I fear 52

Prove false!

[Exit.

Queen.

Son, I say, follow the king.

Clo.

That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,

I have not seen these two days.

Queen.

Go, look after.

[Exit Cloten.

Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! 56

He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence

Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes

It is a thing most precious. But for her,

Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath sciz’d her, 60

Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown

To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is

To death or to dishonour, and my end

Can make good use of either; she being down, 64

I have the placing of the British crown.

Re-enter Cloten.

How now, my son!

Clo.

’Tis certain she is fled.

Go in and cheer the king; he rages, none

Dare come about him.

Queen.

[Aside.] All the better; may 68

This night forestall him of the coming day!

[Exit.

Clo.

I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,

And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite

Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one 72

The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,

Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but

Disdaining me and throwing favours on

The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment 76

That what’s else rare is chok’d, and in that point

I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,

To be reveng’d upon her. For, when fools 79

Shall—

Enter Pisanio.

Who is here? What! are you packing, sirrah?

Come hither. Ah! you precious pandar. Villain,

Where is thy lady? In a word; or else

Thou art straightway with the fiends.

Pis.

O! good my lord.

Clo.

Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter 84

I will not ask again. Close villain,

I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip

Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?

From whose so many weights of baseness cannot 88

A dram of worth be drawn.

Pis.

Alas! my lord,

How can she be with him? When was she miss’d?

He is in Rome.

Clo.

Where is she, sir? Come nearer,

No further halting; satisfy me home 92

What is become of her?

Pis.

O! my all-worthy lord.

Clo.

All-worthy villain!

Discover where thy mistress is at once.

At the next word; no more of ‘worthy lord!’ 96

Speak, or thy silence on the instant is

Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pis.

Then, sir,

This paper is the history of my knowledge

Touching her flight.

[Presenting a letter.

Clo.

Let’s see ’t. I will pursue her 100

Even to Augustus’ throne.

Pis.

[Aside.] Or this, or perish.

She’s far enough; and what he learns by this

May prove his travel, not her danger.

Clo.

Hum!

Pis.

[Aside.] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen! 104

Safe mayst thou wander, safe return agen!

Clo.

Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pis.

Sir, as I think. 107

Clo.

It is Posthumus’ hand; I know ’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. 116

Pis.

Well, my good lord.

Clo.

Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

Pis.

Sir, I will. 123

Clo.

Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?

Pis.

I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. 129

Clo.

The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither: let it be thy first service; go.

Pis.

I shall, my lord.

[Exit.

Clo.

Meet thee at Milford-Haven!—I forgot to ask him one thing; I’ll remember ’t anon,—even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time,—the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart,—that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined,—which, as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the clothes that she so praised,—to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.

Re-enter Pisanio, with the clothes.

Be those the garments? 152

Pis.

Ay, my noble lord.

Clo.

How long is ’t since she went to Milford-Haven?

Pis.

She can scarce be there yet. 155

Clo.

Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee: the third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford; would I had wings to follow it!

Come, and be true.

[Exit.

Pis.

Thou bidd’st me to my loss; for true to thee

Were to prove false, which I will never be, 164

To him that is most true. To Milford go,

And find not her whom thou pursu’st. Flow, flow,

You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed

Be cross’d with slowness; labour be his meed!

[Exit.

Scene VI.— Wales. Before the Cave of Belarius.

Enter Imogen, in boy’s clothes.

Imo.

I see a man’s life is a tedious one;

I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together

Have made the ground my bed; I should be sick

But that my resolution helps me. Milford, 4

When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,

Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think

Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,

Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told me 8

I could not miss my way; will poor folks lie,

That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis

A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,

When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness 12

Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood

Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!

Thou art one o’ the false ones. Now I think on thee,

My hunger’s gone, but even before I was 16

At point to sink for food. But what is this?

Here is a path to ’t; ’tis some savage hold;

I were best not call, I dare not call, yet famine,

Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant.

Plenty and peace breeds cowards, hardness ever

Of hardiness is mother. Ho! Who’s here?

If any thing that’s civil, speak; if savage,

Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter.

Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy 25

But fear the sword like me, he’ll scarcely look on ’t.

Such a foe, good heavens!

[Exit to the cave.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel.

You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman, and 28

Are master of the feast; Cadwal and I

Will play the cook and servant, ’tis our match;

The sweat of industry would dry and die

But for the end it works to. Come; our stomachs 32

Will make what’s homely savoury; weariness

Can snore upon the flint when resty sloth

Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,

Poor house, that keep’st thyself!

Gui.

I am throughly weary. 36

Arv.

I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.

Gui.

There is cold meat i’ the cave; we’ll browse on that,

Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.

Bel.

[Looking into the cave.] Stay; come not in;

But that it eats our victuals, I should think 40

Here were a fairy.

Gui.

What’s the matter, sir?

Bel.

By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,

An earthly paragon! Behold divineness

No elder than a boy! 44

Re-enter Imogen.

Imo.

Good masters, harm me not:

Before I enter’d here, I call’d; and thought

To have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth,

I have stol’n nought, nor would not, though I had found 48

Gold strew’d i’ the floor. Here’s money for my meat;

I would have left it on the board so soon

As I had made my meal, and parted

With prayers for the provider.

Gui.

Money, youth? 52

Arv.

All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!

As ’tis no better reckon’d but of those

Who worship dirty gods.

Imo.

I see you’re angry.

Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 56

Have died had I not made it.

Bel.

Whither bound?

Imo.

To Milford-Haven.

Bel.

What’s your name?

Imo.

Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who 60

Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford:

To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,

I am fall’n in this offence.

Bel.

Prithee, fair youth,

Think us no churis, nor measure our good minds 64

By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d!

’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer

Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.

Boys, bid him welcome.

Gui.

Were you a woman, youth, 68

I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty,

I bid for you, as I do buy.

Arv.

I’ll make ’t my comfort

He is a man; I’ll love him as my brother;

And such a welcome as I’d give to him 72

After a long absence, such is yours: most welcome!

Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.

Imo.

’Mongst friends,

If brothers. [Aside.] Would it had been so, that they

Had been my father’s sons; then had my prize 76

Been less, and so more equal ballasting

To thee, Posthumus.

Bel.

He wrings at some distress.

Gui.

Would I could free ’t!

Arv.

Or I, whate’er it be,

What pain it cost, what danger. Gods!

Bel.

Hark, boys

[Whispering.

Imo.

Great men, 81

That had a court no bigger than this cave,

That did attend themselves and had the virtue

Which their own conscience seal’d them,—laying by 84

That nothing-gift of differing multitudes,—

Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!

I’d change my sex to be companion with them,

Since Leonatus’ false.

Bel.

It shall be so. 88

Boys, we’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in:

Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d,

We’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story,

So far as thou wilt speak it.

Gui.

Pray, draw near. 92

Arv.

The night to the owl and morn to the lark less welcome.

Imo.

Thanks, sir.

Arv.

I pray, draw near.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Rome. A Public Place.

Enter two Senators and Tribunes.

First Sen.

This is the tenour of the emperor’s writ:

That since the common men are now in action

’Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians,

And that the legions now in Gallia are 4

Full weak to undertake our wars against

The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite

The gentry to this business. He creates

Lucius pro-consul; and to you the tribunes, 8

For this immediate levy, he commends

His absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!

First Tri.

Is Lucius general of the forces?

Sec. Sen.

Ay.

First Tri.

Remaining now in Gallia?

First Sen.

With those legions

Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy 13

Must be supplyant; the words of your commission

Will tie you to the numbers and the time

Of their dispatch.

First Tri.

We will discharge our duty. 16

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Wales. The Forest, near the Cave of Belarius.

Enter Cloten.

Clo.

I am near to the place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? the rather,—saving reverence of the word,—for ’tis said a woman’s fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself,—for it is not vain-glory, for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber,—I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions; yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off, thy mistress enforced, thy garments cut to pieces before thy face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may haply be a little angry for my so rough usage, but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe; out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand! This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Before the Cave of Belarius.

Enter, from the Cave, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, and Imogen.

Bel.

[To Imogen.] You are not well; remain here in the cave;

We’ll come to you after hunting.

Arv.

[To Imogen.] Brother, stay here;

Are we not brothers?

Imo.

So man and man should be,

But clay and clay differs in dignity, 4

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.

Gui.

Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.

Imo.

So sick I am not, yet I am not well;

But not so citizen a wanton as 8

To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me;

Stick to your journal course; the breach of custom

Is breach of all. I am ill; but your being by me

Cannot amend me; society is no comfort 12

To one not sociable. I am not very sick,

Since I can reason of it; pray you, trust me here,

I’ll rob none but myself, and let me die,

Stealing so poorly.

Gui.

I love thee; I have spoke it;

How much the quantity, the weight as much, 17

As I do love my father.

Bel.

What! how! how!

Arv.

If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me

In my good brother’s fault: I know not why 20

I love this youth; and I have heard you say,

Love’s reason’s without reason: the bier at door,

And a demand who is ’t shall die, I’d say

‘My father, not this youth.’

Bel.

[Aside.] O noble strain! 24

O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness!

Cowards father cowards, and base things sire base:

Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.

I’m not their father; yet who this should be, 23

Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me.

’Tis the ninth hour o’ the morn.

Arv.

Brother, farewell.

Imo.

I wish ye sport.

Arv.

You health. So please you, sir.

Imo.

[Aside.] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! 32

Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court:

Experience, O! thou disprov’st report.

The imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish

Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. 36

I am sick still, heart-sick. Pisanio,

I’ll now taste of thy drug.

[Swallows some.

Gui.

I could not stir him;

He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;

Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 40

Arv.

Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter

I might know more.

Bel.

To the field, to the field!

[To Imogen.] We’ll leave you for this time; go in and rest.

Arv.

We’ll not be long away.

Bel.

Pray, be not sick, 44

For you must be our housewife.

Imo.

Well or ill,

I am bound to you.

Bel.

And shalt be ever.

[Exit Imogen.

This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had

Good ancestors.

Arv.

How angel-like he sings! 48

Gui.

But his neat cookery! he cut our roots

In characters,

And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick

And he her dieter.

Arv.

Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh 52

Was that it was, for not being such a smile;

The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly

From so divine a temple, to commix

With winds that sailors rail at.

Gui.

I do note 56

That grief and patience rooted in him, both

Mingle their spurs together.

Arv.

Grow, patience!

And let the stinking-elder, grief, untwine

His perishing root with the increasing vine! 60

Bel.

It is great morning. Come, away!—Who’s there?

Enter Cloten.

Clo.

I cannot find those runagates; that villain

Hath mock’d me. I am faint.

Bel.

‘Those runagates!’

Means he not us? I partly know him; ’tis 64

Cloten, the son o’ the queen. I fear some ambush.

I saw him not these many years, and yet

I know ’tis he. We are held as outlaws: hence!

Gui.

He is but one. You and my brother search 68

What companies are near; pray you, away;

Let me alone with him.

[Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus.

Clo.

Soft! What are you

That fly me thus? some villain mountainers?

I have heard of such. What slave art thou?

Gui.

A thing

More slavish did I ne’er than answering 73

A ‘slave’ without a knock.

Clo.

Thou art a robber,

A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief.

Gui.

To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I 76

An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?

Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not

My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art,

Why I should yield to thee?

Clo.

Thou villain base, 80

Know’st me not by my clothes?

Gui.

No, nor thy tailor, rascal,

Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,

Which, as it seems, make thee.

Clo.

Thou precious varlet,

My tailor made them not.

Gui.

Hence then, and thank

The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; 85

I am loath to beat thee.

Clo.

Thou injurious thief,

Hear but my name, and tremble.

Gui.

What’s thy name?

Clo.

Cloten, thou villain. 88

Gui.

Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,

I cannot tremble at it; were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,

’Twould move me sooner.

Clo.

To thy further fear,

Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know 92

I am son to the queen.

Gui.

I’m sorry for ’t, not seeming

So worthy as thy birth.

Clo.

Art not afeard?

Gui.

Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise;

At fools I laugh, not fear them.

Clo.

Die the death: 96

When I have slain thee with my proper hand,

I’ll follow those that even now fled hence,

And on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads:

Yield, rustic mountaineer.

[Exeunt fighting.

Re-enter Belarius and Arviragus.

Bel.

No companies abroad. 101

Arv.

None in the world. You did mistake him, sure.

Bel.

I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him,

But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour 104

Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice,

And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute

’Twas very Cloten.

Arv.

In this place we left them:

I wish my brother make good time with him, 108

You say he is so fell.

Bel.

Being scarce made up,

I mean, to man, he had not apprehension

Of roaring terrors; for defect of judgment

Is oft the cease of fear. But see, thy brother. 112

Re-enter Guiderius, with Cloten’s head.

Gui.

This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse,

There was no money in ’t. Not Hercules

Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none;

Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne 116

My head as I do his.

Bel.

What hast thou done?

Gui.

I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head,

Son to the queen, after his own report;

Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore,

With his own single hand he’d take us in, 121

Displace our heads where—thank the gods!—they grow,

And set them on Lud’s town.

Bel.

We are all undone.

Gui.

Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, 124

But that he swore to take, our lives? The law

Protects not us; then why should we be tender

To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us,

Play judge and executioner all himself, 128

For we do fear the law? What company

Discover you abroad?

Bel.

No single soul

Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason

He must have some attendants. Though his humour 132

Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that

From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not

Absolute madness could so far have rav’d

To bring him here alone. Although, perhaps,

It may be heard at court that such as we 137

Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time

May make some stronger head; the which he hearing,—

As it is like him,—might break out, and swear

He’d fetch us in; yet is ’t not probable 141

To come alone, either he so undertaking,

Or they so suffering; then, on good ground we fear,

If we do fear this body hath a tail 144

More perilous than the head.

Arv.

Let ordinance

Come as the gods foresay it; howsoe’er,

My brother hath done well.

Bel.

I had no mind

To hunt this day; the boy Fidele’s sickness 148

Did make my way long forth.

Gui.

With his own sword,

Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en

His head from him; I’ll throw ’t into the creek

Behind our rock, and let it to the sea, 152

And tell the fishes he’s the queen’s son, Cloten:

That’s all I reck.

[Exit.

Bel.

I fear ’twill be reveng’d.

Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done ’t! though valour

Becomes thee well enough.

Arv.

Would I had done ’t 156

So the revenge alone pursu’d me! Polydore,

I love thee brotherly, but envy much

Thou hast robb’d me of this deed; I would revenges,

That possible strength might meet, would seek us through 160

And put us to our answer.

Bel.

Well, ’tis done.—

We’ll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger

Where there’s no profit. I prithee, to our rock;

You and Fidele play the cooks; I’ll stay 164

Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him

To dinner presently.

Arv.

Poor sick Fidele!

I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour

I’d let a parish of such Clotens blood, 168

And praise myself for charity.

[Exit.

Bel.

O thou goddess!

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st

In these two princely boys. They are as gentle

As zephyrs, blowing below the violet, 172

Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,

Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind,

That by the top doth take the mountain pine,

And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonder

That an invisible instinct should frame them

To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught,

Civility not seen from other, valour

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop 180

As if it had been sow’d! Yet still it’s strange

What Cloten’s being here to us portends,

Or what his death will bring us.

Re-enter Guiderius.

Gui.

Where’s my brother?

I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream,

In embassy to his mother; his body’s hostage

For his return.

[Solemn music.

Bel.

My ingenious instrument!

Hark! Polydore, it sounds; but what occasion

Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! 188

Gui.

Is he at home?

Bel.

He went hence even now.

Gui.

What does he mean? since death of my dear’st mother

It did not speak before. All solemn things

Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?

Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys 193

Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.

Is Cadwal mad?

Re-enter Arviragus, with Imogen, as dead, bearing her in his arms.

Bel.

Look! here he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his arms 196

Of what we blame him for.

Arv.

The bird is dead

That we have made so much on. I had rather

Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty,

To have turn’d my leaping-time into a crutch,

Than have seen this.

Gui.

O, sweetest, fairest lily! 201

My brother wears thee not the one half so well

As when thou grew’st thyself.

Bel.

O melancholy!

Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find 204

The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare

Might easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!

Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,

Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. 208

How found you him?

Arv.

Stark, as you see:

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,

Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek

Reposing on a cushion.

Gui.

Where?

Arv.

O’ the floor, 212

His arms thus leagu’d; I thought he slept, and put

My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness

Answer’d my steps too loud.

Gui.

Why, he but sleeps:

If he be gone, he’ll make his grave a bed; 216

With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,

And worms will not come to thee.

Arv.

With fairest flowers

While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,

I’ll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack

The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, nor 221

The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor

The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would, 224

With charitable bill,—O bill! sore-shaming

Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie

Without a monument,—bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none, 228

To winter-ground thy corse.

Gui.

Prithee, have done,

And do not play in wench-like words with that

Which is so serious. Let us bury him,

And not protract with admiration what 232

Is now due debt. To the grave!

Arv.

Say, where shall ’s lay him?

Gui.

By good Euriphile, our mother.

Arv.

Be ’t so:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, 236

As once our mother; use like note and words,

Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui.

Cadwal,

I cannot sing; I’ll weep, and word it with thee; 240

For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse

Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arv.

We’ll speak it then.

Bel.

Great griefs, I see, medicine the less, for Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys, 244

And though he came our enemy, remember

He was paid for that; though mean and mighty rotting

Together, have one dust, yet reverence—

That angel of the world—doth make distinction 248

Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely,

And though you took his life, as being our foe,

Yet bury him as a prince.

Gui.

Pray you, fetch him hither.

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’ 252

When neither are alive.

Arv.

If you’ll go fetch him,

We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.

[Exit Belarius.

Gui.

Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east;

My father hath a reason for ’t.

Arv.

’Tis true. 256

Gui.

Come on then, and remove him.

Arv.

So, begin.

Gui.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 260

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Arv.

Fear no more the frown o’ the great, 264

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 268

All follow this, and come to dust.

Gui.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Arv.

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Gui.

Fear not slander, censure rash; 272

Arv.

Thou hast finish’d joy and moan

Both.

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Gui.

No exorciser harm thee! 276

Arv.

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Gui.

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Arv.

Nothing ill come near thee!

Both.

Quiet consummation have; 280

And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter Belarius, with the body of Cloten.

Gui.

We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.

Bel.

Here’s a few flowers, but ’bout mid-night, more;

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night 284

Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their faces

You were as flowers, now wither’d; even so

These herblets shall, which we upon you strew.

Come on, away; apart upon our knees. 288

The ground that gave them first has them again;

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

[Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Imo.

[Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is the way?

I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? 292

’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?

I have gone all night: Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep.

[Seeing the body of Cloten.] But, soft! no bed-fellow! O gods and goddesses!

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;

This bloody man, the care on ’t. I hope I dream; 297

For so I thought I was a cave-keeper,

And cook to honest creatures; but ’tis not so,

’Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, 300

Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes

Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,

I tremble still with fear; but if there be

Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity 304

As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it!

The dream’s here still; even when I wake, it is

Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt.

A headless man! The garments of Posthumus!

I know the shape of ’s leg, this is his hand, 309

His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh,

The brawns of Hercules, but his Jovial face—

Murder in heaven? How! ’Tis gone. Pisanio,

All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, 313

And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,

Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten,

Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read

Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio 317

Hath with his forged letters, damn’d Pisanio,

From this most bravest vessel of the world

Struck the main-top! O Posthumus! alas! 320

Where is thy head? where’s that? Ay me! where’s that?

Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart,

And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio?

’Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them

Have laid this woe here. O! ’tis pregnant, pregnant! 325

The drug he gave me, which he said was precious

And cordial to me, have I not found it

Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home; 328

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s: O!

Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,

That we the horrider may seem to those

Which chance to find us. O! my lord, my lord.

[Falls on the body.

Enter Lucius, a Captain, other Officers, and a Soothsayer.

Cap.

To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia, 333

After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending

You here at Milford-Haven with your ships:

They are in readiness.

Luc.

But what from Rome? 336

Cap.

The senate hath stirr’d up the confiners

And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,

That promise noble service; and they come

Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, 340

Sienna’s brother.

Luc.

When expect you them?

Cap.

With the next benefit o’ the wind.

Luc.

This forwardness

Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers

Be muster’d; bid the captains look to ’t. Now, sir, 344

What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?

Sooth.

Last night the very gods show’d me a vision,—

I fast and pray’d for their intelligence,—thus:

I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d 348

From the spongy south to this part of the west,

There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which portends,

Unless my sins abuse my divination,

Success to the Roman host.

Luc.

Dream often so, 352

And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here

Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime

It was a worthy building. How! a page!

Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead rather,

For nature doth abhor to make his bed 357

With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.

Let’s see the boy’s face.

Cap.

He’s alive, my lord.

Luc.

He’ll, then, instruct us of this body. Young one, 360

Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems

They crave to be demanded. Who is this

Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he

That, otherwise than noble nature did, 364

Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest

In this sad wrack? How came it? Who is it?

What art thou?

Imo.

I am nothing; or if not,

Nothing to be were better. This was my master,

A very valiant Briton and a good, 369

That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas!

There are no more such masters; I may wander

From east to occident, cry out for service, 372

Try many, all good, serve truly, never

Find such another master.

Luc.

’Lack, good youth!

Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than

Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. 376

Imo.

Richard du Champ.—[Aside.] If I do lie and do

No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope

They’ll pardon it.—Say you, sir?

Luc.

Thy name?

Imo.

Fidele, sir.

Luc.

Thou dost approve thyself the very same; 380

Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say

Thou shalt be so well master’d, but be sure

No less belov’d. The Roman emperor’s letters,

Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner 385

Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.

Imo.

I’ll follow, sir. But first, an ’t please the gods,

I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep 388

As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when

With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave,

And on it said a century of prayers,

Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh; 392

And, leaving so his service, follow you,

So please you entertain me.

Luc.

Ay, good youth,

And rather father thee than master thee.

My friends, 396

The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us

Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can,

And make him with our pikes and partisans

A grave; come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d

By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d 401

As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes:

Some falls are means the happier to arise.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Cymbeline’s Palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio, and Attendants.

Cym.

Again; and bring me word how ’tis with her.

[Exit an Attendant.

A fever with the absence of her son,

A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens!

How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,

The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen

Upon a desperate bed, and in a time

When fearful wars point at me; her son gone,

So needful for this present: it strikes me, past 8

The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,

Who needs must know of her departure and

Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee

By a sharp torture.

Pis.

Sir, my life is yours, 12

I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress,

I nothing know where she remains, why gone,

Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness,

Hold me your loyal servant.

First Lord.

Good my liege, 16

The day that she was missing he was here;

I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform

All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,

There wants no diligence in seeking him, 20

And will, no doubt, be found.

Cym.

The time is troublesome.

[To Pisanio.] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy

Does yet depend.

First Lord.

So please-your majesty,

The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, 24

Are landed on your coast, with a supply

Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.

Cym.

Now for the counsel of my son and queen!

I am amaz’d with matter.

First Lord.

Good my liege, 28

Your preparation can affront no less

Than what you hear of; come more, for more you’re ready:

The want is, but to put those powers in motion

That long to move.

Cym.

I thank you. Let’s withdraw; 32

And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not

What can from Italy annoy us, but

We grieve at chances here. Away!

[Exeunt all but Pisanio.

Pis.

I heard no letter from my master since

I wrote him Imogen was slain; ’tis strange; 37

Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise

To yield me often tidings; neither know I

What is betid to Cloten; but remain 40

Perplex’d in all: the heavens still must work.

Wherein I am false I am honest; not true to be true:

These present wars shall find I love my country,

Even to the note o’ the king, or I’ll fall in them.

All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d; 45

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Wales. Before the Cave of Belarius.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Gui.

The noise is round about us.

Bel.

Let us from it.

Arv.

What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it

From action and adventure?

Gui.

Nay, what hope

Have we in hiding us? this way, the Romans 4

Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us

For barbarous and unnatural revolts

During their use, and slay us after.

Bel.

Sons,

We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us.

To the king’s party there’s no going; newness 9

Of Cloten’s death,—we being not known, not muster’d

Among the bands,—may drive us to a render

Where we have liv’d, and so extort from ’s that

Which we have done, whose answer would be death 13

Drawn on with torture.

Gui.

This is, sir, a doubt

In such a time nothing becoming you,

Nor satisfying us.

Arv.

It is not likely 16

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh,

Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes

And ears so cloy’d importantly as now,

That they will waste their time upon our note,

To know from whence we are.

Bel.

O! I am known 21

Of many in the army; many years,

Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him

From my remembrance. And, besides, the king

Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves 25

Who find in my exile the want of breeding,

The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless

To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, 28

But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and

The shrinking slaves of winter.

Gui.

Than be so

Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:

I and my brother are not known; yourself, 32

So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown,

Cannot be question’d.

Arv.

By this sun that shines,

I’ll thither: what thing is it that I never

Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood 36

But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison!

Never bestrid a horse, save one that had

A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel

Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d 40

To look upon the holy sun, to have

The benefit of his bless’d beams, remaining

So long a poor unknown.

Gui.

By heavens! I’ll go:

If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, 44

I’ll take the better care; but if you will not,

The hazard therefore due fall on me by

The hands of Romans.

Arv.

So say I; amen.

Bel.

No reason I, since of your lives you set

So slight a valuation, should reserve 49

My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys!

If in your country wars you chance to die,

That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie: 52

Lead, lead.—[Aside.] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn,

Till it fly out and show them princes born.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Britain. The Roman Camp.

Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief.

Post.

Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wish’d

Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones,

If each of you should take this course, how many

Must murder wives much better than themselves 4

For wrying but a little! O Pisanio!

Every good servant does not all commands;

No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you

Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never 8

Had liv’d to put on this; so had you sav’d

The noble Imogen to repent, and struck

Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack!

You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, 12

To have them fall no more; you some permit

To second ills with ills, each elder worse,

And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift.

But Imogen is your own; do your best wills, 16

And make me bless’d to obey. I am brought hither

Among the Italian gentry, and to fight

Against my lady’s kingdom; ’tis enough

That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress-piece! 20

I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore good heavens,

Hear patiently my purpose: I’ll disrobe me

Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself

As does a Briton peasant; so I’ll fight 24

Against the part I come with, so I’ll die

For thee, O Imogen! even for whom my life

Is, every breath, a death: and thus, unknown,

Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril 28

Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know

More valour in me than my habits show.

Gods! put the strength o’ the Leonati in me.

To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin 32

The fashion, less without and more within.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Field of Battle between the British and Roman Camps.

Enter, from one door, Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army; the British at another; Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus; he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

Iach.

The heaviness and guilt within my bosom

Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady,

The princess of this country, and the air on ’t

Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, 4

A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me

In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne

As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before 8

This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds

Is that we scarce are men and you are gods.

[Exit.

The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken; then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel.

Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground.

The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but 12

The villany of our fears.

Gui.

Stand, stand, and fight!

Arv.

Stand, stand, and fight!

Re-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then, re-enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

Luc.

Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such

As war were hoodwink’d.

Iach.

’Tis their fresh supplies. 16

Luc.

It is a day turn’d strangely: or betimes

Let’s re-inforce, or fly.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Field.

Enter Posthumus and a British Lord.

Lord.

Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?

Post.

I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

Lord.

I did.

Post.

No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,

But that the heavens fought. The king himself 4

Of his wings destitute, the army broken,

And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying

Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted,

Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work 8

More plentiful than tools to do ’t, struck down

Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling

Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm’d

With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

To die with lengthen’d shame.

Lord.

Where was this lane? 13

Post.

Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

An honest one, I warrant; who deserv’d 16

So long a breeding as his white beard came to,

In doing this for his country; athwart the lane,

He, with two striplings,—lads more like to run

The country base than to commit such slaughter,— 20

With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer

Than those for preservation cas’d, or shame,

Made good the passage; cried to those that fled,

‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men: 24

To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand!

Or we are Romans, and will give you that

Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save,

But to look back in frown: stand, stand!’ These three, 28

Three thousand confident, in act as many,—

For three performers are the file when all

The rest do nothing,—with this word, ‘Stand, stand!’

Accommodated by the place, more charming 32

With their own nobleness,—which could have turn’d

A distaff to a lance,—gilded pale looks,

Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d coward

But by example,—O! a sin of war, 36

Damn’d in the first beginners,—’gan to look

The way that they did, and to grin like lions

Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began

A stop i’ the chaser, a retire, anon, 40

A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly

Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves,

The strides they victors made. And now our cowards—

Like fragments in hard voyages—became 44

The life o’ the need; having found the back door open

Of the unguarded hearts, Heavens! how they wound;

Some slain before; some dying; some their friends

O’er-borne i’ the former wave; ten, chas’d by one, 48

Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty;

Those that would die or ere resist are grown

The mortal bugs o’ the field.

Lord.

This was strange chance:

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys! 52

Post.

Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made

Rather to wonder at the things you hear

Than to work any. Will you rime upon ’t,

And vent it for a mockery? Here is one: 56

‘Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,

Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’

Lord.

Nay, be not angry, sir.

Post.

’Lack! to what end?

Who dares not stand his foe, I’ll be his friend;

For if he’ll do, as he is made to do, 61

I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.

You have put me into rime.

Lord.

Farewell; you’re angry.

[Exit.

Post.

Still going?—This is a lord! O noble misery! 64

To be i’ the field, and ask, ‘what news?’ of me!

To-day how many would have given their honours

To have sav’d their carcases! took heel to do ’t,

And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,

Could not find death where I did hear him groan, 69

Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster,

’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,

Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we 72

That draw his knives i’ the war. Well, I will find him;

For being now a favourer to the Briton,

No more a Briton, I have resum’d again

The part I came in; fight I will no more, 76

But yield me to the veriest hind that shall

Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is

Here made by the Roman; great the answer be

Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; 80

On either side I come to spend my breath,

Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear agen,

But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers.

First Cap.

Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. 84

’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

Sec. Cap.

There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,

That gave th’ affront with them.

First Cap.

So ’tis reported;

But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who is there? 88

Post.

A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds

Had answer’d him.

Sec. Cap.

Lay hands on him; a dog!

A lag of Rome shall not return to tell 92

What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service

As if he were of note: bring him to the king.

Enter Cymbeline, attended: Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler; then exeunt omnes.

Scene IV.— Britain. A Prison.

Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers.

First Gaol.

You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you:

So graze as you find pasture.

Sec. Gaol.

Ay, or a stomach.

[Exeunt Gaolers.

Post.

Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,

I think, to liberty. Yet am I better 4

Than one that’s sick o’ the gout, since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d

By the sure physician death; who is the key

To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d 8

More than my shanks and wrists: you good gods, give me

The penitent instrument to pick that bolt;

Then, free for ever! Is ’t enough I am sorry?

So children temporal fathers do appease; 12

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?

I cannot do it better than in gyves,

Desir’d more than constrain’d; to satisfy,

If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take 16

No stricter render of me than my all.

I know you are more clement than vile men,

Who of their broken debtors take a third,

A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again 20

On their abatement: that’s not my desire;

For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though

’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it;

’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; 24

Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake:

You rather mine, being yours; and so great powers,

If you will take this audit, take this life,

And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! 28

I’ll speak to thee in silence.

[Sleeps.

Solemn music. Enter as in an apparition Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man, attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them. Then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici.

No more, thou thunder-master, show

Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,  32

That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

Whose face I never saw?  36

I died whilst in the womb he stay’d

Attending nature’s law:

Whose father then—as men report,

Thou orphans’ father art—  40

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

From this earth-vexing smart.

Moth.

Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes; 44

That from me was Posthumus ript,

Came crying ’mongst his foes,

A thing of pity!

Sici.

Great nature, like his ancestry, 48

Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserv’d the praise o’ the world,

As great Sicilius’ heir.

First Bro.

When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he 53

That could stand up his parallel,

Or fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best 56

Could deem his dignity?

Moth.

With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,

To be exil’d, and thrown

From Leonati’s seat, and cast 60

From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen?

Sici.

Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy, 64

To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy;

And to become the geck and scorn

O’ the other’s villany? 68

Sec. Bro.

For this from stiller seats we came,

Our parents and us twain,

That striking in our country’s cause

Fell bravely and were slain; 72

Our fealty and Tenantius’ right

With honour to maintain.

First Bro.

Like hardiment Posthumus hath

To Cymbeline perform’d: 76

Then Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn’d

The graces for his merits due,

Being all to dolours turn’d? 80

Sici.

Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh

And potent injuries. 84

Moth.

Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

Sici.

Peep through thy marble mansion; help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry 88

To the shining synod of the rest

Against thy deity.

Both Bro.

Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly. 92

Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.

Jup.

No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts

Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,

Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? 96

Poor shadows of Elysium, hence; and rest

Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:

Be not with mortal accidents opprest;

No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours. 100

Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,

The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;

Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.

Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in 105

Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade!

He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made. 108

This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein

Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;

And so, away: no further with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. 112

Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

[Ascends.

Sici.

He came in thunder; his celestial breath

Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle

Stoop’d, as to foot us; his ascension is 116

More sweet than our bless’d fields; his royal bird

Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,

As when his god is pleas’d.

All.

Thanks, Jupiter!

Sici.

The marble pavement closes; he is enter’d 120

His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,

Let us with care perform his great behest.

[The Ghosts vanish.

Post.

[Awaking.] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot

A father to me; and thou hast created 124

A mother and two brothers. But—O scorn!—

Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born:

And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend

On greatness’ favour dream as I have done; 128

Wake, and find nothing. But, alas! I swerve:

Many dream not to find, neither deserve,

And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,

That have this golden chance and know not why. 132

What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!

Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment

Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects

So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers, 136

As good as promise.

Whenas a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen

Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing;

Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such 148

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

The action of my life is like it, which

I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.

Re-enter Gaolers.

First Gaol.

Come, sir, are you ready for death? 153

Post.

Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

First Gaol.

Hanging is the word, sir: if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Post.

So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. 158

First Gaol.

A heavy reckoning for you, sir; but the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink, sorry that you have paid too much; and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O! the charity of a penny cord; it sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows. 174

Post.

I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

First Gaol.

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. 181

Post.

Yes, indeed do I, fellow.

First Gaol.

Your death has eyes in ’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one. 190

Post.

I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going but such as wink and will not use them.

First Gaol.

What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking. 197

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post.

Thou bring’st good news; I am called to be made free. 201

First Gaol.

I’ll be hang’d, then.

Post.

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. 204

[Exeunt all but first Gaoler.

First Gaol.

Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too, that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O! there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses. I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in ’t.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Cymbeline’s Tent.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and Attendants.

Cym.

Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart

That the poor soldier that so richly fought,

Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast 4

Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found:

He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him so.

Bel.

I never saw

Such noble fury in so poor a thing; 8

Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought

But beggary and poor looks.

Cym.

No tidings of him?

Pis.

He hath been search’d among the dead and living,

But no trace of him.

Cym.

To my grief, I am 12

The heir of his reward; which I will add

[To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

By whom, I grant, she lives. ’Tis now the time

To ask of whence you are: report it.

Bel.

Sir, 16

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:

Further to boast were neither true nor modest,

Unless I add, we are honest.

Cym.

Bow your knees.

Arise, my knights o’ the battle: I create you 20

Companions to our person, and will fit you

With dignities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius and Ladies.

There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly

Greet you our victory? you look like Romans, 24

And not o’ the court of Britain.

Cor.

Hail, great king!

To sour your happiness, I must report

The queen is dead.

Cym.

Whom worse than a physician

Would this report become? But I consider, 28

By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death

Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

Cor.

With horror, madly dying, like her life;

Which, being cruel to the world, concluded 32

Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d

I will report, so please you: these her women

Can trip me if I err; who with wet cheeks

Were present when she finish’d.

Cym.

Prithee, say. 36

Cor.

First, she confess’d she never lov’d you, only

Affected greatness got by you, not you;

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorr’d your person.

Cym.

She alone knew this; 40

And, but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor.

Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess 44

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta’en off by poison.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more? 48

Cor.

More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had

For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,

Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring,

By inches waste you; in which time she purpos’d, 52

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

O’ercome you with her show; yea, and in time—

When she had fitted you with her craft—to work

Her son into the adoption of the crown; 56

But failing of her end by his strange absence,

Grew shameless-desperate; open’d, in despite

Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented

The evils she hatch’d were not effected: so, 60

Despairing died.

Cym.

Heard you all this, her women?

First Lady.

We did, so please your highness.

Cym.

Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, 64

That thought her like her seeming: it had been vicious

To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded: Posthumus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that 69

The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit

That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter 72

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:

So, think of your estate.

Luc.

Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day

Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, 76

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives

May be call’d ransom, let it come; sufficeth, 80

A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer;

Augustus lives to think on ’t; and so much

For my peculiar care. This one thing only

I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born, 84

Let him be ransom’d; never master had

A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,

So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like. Let his virtue join 88

With my request, which I’ll make bold your highness

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir,

And spare no blood beside. 92

Cym.

I have surely seen him;

His favour is familiar to me. Boy,

Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why nor wherefore, 96

To say, ‘live, boy:’ ne’er thank thy master; live:

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;

Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, 100

The noblest ta’en.

Imo.

I humbly thank your highness.

Luc.

I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;

And yet I know thou wilt.

Imo.

No, no; alack!

There’s other work in hand. I see a thing 104

Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,

Must shuffle for itself.

Luc.

The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, scorns me; briefly die their joys

That place them on the truth of girls and boys.

Why stands he so perplex’d?

Cym.

What wouldst thou, boy? 109

I love thee more and more; think more and more

What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? speak;

Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo.

He is a Roman; no more kin to me 113

Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,

Am something nearer.

Cym.

Wherefore ey’st him so?

Imo.

I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing.

Cym.

Ay, with all my heart, 117

And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

Imo.

Fidele, sir.

Cym.

Thou’rt my good youth, my page;

I’ll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.

[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.

Bel.

Is not this boy reviv’d from death?

Arv.

One sand another 121

Not more resembles;—that sweet rosy lad

Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

Gui.

The same dead thing alive. 124

Bel.

Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; forbear;

Creatures may be alike; were ’t he, I am sure

He would have spoke to us.

Gui.

But we saw him dead.

Bel.

Be silent; let’s see further.

Pis.

[Aside.] It is my mistress: 128

Since she is living, let the time run on

To good, or bad.

[Cymbeline and Imogen come forward.

Cym.

Come, stand thou by our side:

Make thy demand aloud.—[To Iachimo.] Sir, step you forth;

Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, 132

Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,

Which is our honour, bitter torture shall

Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.

Imo.

My boon is, that this gentleman may render 136

Of whom he had this ring.

Post.

[Aside.] What’s that to him?

Cym.

That diamond upon your finger, say

How came it yours?

Iach.

Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that 140

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cym.

How! me?

Iach.

I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that

Which torments me to conceal. By villany

I got this ring; ’twas Leonatus’ jewel, 144

Whom thou didst banish, and—which more may grieve thee,

As it doth me—a nobler sir ne’er liv’d

’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cym.

All that belongs to this.

Iach.

That paragon, thy daughter,—

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits 149

Quail to remember,—Give me leave; I faint.

Cym.

My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength;

I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will 152

Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

Iach.

Upon a time,—unhappy was the clock

That struck the hour!—it was in Rome,—accurs’d

The mansion where!—’twas at a feast—O, would 156

Our viands had been poison’d, or at least

Those which I heav’d to head!—the good Posthumus,—

What should I say? he was too good to be

Where ill men were; and was the best of all 160

Amongst the rar’st of good ones;—sitting sadly

Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast

Of him that best could speak; for feature laming 164

The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva,

Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,

A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,

Fairness which strikes the eye.

Cym.

I stand on fire. 169

Come to the matter.

Iach.

All too soon I shall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus—

Most like a noble lord in love, and one 172

That had a royal lover—took his hint;

And, not dispraising whom we prais’d,—therein

He was as calm as virtue,—he began

His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made, 176

And then a mind put in ’t, either our brags

Were crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his description

Prov’d us unspeaking sots.

Cym.

Nay, nay, to the purpose.

Iach.

Your daughter’s chastity, there it begins. 180

He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams,

And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch,

Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him

Pieces of gold ’gainst this, which then he wore

Upon his honour’d finger, to attain 185

In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,

No lesser of her honour confident 188

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;

And would so, had it been a carbuncle

Of Phœbus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it

Been all the worth of ’s car. Away to Britain

Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, 193

Remember me at court, where I was taught

Of your chaste daughter the wide difference

’Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench’d 196

Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

’Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent;

And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d, 200

That I return’d with simular proof enough

To make the noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes 204

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet;—

Oh cunning! how I got it!—nay, some marks

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, 208

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon,—

Methinks I see him now,—

Post.

[Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost,

Italian fiend!—Ay me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, any thing 212

That’s due to all the villains past, in being,

To come. O! give me cord, or knife, or poison,

Some upright justicer. Thou king, send out

For torturers ingenious; it is I 216

That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend

By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,

That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie;

That caus’d a lesser villain than myself, 220

A sacrilegious thief, to do ’t; the temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.

Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set

The dogs o’ the street to bay me; every villain

Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus; and 225

Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.

Peace, my lord! hear, hear!

Post.

Shall ’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page, 229

There lie thy part.

[Striking her: she falls.

Pis.

O, gentlemen, help!

Mine, and your mistress! O! my Lord Posthumus,

You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!

Mine honour’d lady!

Cym.

Does the world go round? 233

Post.

How come these staggers on me?

Pis.

Wake, my mistress!

Cym.

If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me

To death with mortal joy.

Pis.

How fares my mistress? 236

Imo.

O! get thee from my sight:

Thou gav’st me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!

Breathe not where princes are.

Cym.

The tune of Imogen!

Pis.

Lady, 240

The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if

That box I gave you was not thought by me

A precious thing: I had it from the queen.

Cym.

New matter still?

Imo.

It poison’d me.

Cor.

O gods! 244

I left out one thing which the queen confess’d,

Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio

Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection

Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d 248

As I would serve a rat.’

Cym.

What’s this, Cornelius?

Cor.

The queen, sir, very oft importun’d me

To temper poisons for her, still pretending

The satisfaction of her knowledge only 252

In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,

Of no esteem; I, dreading that her purpose

Was of more danger, did compound for her

A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would cease

The present power of life, but in short time 257

All offices of nature should again

Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?

Imo.

Most like I did, for I was dead.

Bel.

My boys, 260

There was our error.

Gui.

This is, sure, Fidele.

Imo.

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?

Think that you are upon a rock; and now

Throw me again.

[Embracing him.

Post.

Hang there like fruit, my soul,

Till the tree die!

Cym.

How now, my flesh, my child!

What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?

Wilt thou not speak to me?

Imo.

[Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.

Bel.

[To Guiderius and Arviragus.] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not;

You had a motive for ’t.

Cym.

My tears that fall 269

Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,

Thy mother’s dead.

Imo.

I am sorry for ’t, my lord.

Cym.

O, she was naught; and long of her it was 272

That we meet here so strangely; but her son

Is gone, we know not how, nor where.

Pis.

My lord,

Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,

Upon my lady’s missing, came to me 276

With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore

If I discover’d not which way she was gone,

It was my instant death. By accident,

I had a feigned letter of my master’s 280

Then in my pocket, which directed him

To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;

Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,

Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts 284

With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate

My lady’s honour; what became of him

I further know not.

Gui.

Let me end the story:

I slew him there.

Cym.

Marry, the gods forfend! 288

I would not thy good deeds should from my lips

Pluck a hard sentence: Prithee, valiant youth,

Deny ’t again.

Gui.

I have spoke it, and I did it.

Cym.

He was a prince. 292

Gui.

A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me

Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me

With language that would make me spurn the sea

If it could so roar to me. I cut off ’s head; 296

And am right glad he is not standing here

To tell this tale of mine.

Cym.

I am sorry for thee:

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must

Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.

Imo.

That headless man 300

I thought had been my lord.

Cym

Bind the offender,

And take him from our presence.

Bel.

Stay, sir king:

This man is better than the man he slew,

As well descended as thyself; and hath 304

More of thee merited than a band of Clotens

Had ever scar for. [To the Guard.] Let his arms alone;

They were not born for bondage.

Cym.

Why, old soldier,

Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,

By tasting of our wrath? How of descent 309

As good as we?

Arv.

In that he spake too far.

Cym.

And thou shalt die for ’t.

Bel.

We will die all three:

But I will prove that two on ’s are as good 312

As I have given out him. My sons, I must

For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,

Though, haply, well for you.

Arv.

Your danger’s ours.

Gui.

And our good his.

Bel.

Have at it, then, by leave. 316

Thou hadst, great king, a subject who was call’d

Belarius.

Cym.

What of him? he is

A banish’d traitor.

Bel.

He it is that hath

Assum’d this age: indeed, a banish’d man; 320

I know not how a traitor.

Cym.

Take him hence:

The whole world shall not save him.

Bel.

Not too hot:

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;

And let it be confiscate all so soon 324

As I have receiv’d it.

Cym.

Nursing of my sons!

Bel.

I am too blunt and saucy; here’s my knee:

Ere I arise I will prefer my sons;

Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, 328

These two young gentlemen, that call me father,

And think they are my sons, are none of mine;

They are the issue of your loins, my liege,

And blood of your begetting.

Cym.

How! my issue! 332

Bel.

So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,

Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d:

Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment

Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d 336

Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes—

For such and so they are—these twenty years

Have I train’d up; those arts they have as I

Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as

Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,

Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children

Upon my banishment: I mov’d her to ’t,

Having receiv’d the punishment before, 344

For that which I did then; beaten for loyalty

Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,

The more of you ’twas felt the more it shap’d

Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, 348

Here are your sons again; and I must lose

Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.

The benediction of these covering heavens

Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy 352

To inlay heaven with stars.

Cym.

Thou weep’st, and speak’st.

The service that you three have done is more

Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children:

If these be they, I know not how to wish 356

A pair of worthier sons.

Bel.

Be pleas’d awhile.

This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius;

This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, 360

Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d

In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand

Of his queen mother, which, for more probation,

I can with ease produce.

Cym.

Guiderius had 364

Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;

It was a mark of wonder.

Bel

This is he,

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.

It was wise nature’s end in the donation, 368

To be his evidence now.

Cym.

O! what, am I

A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother

Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be,

That, after this strange starting from your orbs,

You may reign in them now. O Imogen! 373

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

Imo.

No, my lord;

I have got two worlds by ’t. O my gentle brothers!

Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter 376

But I am truest speaker: you call’d me brother,

When I was but your sister; I you brothers

When ye were so indeed.

Cym.

Did you e’er meet?

Arv.

Ay, my good lord.

Gui.

And at first meeting lov’d; 380

Continu’d so, until we thought he died.

Cor.

By the queen’s dram she swallow’d.

Cym.

O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which 384

Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive?

How parted with your brothers? how first met them?

Why fied you from the court, and whither? These, 388

And your three motives to the battle, with

I know not how much more, should be demanded,

And all the other by-dependances,

From chance to chance, but nor the time nor place 392

Will serve our long inter’gatories. See,

Posthumus anchors upon Imogen,

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye

On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting

Each object with a joy: the counterchange 397

Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.

[To Belarius.] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever. 400

Imo.

You are my father too; and did relieve me,

To see this gracious season.

Cym.

All o’erjoy’d

Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

Imo.

My good master, 404

I will yet do you service.

Luc.

Happy be you!

Cym.

The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought

He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d

The thankings of a king.

Post.

I am, sir, 408

The soldier that did company these three

In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for

The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,

Speak, Iachimo; I had you down and might 412

Have made you finish.

Iach.

[Kneeling.] I am down again;

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,

As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,

Which I so often owe, but your ring first, 416

And here the bracelet of the truest princess

That ever swore her faith.

Post.

Kneel not to me:

The power that I have on you is to spare you;

The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,

And deal with others better.

Cym.

Nobly doom’d: 421

We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;

Pardon’s the word to all.

Arv.

You holp us, sir,

As you did mean indeed to be our brother; 424

Joy’d are we that you are.

Post.

Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, 428

Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows

Of mine own kindred: when I wak’d, I found

This label on my bosom; whose containing

Is so from sense in hardness that I can 432

Make no collection of it; let him show

His skill in the construction.

Luc.

Philarmonus!

Sooth.

Here, my good lord.

Luc.

Read, and declare the meaning

Sooth.

Whenas a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow: then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; 444

The fit and apt construction of thy name,

Being Leo-natus, doth import so much.

[To Cymbeline.] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,

Which we call mollis aer; and mollis aer 448

We term it mulier; which mulier, I divine,

Is this most constant wife; who, even now,

Answering the letter of the oracle,

Unknown to you, [To Posthumus.] unsought, were clipp’d about 452

With this most tender air.

Cym.

This hath some seeming.

Sooth.

The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,

Personates thee, and thy lopp’d branches point

Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stolen, 456

For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d

To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue

Promises Britain peace and plenty.

Cym.

Well;

My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, 460

Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar,

And to the Roman empire; promising

To pay our wonted tribute, from the which

We were dissuaded by our wicked queen; 464

Whom heavens—in justice both on her and hers—

Have laid most heavy hand.

Sooth.

The fingers of the powers above do tune

The harmony of this peace. The vision 468

Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke

Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant

Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,

From south to west on wing soaring aloft, 472

Lessen’d herself, and in the beams o’ the sun

So vanish’d: which foreshow’d our princely eagle,

The imperial Cæsar, should again unite

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, 476

Which shines here in the west.

Cym.

Laud we the gods;

And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils

From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace

To all our subjects. Set we forward: let 480

A Roman and a British ensign wave

Friendly together; so through Lud’s town march:

And in the temple of great Jupiter

Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. 484

Set on there. Never was a war did cease,

Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.

[Exeunt.

PERICLES PRINCE OF TYRE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Antiochus,	King of Antioch.
Pericles,	Prince of Tyre.
Helicanus, }	two Lords of Tyre.
Escanes, }	two Lords of Tyre.
Simonides,	King of Pentapolis.
Cleon,	Governor of Tarsus.
Lysimachus,	Governor of Mitylene.
Cerimon,	a Lord of Ephesus.
Thaliard,	a Lord of Antioch.
Philemon,	Servant to Cerimon.
Leonine,	Servant to Dionyza.
Marshal.
A Pandar.
Boult,	his Servant.
The Daughter of Antiochus.
Dionyza,	Wife to Cleon.
Thaisa,	Daughter to Simonides.
Marina,	Daughter to Pericles and Thaisa.
Lychorida,	Nurse to Marina.
A Bawd.
Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers.

Diana.

Gower, as Chorus.

Scene.—Dispersedly in various Countries.

ACT I.

Before the Palace of Antioch.

Enter Gower.

To sing a song that old was sung,

From ashes ancient Gower is come,

Assuming man’s infirmities,

To glad your ear, and please your eyes.  4

It hath been sung at festivals,

On ember-eves, and holy-ales;

And lords and ladies in their lives

Have read it for restoratives:  8

The purchase is to make men glorious;

Et bonum quo antiquius, eo melius.

If you, born in these latter times,

When wit’s more ripe, accept my rimes,  12

And that to hear an old man sing

May to your wishes pleasure bring,

I life would wish, and that I might

Waste it for you like taper-light.  16

This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great

Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat,

The fairest in all Syria,

I tell you what mine authors say:  20

This king unto him took a fere,

Who died and left a female heir,

So buxom, blithe, and full of face

As heaven had lent her all his grace;  24

With whom the father liking took,

And her to incest did provoke.

Bad child, worse father! to entice his own

To evil should be done by none.  28

By custom what they did begin

Was with long use account no sin.

The beauty of this sinful dame

Made many princes thither frame,  32

To seek her as a bed-fellow,

In marriage-pleasures play-fellow:

Which to prevent, he made a law,

To keep her still, and men in awe,  36

That whoso ask’d her for his wife,

His riddle told not, lost his life:

So for her many a wight did die,

As yon grim looks do testify.  40

What now ensues, to the judgment of your eye

I give, my cause who best can justify.

[Exit.

Scene I.— Antioch. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antiochus, Pericles, and Attendants.

Ant.

Young Prince of Tyre, you have at large receiv’d

The danger of the task you undertake.

Per.

I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul

Embolden’d with the glory of her praise, 4

Think death no hazard in this enterprise.

Ant.

Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,

For the embracements even of Jove himself;

At whose conception, till Lucina reign’d, 8

Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence,

The senate-house of planets all did sit,

To knit in her their best perfections.

[Music.

Enter the Daughter of Antiochus.

Per.

See, where she comes apparell’d like the spring, 12

Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king

Of every virtue gives renown to men!

Her face the book of praises, where is read

Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence

Sorrow were ever raz’d, and testy wrath 17

Could never be her mild companion.

You gods, that made me man, and sway in love,

That hath inflam’d desire in my breast 20

To taste the fruit of you celestial tree

Or die in the adventure, be my helps,

As I am son and servant to your will,

To compass such a boundless happiness! 24

Ant.

Prince Pericles,—

Per.

That would be son to great Antiochus.

Ant.

Before thee stands this fair Hesperides,

With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch’d;

For death-like dragons here affright thee hard:

Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view

Her countless glory, which desert must gain;

And which, without desert, because thine eye 32

Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die.

Yon sometime famous princes, like thyself,

Drawn by report, adventurous by desire,

Tell thee with speechless tongues and semblance pale, 36

That without covering, save yon field of stars,

They here stand martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars;

And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist

For going on death’s net, whom none resist. 40

Per.

Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught

My frail mortality to know itself,

And by those fearful objects to prepare

This body, like to them, to what I must; 44

For death remember’d should be like a mirror,

Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

I’ll make my will then; and as sick men do,

Who know the world, see heaven, but feeling woe, 48

Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did:

So I bequeath a happy peace to you

And all good men, as every prince should do;

My riches to the earth from whence they came,

[To the Daughter of Antiochus.

But my unspotted fire of love to you. 53

Thus ready for the way of life or death,

I wait the sharpest blow.

Ant.

Scorning advice, read the conclusion then; 56

Which read and not expounded, ’tis decreed,

As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed.

Daugh

Of all say’d yet, mayst thou prove prosperous!

Of all say’d yet, I wish thee happiness! 60

Per

Like a bold champion, I assume the lists,

Nor ask advice of any other thought

But faithfulness and courage.

I am no viper, yet I feed 64

On mother’s flesh which did me breed;

I sought a husband, in which labour

I found that kindness in a father.

He’s father, son, and husband mild, 68

I mother, wife, and yet his child.

How they may be, and yet in two,

As you will live, resolve it you.

Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers! 72

That give heaven countless eyes to view men’s acts,

Why cloud they not their sights perpetually,

If this be true, which makes me pale to read it?

Fair glass of light, I lov’d you, and could still,

Were not this glorious casket stor’d with ill: 77

But I must tell you now my thoughts revolt;

For he’s no man on whom perfections wait

That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate.

You’re a fair viol, and your sense the strings,

Who, finger’d to make men his lawful music,

Would draw heaven down and all the gods to hearken;

But being play’d upon before your time, 84

Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.

Good sooth, I care not for you.

Ant.

Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,

For that’s an article within our law, 88

As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expir’d:

Either expound now or receive your sentence.

Per.

Great king,

Few love to hear the sins they love to act; 92

’Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.

Who has a book of all that monarchs do,

He’s more secure to keep it shut than shown;

For vice repeated is like the wandering wind, 96

Blows dust in others’ eyes, to spread itself;

And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,

The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear

To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts 100

Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d

By man’s oppression; and the poor worm doth die for ’t.

Kings are earth’s gods; in vice their law’s their will;

And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?

It is enough you know; and it is fit, 105

What being more known grows worse, to smother it.

All love the womb that their first being bred,

Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.

Ant.

[Aside.] Heaven! that I had thy head; he has found the meaning; 109

But I will gloze with him. Young Prince of Tyre,

Though by the tenour of our strict edict,

Your exposition misinterpreting, 112

We might proceed to cancel of your days;

Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree

As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise:

Forty days longer we do respite you; 116

If by which time our secret be undone,

This mercy shows we’ll joy in such a son:

And until then your entertain shall be

As doth befit our honour and your worth. 120

[Exeunt all but Pericles.

Per.

How courtesy would seem to cover sin,

When what is done is like a hypocrite,

The which is good in nothing but in sight!

If it be true that I interpret false, 124

Then were it certain you were not so bad

As with foul incest to abuse your soul;

Where now you’re both a father and a son,

By your untimely claspings with your child,—

Which pleasure fits a husband, not a father;—

And she an eater of her mother’s flesh,

By the defiling of her parent’s bed;

And both like serpents are, who though they feed 132

On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.

Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men

Blush not in actions blacker than the night,

Will shun no course to keep them from the light. 136

One sin, I know, another doth provoke;

Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke.

Poison and treason are the hands of sin,

Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame: 140

Then, lest my life be cropp’d to keep you clear,

By flight I’ll shun the danger which I fear.

[Exit.

Re-enter Antiochus.

Ant.

He hath found the meaning, for which we mean

To take his head. 144

He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy,

Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin

In such a loathed manner;

And therefore instantly this prince must die, 148

For by his fall my honour must keep high.

Who attends us there?

Enter Thaliard.

Thal.

Doth your highness call?

Ant.

Thaliard,

You’re of our chamber, and our mind partakes

Her private actions to your secrecy; 153

And for your faithfulness we will advance you.

Thaliard, behold, here’s poison, and here’s gold;

We hate the Prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him: 156

It fits thee not to ask the reason why,

Because we bid it. Say, is it done?

Thal.

My lord, ’tis done.

Ant.

Enough. 160

Enter a Messenger.

Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste.

Mess.

My lord, Prince Pericles is fled.

[Exit.

Ant.

[To Thaliard.] As thou

Wilt live, fly after; and, as an arrow shot

From a well-experienc’d archer hits the mark

His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return 165

Unless thou say ‘Prince Pericles is dead.’

Thal.

My lord,

If I can get him within my pistol’s length, 168

I’ll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness.

Ant.

Thaliard, adieu!

[Exit Thaliard.

Till Pericles be dead,

My heart can lend no succour to my head.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Tyre. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Pericles.

Per.

[To those without.] Let none disturb us.—

Why should this change of thoughts,

The sad companion, dull-ey’d melancholy,

Be my so us’d a guest, as not an hour

In the day’s glorious walk or peaceful night— 4

The tomb where grief should sleep—can breed me quiet?

Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them,

And danger, which I feared, is at Antioch,

Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here;

Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits, 9

Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me.

Then it is thus: the passions of the mind,

That have their first conception by mis-dread, 12

Have after-nourishment and life by care;

And what was first but fear what might be done,

Grows elder now and cares it be not done.

And so with me: the great Antiochus,— 16

’Gainst whom I am too little to contend,

Since he’s so great can make his will his act,—

Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence;

Nor boots it me to say I honour him, 20

If he suspect I may dishonour him;

And what may make him blush in being known,

He’ll stop the course by which it might be known.

With hostile forces he’ll o’erspread the land, 24

And with the ostent of war will look so huge,

Amazement shall drive courage from the state,

Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist,

And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought offence: 28

Which care of them, not pity of myself,—

Who am no more but as the tops of trees,

Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them,— 31

Make both my body pine and soul to languish,

And punish that before that he would punish.

Enter Helicanus and other Lords.

First Lord.

Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast!

Sec. Lord.

And keep your mind, till you return to us,

Peaceful and comfortable. 36

Hel.

Peace, peace! and give experience tongue.

They do abuse the king that flatter him;

For flattery is the bellows blows up sin;

The thing the which is flatter’d, but a spark, 40

To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing;

Whereas reproof, obedient and in order,

Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err:

When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace,

He flatters you, makes war upon your life. 45

Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please;

I cannot be much lower than my knees.

Per.

All leave us else; but let your cares o’erlook 48

What shipping and what lading’s in our haven,

And then return to us.

[Exeunt Lords.

Helicanus, thou

Hast mov’d us; what seest thou in our looks?

Hel.

An angry brow, dread lord. 52

Per.

If there be such a dart in prince’s frowns,

How durst thy tongue move anger to our face?

Hel.

How dare the plants look up to heaven, from whence

They have their nourishment?

Per.

Thou know’st I have power 56

To take thy life from thee.

Hel.

[Kneeling.] I have ground the axe myself;

Do you but strike the blow.

Per.

Rise, prithee, rise;

Sit down; thou art no flatterer: 60

I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid

That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid!

Fit counsellor and servant for a prince,

Who by thy wisdom mak’st a prince thy servant, 64

What wouldst thou have me do?

Hel.

To bear with patience

Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself.

Per.

Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus,

That minister’st a potion unto me 68

That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself.

Attend me then: I went to Antioch,

Where as thou know’st, against the face of death

I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty, 72

From whence an issue I might propagate

Are arms to princes and bring joys to subjects.

Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder;

The rest, hark in thine ear, as black as incest;

Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father

Seem’d not to strike, but smooth; but thou know’st this,

’Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

Which fear so grew in me I hither fled, 80

Under the covering of a careful night,

Who seem’d my good protector; and, being here,

Bethought me what was past, what might succeed.

I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants’ fears 84

Decrease not, but grow faster than the years.

And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,

That I should open to the listening air

How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed, 88

To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,

To lop that doubt he’ll fill this land with arms,

And make pretence of wrong that I have done him;

When all, for mine, if I may call ’t, offence, 92

Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence:

Which love to all, of which thyself art one,

Who now reprov’st me for it,—

Hel.

Alas! sir.

Per.

Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks, 96

Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts

How I might stop this tempest, ere it came;

And finding little comfort to relieve them,

I thought it princely charity to grieve them. 100

Hel.

Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak,

Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear,

And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant,

Who either by public war or private treason 104

Will take away your life.

Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while,

Till that his rage and anger be forgot,

Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. 108

Your rule direct to any; if to me,

Day serves not light more faithful than I’ll be.

Per.

I do not doubt thy faith;

But should he wrong my liberties in my absence? 112

Hel.

We’ll mingle our bloods together in the earth,

From whence we had our being and our birth.

Per.

Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus

Intend my travel, where I’ll hear from thee, 116

And by whose letters I’ll dispose myself.

The care I had and have of subjects’ good

On thee I’ll lay, whose wisdom’s strength can bear it.

I’ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath;

Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both. 121

But in our orbs we’ll live so round and safe,

That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince,

Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a true prince.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter Thaliard.

Thal.

So this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I kill King Pericles; and if I do not, I am sure to be hanged at home: ’tis dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired he might know none of his secrets: now do I see he had some reason for it; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he is bound by the indenture of his oath to be one. Hush! here come the lords of Tyre. 10

Enter Helicanus, Escanes, and other Lords.

Hel.

You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre,

Further to question me of your king’s departure:

His seal’d commission, left in trust with me, 13

Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel.

Thal.

[Aside.] How! the king gone!

Hel.

If further yet you will be satisfied, 16

Why, as it were unlicens’d of your loves,

He would depart, I’ll give some light unto you.

Being at Antioch—

Thal.

[Aside.] What from Antioch?

Hel.

Royal Antiochus—on what cause I know not— 20

Took some displeasure at him, at least he judg’d so;

And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d,

To show his sorrow he’d correct himself;

So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil, 24

With whom each minute threatens life or death.

Thal.

[Aside.] Well, I perceive

I shall not be hang’d now, although I would;

But since he’s gone, the king it sure must please: 28

He ’scap’d the land, to perish at the sea.

I’ll present myself. [Aloud.] Peace to the lords of Tyre.

Hel.

Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome.

Thal.

From him I come, 32

With message unto princely Pericles;

But since my landing I have understood

Your lord hath betook himself to unknown travels,

My message must return from whence it came.

Hel.

We have no reason to desire it, 37

Commended to our master, not to us:

Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire,

As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. 40

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Tarsus. A Room in the Governor’s House.

Enter Cleon, Dionyza, and Attendants.

Cle.

My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,

And by relating tales of others’ griefs,

See if ’twill teach us to forget our own?

Dio.

That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; 4

For who digs hills because they do aspire

Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.

O my distressed lord! even such our griefs are;

Here they’re but felt, and seen with mischief’s eyes, 8

But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise.

Cle.

O Dionyza,

Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,

Or can conceal his hunger till he famish? 12

Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep

Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep

Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder;

That if heaven slumber while their creatures want, 16

They may awake their helps to comfort them.

I’ll then discourse our woes, felt several years,

And wanting breath to speak help me with tears.

Dio.

I’ll do my best, sir. 20

Cle.

This Tarsus, o’er which I have the government,

A city on whom plenty held full hand,

For riches strew’d herself even in the streets;

Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d the clouds, 24

And strangers ne’er beheld but wonder’d at;

Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d,

Like one another’s glass to trim them by:

Their tables were stor’d full to glad the sight, 28

And not so much to feed on as delight;

All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great,

The name of help grew odious to repeat.

Dio.

O! ’tis too true, 32

Cle.

But see what heaven can do! By this our change,

These mouths, whom but of late earth, sea, and air

Were all too little to content and please,

Although they gave their creatures in abundance, 36

As houses are defil’d for want of use,

They are now starv’d for want of exercise;

Those palates who, not yet two summers younger,

Must have inventions to delight the taste, 40

Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it;

Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes,

Thought nought too curious, are ready now

To eat those little darlings whom they lov’d. 44

So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and wife

Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life.

Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping;

Here many sink, yet those which see them fall

Have scarce strength left to give them burial. 49

Is not this true?

Dio.

Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it.

Cle.

O! let those cities that of plenty’s cup

And her prosperities so largely taste, 53

With their superfluous riots, hear these tears:

The misery of Tarsus may be theirs.

Enter a Lord.

Lord.

Where’s the lord governor? 56

Cle.

Here.

Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in haste,

For comfort is too far for us to expect.

Lord.

We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore, 60

A portly sail of ships make hitherward.

Cle.

I thought as much.

One sorrow never comes but brings an heir

That may succeed as his inberitor; 64

And so in ours. Some neighbouring nation,

Taking advantage of our misery,

Hath stuff’d these hollow vessels with their power,

To beat us down, the which are down already;

And make a conquest of unhappy me, 69

Whereas no glory’s got to overcome.

Lord.

That’s the least fear; for by the semblance

Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace, 72

And come to us as favourers, not as foes.

Cle.

Thou speak’st like him ’s untutor’d to repeat:

Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.

But bring they what they will and what they can, 76

What need we fear?

The ground’s the lowest and we are half way there.

Go tell their general we attend him here,

To know for what he comes, and whence he comes, 80

And what he craves.

Lord.

I go, my lord.

[Exit.

Cle.

Welcome is peace if he on peace consist;

If wars we are unable to resist. 84

Enter Pericles, with Attendants.

Per.

Lord governor, for so we hear you are,

Let not our ships and number of our men,

Be like a beacon fir’d to amaze your eyes.

We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, 88

And seen the desolation of your streets:

Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears,

But to relieve them of their heavy load;

And these our ships, you happily may think 92

Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within

With bloody veins, expecting overthrow,

Are stor’d with corn to make your needy bread,

And give them life whom hunger starv’d half dead. 96

All.

The gods of Greece protect you!

And we’ll pray for you.

Per.

Arise, I pray you, rise:

We do not look for reverence, but for love,

And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men.

Cle.

The which when any shall not gratify,

Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought,

Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves,

The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils!

Till when—the which, I hope, shall ne’er be seen— 105

Your Grace is welcome to our town and us.

Per.

Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here awhile,

Until our stars that frown lend us a smile. 108

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Enter Gower.

Here have you seen a mighty king

His child, I wis, to incest bring;

A better prince and benign lord,

That will prove awful both in deed and word.  4

Be quiet, then, as men should be,

Till he hath pass’d necessity.

I’ll show you those in troubles reign,

Losing a mite, a mountain gain.  8

The good in conversation,

To whom I give my benison,

Is still at Tarsus, where each man

Thinks all is writ he speken can;  12

And, to remember what he does,

Build his statue to make him glorious:

But tidings to the contrary

Are brought your eyes; what need speak I?

Dumb Show.

Enter, from one side, Pericles, talking with Cleon; all their Train with them. Enter, at another door, a Gentleman, with a letter to Pericles; who shows the letter to Cleon; then gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exeunt Pericles, Cleon, &c., severally.

Good Helicane hath stay’d at home,

Not to eat honey like a drone

From others’ labours; for though he strive

To killen bad, keep good alive,  20

And to fulfil his prince’ desire,

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre:

How Thaliard came full bent with sin

And had intent to murder him;  24

And that in Tarsus was not best

Longer for him to make his rest.

He, doing so, put forth to seas,

Where when men been, there’s seldom ease;

For now the wind begins to blow;  29

Thunder above and deeps below

Make such unquiet, that the ship

Should house him safe is wrack’d and split;  32

And he, good prince, having all lost,

By waves from coast to coast is tost.

All perishen of man, of pelf,

Ne aught escapen but himself;  36

Till Fortune, tir’d with doing bad,

Threw him ashore, to give him glad;

And here he comes. What shall be next,

Pardon old Gower, this longs the text.

[Exit.

Scene I.— Pentapolis. An open Place by the Sea-side.

Enter Pericles, wet.

Per.

Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!

Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man

Is but a substance that must yield to you;

And I, as fits my nature, do obey you. 4

Alas! the sea hath cast me on the rocks,

Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath

Nothing to think on but ensuing death:

Let it suffice the greatness of your powers 8

To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;

And having thrown him from your watery grave,

Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave.

Enter three Fishermen.

First Fish.

What, ho, Pilch! 12

Sec. Fish.

Ha! come and bring away the nets.

First Fish.

What, Patch-breech, I say!

Third Fish.

What say you, master?

First Fish.

Look how thou stirrest now! come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a wannion. 17

Third Fish.

Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now. 20

First Fish.

Alas! poor souls; it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves. 24

Third Fish.

Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? they say they’re half fish half flesh; a plague on them! they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. 30

First Fish.

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones; I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a’ plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave gaping till they’ve swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all. 38

Per.

[Aside.] A pretty moral.

Third Fish.

But master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in the belfry.

Sec. Fish

Why, man? 43

Third Fish.

Because he should have swallowed me too; and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left till he cast bells, steeple, church, and parish, up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind,—

Per.

[Aside.] Simonides!

Third Fish.

We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey. 52

Per.

[Aside.] How from the finny subject of the sea

These fishers tell the infirmities of men;

And from their watery empire recollect

All that may men approve or men detect! 56

[Aloud.] Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.

Sec. Fish.

Honest! good fellow, what’s that? if it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it. 60

Per.

Y’ may see the sea hath cast me on your coast.

Sec. Fish.

What a drunken knave was the sea, to cast thee in our way!

Per.

A man whom both the waters and the wind, 64

In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball

For them to play upon, entreats you pity him;

He asks of you, that never us’d to beg.

First Fish.

No, friend, cannot you beg? here’s them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working. 70

Sec. Fish.

Canst thou catch any fishes then?

Per.

I never practised it.

Sec. Fish.

Nay then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s nothing to be got now-a-days unless thou canst fish for ’t.

Per.

What I have been I have forgot to know, 76

But what I am want teaches me to think on;

A man throng’d up with cold; my veins are chill,

And have no more of life than may suffice

To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, 81

For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

First Fish.

Die, quoth-a? Now, gods forbid! I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we’ll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo’er puddings and flap-jacks; and thou shalt be welcome. 89

Per.

I thank you, sir.

First Fish.

Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg. 92

Per.

I did but crave.

Sec. Fish.

But crave! Then I’ll turn craver too, and so I shall ’scape whipping.

Per.

Why, are all your beggars whipped, then? 97

Sec. Fish.

O! not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I’ll go draw up the net. 101

[Exit with Third Fisherman.

Per.

How well this honest mirth becomes their labour!

First Fish.

Hark you, sir; do you know where ye are? 104

Per.

Not well.

First Fish.

Why, I’ll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides.

Per.

The good King Simonides do you call him? 109

First Fish.

Ay, sir; and he deserves to be so called for his peaceable reign and good government. 112

Per.

He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good by his government. How far is his court distant from this shore?

First Fish.

Marry, sir, half a day’s journey; and I’ll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her birthday; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to just and tourney for her love. 120

Per.

Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there.

First Fish.

O! sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for his wife’s soul,— 125

Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net.

Sec. Fish.

Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man’s right in the law; ’twill hardly come out. Ha! bots on ’t, ’tis come at last, and ’tis turned to a rusty armour.

Per.

An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.

Thanks, Fortune, yet, that after all my crosses

Thou giv’st me somewhat to repair myself; 132

And though it was mine own, part of mine heritage,

Which my dead father did bequeath to me,

With this strict charge, even as he left his life,

‘Keep it, my Pericles, it hath been a shield 136

’Twixt me and death;’—and pointed to this brace;

‘For that it sav’d me, keep it; in like necessity—

The which the gods protect thee from!—’t may defend thee.’

It kept where I kept, I so dearly lov’d it; 140

Till the rough seas, that spare not any man,

Took it in rage, though calm’d they have given ’t again.

I thank thee for ’t; my shipwrack now ’s no ill,

Since I have here my father’s gift in ’s will. 144

First Fish.

What mean you, sir?

Per.

To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth,

For it was sometime target to a king;

I know it by this mark. He lov’d me dearly, 148

And for his sake I wish the having of it;

And that you’d guide me to your sovereign’s court,

Where with it I may appear a gentleman;

And if that ever my low fortunes better, 152

I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor.

First Fish.

Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?

Per.

I’ll show the virtue I have borne in arms. 157

First Fish.

Why, do’e take it; and the gods give thee good on ’t!

Sec. Fish.

Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the water; there are certain condolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from whence you had it.

Per.

Believe it, I will. 165

By your furtherance I am cloth’d in steel;

And spite of all the rapture of the sea,

This jewel holds his biding on my arm: 168

Unto thy value will I mount myself

Upon a courser, whose delightful steps

Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.

Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided 172

Of a pair of bases.

Sec. Fish.

We’ll sure provide; thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair, and I’ll bring thee to the court myself. 176

Per.

Then honour be but a goal to my will! This day I’ll rise, or else add ill to ill.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A public Way. Platform leading to the Lists. A Pavilion near it, for the reception of the King, Princess, Ladies, Lords, &c.

Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, and Attendants.

Sim.

Are the knights ready to begin the triumph?

First Lord.

They are, my liege;

And stay your coming to present themselves.

Sim.

Return them, we are ready; and our daughter, 4

In honour of whose birth these triumphs are,

Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom nature gat

For men to see, and seeing wonder at.

[Exit a Lord.

Thai.

It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express 8

My commendations great, whose merit’s less.

Sim.

’Tis fit it should be so; for princes are

A model, which heaven makes like to itself:

As jewels lose their glory if neglected, 12

So princes their renowns if not respected.

’Tis now your honour, daughter, to explain

The labour of each knight in his device.

Thai.

Which, to preserve mine honour, I’ll perform. 16

Enter a Knight; he passes over the stage, and his Squire presents his shield to the Princess.

Sim.

Who is the first that doth prefer himself?

Thai.

A knight of Sparta, my renowned father;

And the device he bears upon his shield

Is a black Ethiop reaching at the sun; 20

The word, Lux tua vita mihi.

Sim.

He loves you well that holds his life of you.

[The Second Knight passes over.

Who is the second that presents himself?

Thai.

A prince of Macedon, my royal father;

And the device he bears upon his shield 25

Is an arm’d knight that’s conquer’d by a lady;

The motto thus, in Spanish, Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.

[The Third Knight passes over.

Sim.

And what’s the third?

Thai.

The third of Antioch; 28

And his device, a wreath of chivalry;

The word, Me pompæ provexit apex.

[The Fourth Knight passes over.

Sim

What is the fourth?

Thai

A burning torch that’s turned upside down; 32

The word, Quod me alit me extinguit.

Sim.

Which shows that beauty hath his power and will,

Which can as well inflame as it can kill.

[The Fifth Knight passes over.

Thai.

The fifth, a hand environed with clouds, 36

Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone tried;

The motto thus, Sic spectanda fides.

[The Sixth Knight, Pericles, passes over.

Sim.

And what ’s

The sixth and last, the which the knight himself

With such a graceful courtesy deliver’d? 41

Thai.

He seems to be a stranger; but his present is

A wither’d branch, that’s only green at top;

The motto, In hac spe vivo. 44

Sim.

A pretty moral;

From the dejected state wherein he is,

He hopes by you his fortune yet may flourish.

First Lord.

He had need mean better than his outward show 48

Can any way speak in his just commend;

For, by his rusty outside he appears

To have practis’d more the whipstock than the lance.

Sec. Lord.

He well may be a stranger, for he comes 52

To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished.

Third Lord.

And on set purpose let his armour rust

Until this day, to scour it in the dust.

Sim.

Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan 56

The outward habit by the inward man.

But stay, the knights are coming; we’ll withdraw

Into the gallery.

[Exeunt. Great shouts, and all cry, ‘The mean knight!’

Scene III.— The Same. A Hall of State. A Banquet prepared.

Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Marshal, Ladies, Lords, Knights from tilting, and Attendants.

Sim.

Knights,

To say you’re welcome were superfluous.

To place upon the volume of your deeds,

As in a title-page, your worth in arms, 4

Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit,

Since every worth in show commends itself.

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast:

You are princes and my guests. 8

Thai.

But you, my knight and guest;

To whom this wreath of victory I give,

And crown you king of this day’s happiness.

Per.

’Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit. 12

Sim.

Call it by what you will, the day is yours;

And here, I hope, is none that envies it.

In framing an artist art hath thus decreed,

To make some good, but others to exceed; 16

And you’re her labour’d scholar. Come, queen o’ the feast,—

For, daughter, so you are,—here take your place;

Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.

Knights.

We are honour’d much by good Simonides. 20

Sim.

Your presence glads our days; honour we love,

For who hates honour, hates the gods above.

Marshal.

Sir, yonder is your place.

Per.

Some other is more fit.

First Knight.

Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen 24

That neither in our hearts nor outward eyes

Envy the great nor do the low despise.

Per.

You are right courteous knights.

Sim.

Sit, sir; sit.

Per.

By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts, 28

These cates resist me, she but thought upon.

Thai.

[Aside.] By Juno, that is queen of marriage,

All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury,

Wishing him my meat. Sure, he’s a gallant gentleman. 32

Sim.

He’s but a country gentleman;

He has done no more than other knights have done;

He has broken a staff or so; so let it pass.

Thai.

To me he seems like diamond to glass.

Per.

Yon king’s to me like to my father’s picture, 37

Which tells me in that glory once he was;

Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne,

And he the sun for them to reverence. 40

None that beheld him, but like lesser lights

Did vail their crowns to his supremacy;

Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night,

The which hath fire in darkness, none in light:

Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men; 45

He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,

And gives them what he will, not what they crave.

Sim.

What, are you merry, knights? 48

First Knight.

Who can be other in this royal presence?

Sim.

Here, with a cup that’s stor’d unto the brim,

As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,

We drink this health to you.

Knights.

We thank your Grace.

Sim.

Yet pause awhile; 53

Yon knight doth sit too melancholy,

As if the entertainment in our court

Had not a show might countervail his worth. 56

Note it not you, Thaisa?

Thai.

What is it

To me, my father?

Sim.

O! attend, my daughter:

Princes in this should live like gods above,

Who freely give to every one that comes 60

To honour them;

And princes not doing so are like to gnats,

Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at.

Therefore to make his entrance more sweet, 64

Here say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him.

Thai.

Alas! my father, it befits not me

Unto a stranger knight to be so bold;

He may my proffer take for an offence, 68

Since men take women’s gifts for impudence.

Sim.

How!

Do as I bid you, or you’ll move me else.

Thai.

[Aside.] Now, by the gods, he could not please me better. 72

Sim.

And further tell him, we desire to know of him,

Of whence he is, his name, and parentage.

Thai.

The king, my father, sir, has drunk to you.

Per.

I thank him. 76

Thai.

Wishing it so much blood unto your life.

Per.

I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely.

Thai.

And further he desires to know of you,

Of whence you are, your name and parentage.

Per.

A gentleman of Tyre, my name, Pericles; 81

My education been in arts and arms;

Who, looking for adventures in the world,

Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, 84

And after shipwrack, driven upon this shore.

Thai.

He thanks your Grace; names himself Pericles,

A gentleman of Tyre,

Who only by misfortune of the seas 88

Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore.

Sim.

Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune,

And will awake him from his melancholy.

Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles, 92

And waste the time which looks for other revels.

Even in your armours, as you are address’d,

Will very well become a soldier’s dance.

I will not have excuse, with saying this 96

Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads

Since they love men in arms as well as beds.

[The Knights dance.

So this was well ask’d, ’twas so well perform’d.

Come, sir; 100

Here is a lady that wants breathing too:

And I have often heard, you knights of Tyre

Are excellent in making ladies trip,

And that their measures are as excellent. 104

Per.

In those that practise them they are, my lord.

Sim.

O! that’s as much as you would be denied

Of your fair courtesy.

[The Knights and Ladies dance.

Unclasp, unclasp;

Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well,

[To Pericles.] But you the best. Pages and lights, to conduct 109

These knights unto their several lodgings! Yours, sir,

We have given order to be next our own.

Per.

I am at your Grace’s pleasure. 112

Sim.

Princes, it is too late to talk of love,

And that’s the mark I know you level at;

Therefore each one betake him to his rest;

To-morrow all for speeding do their best. 116

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Tyre. A Room in the Governor’s House.

Enter Helicanus and Escanes.

Hel.

No, Escanes, know this of me,

Antiochus from incest liv’d not free;

For which, the most high gods not minding longer

To withhold the vengeance that they had in store, 4

Due to this heinous capital offence,

Even in the height and pride of all his glory,

When he was seated in a chariot

Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him, 8

A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up

Their bodies, even to loathing; for they so stunk,

That all those eyes ador’d them ere their fall

Scorn now their hand should give them burial. 12

Esca.

’Twas very strange.

Hel.

And yet but just; for though

This king were great, his greatness was no guard

To bar heaven’s shaft, but sin had his reward.

Esca.

’Tis very true. 16

Enter two or three Lords.

First Lord.

See, not a man in private conference

Or council has respect with him but he.

Sec. Lord.

It shall no longer grieve without reproof.

Third Lord.

And curs’d be he that will not second it. 20

First Lord.

Follow me then. Lord Helicane, a word.

Hel.

With me? and welcome. Happy day, my lords.

First Lord.

Know that our griefs are risen to the top,

And now at length they overflow their banks. 24

Hel.

Your griefs! for what? wrong not the prince you love.

First Lord.

Wrong not yourself then, noble Helicane;

But if the prince do live, let us salute him,

Or know what ground’s made happy by his breath. 28

If in the world he live, we’ll seek him out;

If in his grave he rest, we’ll find him there;

And be resolv’d he lives to govern us,

Or dead, give ’s cause to mourn his funeral, 32

And leaves us to our free election.

Sec. Lord.

Whose death’s indeed the strongest in our censure:

And knowing this kingdom is without a head,

Like goodly buildings left without a roof 36

Soon fall to ruin, your noble self,

That best know’st how to rule and how to reign,

We thus submit unto, our sovereign.

All.

Live, noble Helicane! 40

Hel.

For honour’s cause forbear your suffrages:

If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear.

Take I your wish, I leap into the seas,

Where’s hourly trouble for a minute’s ease. 44

A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you

To forbear the absence of your king;

If in which time expir’d he not return,

I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. 48

But if I cannot win you to this love,

Go search like nobles, like noble subjects,

And in your search spend your adventurous worth;

Whom if you find, and win unto return, 52

You shall like diamonds sit about his crown.

First Lord.

To wisdom he’s a fool that will not yield;

And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us,

We with our travels will endeavour it. 56

Hel.

Then you love us, we you, and we’ll clasp hands:

When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Pentapolis. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Simonides, reading a letter; the Knights meet him.

First Knight.

Good morrow to the good Simonides.

Sim.

Knights, from my daughter this I let you know,

That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake

A married life. 4

Her reason to herself is only known,

Which yet from her by no means can I get.

Sec. Knight.

May we not get access to her, my lord?

Sim.

Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly tied 8

Her to her chamber that ’tis impossible.

One twelve moons more she’ll wear Diana’s livery;

This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d,

And on her virgin honour will not break it. 12

Third Knight.

Though loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves.

[Exeunt Knights.

Sim.

So,

They’re well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s letter.

She tells me here, she’ll wed the stranger knight,

Or never more to view nor day nor light. 17

’Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine;

I like that well: how absolute she’s in ’t,

Not minding whether I dislike or no! 20

Well, I do commend her choice;

And will no longer have it be delay’d.

Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it.

Enter Pericles.

Per.

All fortune to the good Simonides! 24

Sim.

To you as much, sir! I am beholding to you

For your sweet music this last night: I do

Protest my ears were never better fed

With such delightful pleasing harmony 28

Per.

It is your Grace’s pleasure to commend,

Not my desert.

Sim.

Sir, you are music’s master.

Per.

The worst of all her scholars, my good lord.

Sim.

Let me ask you one thing. 32

What do you think of my daughter, sir?

Per.

A most virtuous princess.

Sim.

And she is fair too, is she not?

Per.

As a fair day in summer; wondrous fair.

Sim.

My daughter, sir, thinks very well of you; 37

Ay, so well, that you must be her master,

And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it.

Per.

I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. 40

Sim.

She thinks not so; peruse this writing else.

Per.

[Aside.] What’s here?

A letter that she loves the knight of Tyre!

’Tis the king’s subtilty to have my life. 44

O! seek not to entrap me, gracious lord,

A stranger and distressed gentleman,

That never aim’d so high to love your daughter,

But bent all offices to honour her. 48

Sim.

Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, and thou art

A villain.

Per.

By the gods, I have not:

Never did thought of mine levy offence; 52

Nor never did my actions yet commence

A deed might gain her love or your displeasure.

Sim.

Traitor, thou liest.

Per.

Traitor!

Sim.

Ay, traitor.

Per.

Even in his throat, unless it be the king, 56

That calls me traitor, I return the lie.

Sim.

[Aside.] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage.

Per.

My actions are as noble as my thoughts,

That never relish’d of a base descent. 60

I came unto your court for honour’s cause,

And not to be a rebel to her state;

And he that otherwise accounts of me,

This sword shall prove he’s honour’s enemy. 64

Sim.

No?

Here comes my daughter, she can witness it.

Enter Thaisa.

Per.

Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,

Resolve your angry father, if my tongue 68

Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe

To any syllable that made love to you.

Thai.

Why, sir, say if you had,

Who takes offence at that would make me glad? 72

Sim.

Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory?

[Aside.] I am glad on ’t, with all my heart.

I’ll tame you; I’ll bring you in subjection.

Will you, not having my consent, 76

Bestow your love and your affections

Upon a stranger? [Aside.] who, for aught I know,

May be, nor can I think the contrary,

As great in blood as I myself.— 80

[Aloud.] Therefore, hear you, mistress; either frame

Your will to mine; and you, sir, hear you,

Either be rul’d by me, or I will make you—

Man and wife: 84

Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too;

And being join’d, I’ll thus your hopes destroy;

And for a further grief,—God give you joy!

What! are you both pleas’d?

Thai.

Yes, if you love me, sir. 88

Per.

Even as my life, or blood that fosters it.

Sim.

What! are you both agreed?

Thai.

Yes, if ’t please your majesty.

Per.

Yes, if ’t please your majesty.

Sim.

It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed; 92

Then with what haste you can get you to bed.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Enter Gower.

Now sleep yslaked hath the rout;

No din but snores the house about,

Made louder by the o’er-fed breast

Of this most pompous marriage-feast.  4

The cat, with eyne of burning coal,

Now couches fore the mouse’s hole;

And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth,

E’er the blither for their drouth.  8

Hymen hath brought the bride to bed,

Where, by the loss of maidenhead,

A babe is moulded. Be attent;

And time that is so briefly spent  12

With your fine fancies quaintly eche;

What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech.

Dumb Show.

Enter, from one side, Pericles and Simonides, with Attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles shows it to Simonides; the Lords kneel to Pericles. Then enter Thaisa with child, and Lychorida: Simonides shows his daughter the letter; she rejoices: she and Pericles take leave of her father, and all depart.

By many a dern and painful perch,

Of Pericles the careful search  16

By the four opposing coigns,

Which the world together joins,

Is made with all due diligence

That horse and sail and high expense,  20

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre,—

Fame answering the most strange inquire—

To the court of King Simonides

Are letters brought, the tenour these:  24

Antiochus and his daughter dead;

The men of Tyrus on the head

Of Helicanus would set on

The crown of Tyre, but he will none:  28

The mutiny he there hastes t’ oppress;

Says to ’em, if King Pericles

Come not home in twice six moons,

He, obedient to their dooms,  32

Will take the crown. The sum of this,

Brought hither to Pentapolis,

Yravished the regions round,

And every one with claps can sound,  36

‘Our heir-apparent is a king!

Who dream’d, who thought of such a thing?’

Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre:

His queen, with child, makes her desire,—  40

Which who shall cross?—along to go;

Omit we all their dole and woe:

Lychorida, her nurse, she takes,

And so to sea. Their vessel shakes  44

On Neptune’s billow; half the flood

Hath their keel cut: but Fortune’s mood

Varies again; the grisled north

Disgorges such a tempest forth,  48

That, as a duck for life that dives,

So up and down the poor ship drives.

The lady shrieks, and well-a-near

Does fall in travail with her fear;  52

And what ensues in this fell storm

Shall for itself itself perform.

I nill relate, action may

Conveniently the rest convey,  56

Which might not what by me is told.

In your imagination hold

This stage the ship, upon whose deck

The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak.  60

[Exit.

Scene I.

Enter Pericles, on shipboard.

Per.

Thou God of this great vast, rebuke these surges,

Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast

Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,

Having call’d them from the deep. O! still 4

Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench

Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes. O! how Lychorida,

How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously;

Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle

Is as a whisper in the ears of death, 9

Unheard. Lychorida! Lucina, O!

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity 12

Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs

Of my queen’s travails!

Enter Lychorida, with an Infant.

Now, Lychorida!

Lyc.

Here is a thing too young for such a place,

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I 16

Am like to do: take in your arms this piece

Of your dead queen.

Per.

How, how, Lychorida!

Lyc.

Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.

Here’s all that is left living of your queen, 20

A little daughter: for the sake of it,

Be manly, and take comfort.

Per.

O you gods!

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,

And snatch them straight away? We here below, 24

Recall not what we give, and therein may

Use honour with you.

Lyc.

Patience, good sir,

Even for this charge.

Per.

Now, mild may be thy life!

For a more blust’rous birth had never babe: 28

Quiet and gentle thy conditions!

For thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world

That e’er was prince’s child. Happy what follows!

Thou hast as chiding a nativity 32

As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,

To herald thee from the womb; even at the first

Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit,

With all thou canst find here. Now, the good gods 36

Throw their best eyes upon ’t!

Enter two Sailors.

First Sail.

What courage, sir? God save you!

Per.

Courage enough. I do not fear the flaw;

It hath done to me the worst. Yet for the love

Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer, 41

I would it would be quiet.

First Sail.

Slack the bolins there! thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself. 44

Sec. Sail.

But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not.

First Sail.

Sir, you queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead. 49

Per.

That’s your superstition.

First Sail.

Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still observed, and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her, for she must overboard straight.

Per.

As you think meet. Most wretched queen!

Lyc.

Here she lies, sir. 56

Per.

A terrible child-bed hast thou had, my dear;

No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements

Forgot thee utterly; nor have I time

To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight

Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze; 61

Where, for a monument upon thy bones,

And aye-remaining lamps, the belching whale

And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse, 64

Lying with simple shells! O Lychorida!

Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,

My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander

Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe 68

Upon the pillow. Hie thee, whiles I say

A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.

[Exit Lychorida.

Sec. Sail.

Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulk’d and bitumed ready. 72

Per.

I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?

Sec. Sail.

We are near Tarsus.

Per.

Thither, gentle mariner, 76

Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it?

Sec. Sail.

By break of day, if the wind cease.

Per.

O! make for Tarsus.

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe 80

Cannot hold out to Tyrus; there I’ll leave it

At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner;

I’ll bring the body presently.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Ephesus. A Room in Cerimon’s House.

Enter Cerimon, a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwracked.

Cer.

Philemon, ho!

Enter Philemon.

Phil.

Doth my lord call?

Cer.

Get fire and meat for these poor men;

’T has been a turbulent and stormy night. 4

Ser.

I have been in many; but such a night as this

Till now I ne’er endur’d.

Cer.

Your master will be dead ere you return;

There’s nothing can be minister’d to nature 8

That can recover him. [To Philemon.] Give this to the ’pothecary,

And tell me how it works.

[Exeunt all except Cerimon.

Enter two Gentlemen.

First Gent.

Good morrow, sir.

Sec. Gent.

Good morrow to your lordship.

Cer.

Gentlemen,

Why do you stir so early? 12

First Gent.

Sir,

Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,

Shook as the earth’ did quake;

The very principals did seem to rend, 16

And all to topple. Pure surprise and fear

Made me to quit the house.

Sec. Gent.

That is the cause we trouble you so early;

’Tis not our husbandry.

Cer.

O! you say well. 20

First Gent.

But I much marvel that your lordship, having

Rich tire about you, should at these early hours

Shake off the golden slumber of repose.

’Tis most strange, 24

Nature should be so conversant with pain,

Being thereto not compell’d.

Cer.

I hold it ever,

Virtue and cunning were endowments greater

Than nobleness and riches; careless heirs 28

May the two latter darken and expend,

But immortality attends the former,

Making a man a god. ’Tis known I ever

Have studied physic, through which secret art,

By turning o’er authorities, I have— 33

Together with my practice—made familiar

To me and to my aid the blest infusions

That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones; 36

And can speak of the disturbances

That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me

A more content in course of true delight

Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, 40

Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

To please the fool and death.

Sec. Gent.

Your honour has through Ephesus pour’d forth

Your charity, and hundreds call themselves 44

Your creatures, who by you have been restor’d:

And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even

Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon 47

Such strong renown as time shall ne’er decay.

Enter two Servants, with a chest.

First Serv.

So; lift there.

Cer.

What is that?

First Serv.

Sir, even now

Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest:

’Tis of some wrack.

Cer.

Set it down; let’s look upon ’t.

Sec. Gent.

’Tis like a coffin, sir.

Cer.

Whate’er it be, 52

’Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight;

If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharg’d with gold,

’Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.

Sec. Gent.

’Tis so, my lord.

Cer.

How close ’tis caulk’d and bitumed! 56

Did the sea cast it up?

First Serv.

I never saw so huge a billow, sir,

As toss’d it upon shore.

Cer.

Come, wrench it open.

Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. 60

Sec. Gent.

A delicate odour.

Cer.

As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it.

O you most potent gods! what’s here? a corse!

First Gent.

Most strange! 64

Cer.

Shrouded in cloth of state; balm’d and entreasur’d

With full bags of spices! A passport too!

Apollo, perfect me i’ the characters!

Here I give to understand, 68

If e’er this coffin drive a-land,

I, King Pericles, have lost

This queen worth all our mundane cost.

Who finds her, give her burying; 72

She was the daughter of a king:

Besides this treasure for a fee,

The gods requite his charity!

If thou liv’st, Pericles, thou hast a heart 76

That even cracks for woe! This chanc’d to-night.

Sec. Gent.

Most likely, sir.

Cer.

Nay, certainly to-night;

For look, how fresh she looks. They were too rough

That threw her in the sea. Make fire within; 80

Fetch hither all the boxes in my closet.

[Exit Second Servant.

Death may usurp on nature many hours,

And yet the fire of life kindle again

The overpress’d spirits. I heard 84

Of an Egyptian, that had nine hours lien dead,

Who was by good appliances recovered.

Re-enter Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire.

Well said, well said; the fire and cloths.

The rough and woeful music that we have, 88

Cause it to sound, beseech you.

The viol once more;—how thou stirr’st, thou block!

The music there! I pray you, give her air.

Gentlemen, 92

This queen will live; nature awakes, a warmth

Breathes out of her; she hath not been entranc’d

Above five hours. See! how she ’gins to blow

Into life’s flower again.

First Gent.

The heavens 96

Through you increase our wonder and set up

Your fame for ever.

Cer.

She is alive! behold,

Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels

Which Pericles hath lost, 100

Begin to part their fringes of bright gold;

The diamonds of a most praised water

Do appear, to make the world twice rich. Live,

And make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature, 104

Rare as you seem to be!

[She moves.

Thai.

O dear Diana!

Where am I? Where’s my lord? What world is this?

Sec. Gent.

Is not this strange?

First Gent.

Most rare.

Cer.

Hush, gentle neighbours!

Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her. 108

Get linen; now this matter must be look’d to,

For her relapse is mortal, Come, come;

And Æsculapius guide us!

[Exeunt, carrying Thaisa away.

Scene III.— Tarsus. A Room in Cleon’s House.

Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza, and Lychorida, with Marina in her arms.

Per.

Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone;

My twelve months are expir’d, and Tyrus stands

In a litigious peace. You and your lady

Take from my heart all thankfulness; the gods

Make up the rest upon you! 5

Cle.

Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally,

Yet glance full wanderingly on us.

Dion.

O your sweet queen!

That the strict fates had pleas’d you had brought her hither, 8

To have bless’d mine eyes with her!

Per.

We cannot but obey

The powers above us. Could I rage and roar

As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end

Must be as ’tis. My gentle babe Marina—whom, 12

For she was born at sea, I have nam’d so—here

I charge your charity withal, and leave her

The infant of your care, beseeching you 15

To give her princely training, that she may be

Manner’d as she is born.

Cle.

Fear not, my lord, but think

Your Grace, that fed my country with your corn—

For which the people’s prayers still fall upon you— 19

Must in your child be thought on. If neglection

Should therein make me vile, the common body,

By you reliev’d, would force me to my duty;

But if to that my nature need a spur,

The gods revenge it upon me and mine, 24

To the end of generation!

Per.

I believe you;

Your honour and your goodness teach me to ’t,

Without your vows. Till she be married, madam,

By bright Diana, whom we honour, all 28

Unscissar’d shall this hair of mine remain,

Though I show ill in ’t. So I take my leave.

Good madam, make me blessed in your care

In bringing up my child.

Dion.

I have one myself, 32

Who shall not be more dear to my respect

Than yours, my lord.

Per.

Madam, my thanks and prayers.

Cle.

We’ll bring your Grace e’en to the edge o’ the shore;

Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and 36

The gentlest winds of heaven.

Per.

I will embrace

Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O! no tears,

Lychorida, no tears:

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace 40

You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Ephesus. A Room in Cerimon’s House.

Enter Cerimon and Thaisa.

Cer.

Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,

Lay with you in your coffer; which are now

At your command. Know you the character?

Thai.

It is my lord’s. 4

That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember,

Even on my eaning time; but whether there

Deliver’d, by the holy gods,

I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles, 8

My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again,

A vestal livery will I take me to,

And never more have joy.

Cer.

Madam, if this you purpose as you speak, 12

Diana’s temple is not distant far,

Where you may abide till your date expire.

Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine

Shall there attend you. 16

Thai.

My recompense is thanks, that’s all;

Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter Gower.

Imagine Pericles arriv’d at Tyre,

Welcom’d and settled to his own desire.

His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus,

Unto Diana there a votaress.  4

Now to Marina bend your mind,

Whom our fast-growing scene must find

At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d

In music, letters; who hath gain’d  8

Of education all the grace,

Which makes her bath the heart and places

Of general wonder. But, alack!

That monster envy, oft the wrack  12

Of earned praise, Marina’s life

Seeks to take off by treason’s knife.

And in this kind hath our Cleon

One daughter, and a wench full grown,  16

Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid

Hight Philoten, and it is said

For certain in our story, she

Would ever with Marina be:  20

Be ’t when she weav’d the sleided silk

With fingers, long, small, white as milk,

Or when she would with sharp neeld wound

The cambric, which she made more sound  24

By hurting it; when to the lute

She sung, and made the night-bird mute,

That still records with moan; or when

She would with rich and constant pen  28

Vail to her mistress Dian; still

This Philoten contends in skill

With absolute Marina: so

With the dove of Paphos might the crow  32

Vie feathers white. Marina gets

All praises, which are paid as debts,

And not as given. This so darks

In Philoten all graceful marks,  36

That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare,

A present murderer does prepare

For good Marina, that her daughter

Might stand peerless by this slaughter.  40

The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,

Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:

And cursed Dionyza hath

The pregnant instrument of wrath  44

Prest for this blow. The unborn event

I do commend to your content:

Only I carry winged time

Post on the lame feet of my rime;  48

Which never could I so convey,

Unless your thoughts went on my way.

Dionyza doth appear,

With Leonine, a murderer.

[Exit.

Scene I.— Tarsus. An open Place near the Sea-shore.

Enter Dionyza and Leonine.

Dion.

Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do ’t:

’Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.

Thou canst not do a thing i’ the world so soon,

To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, 4

Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom,

Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but he

A soldier to thy purpose. 8

Leon.

I’ll do ’t; but yet she is a goodly creature.

Dion.

The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here

She comes weeping for her only mistress’ death.

Thou art resolv’d?

Leon

I am resolv’d. 12

Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers.

Mar.

No, I will rob Tellus of her weed,

To strew thy green with flowers; the yellows, blues,

The purple violets, and marigolds,

Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave, 16

While summer days do last. Ay me! poor maid,

Born in a tempest, when my mother died,

This world to me is like a lasting storm,

Whirring me from my friends. 20

Dion

How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?

How chance my daughter is not with you? Do not

Consume your blood with sorrowing; you have

A nurse of me. Lord! how your favour’s chang’d 24

With this unprofitable woe. Come,

Give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it.

Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there,

And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come, 28

Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.

Mar.

No, I pray you;

I’ll not bereave you of your servant.

Dion.

Come, come;

I love the king your father, and yourself, 32

With more than foreign heart. We every day

Expect him here; when he shall come and find

Our paragon to all reports thus blasted, 35

He will repent the breadth of his great voyage;

Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken

No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you;

Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve

That excellent complexion, which did steal 40

The eyes of young and old. Care not for me;

I can go home alone.

Mar.

Well, I will go;

But yet I have no desire to it. 43

Dion.

Come, come, I know ’tis good for you.

Walk half an hour, Leonine, at least.

Remember what I have said.

Leon.

I warrant you, madam.

Dion.

I’ll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while; 47

Pray you walk softly, do not heat your blood:

What! I must have care of you.

Mar.

My thanks, sweet madam.

[Exit Dionyza.

Is this wind westerly that blows?

Leon.

South-west.

Mar.

When I was born, the wind was north.

Leon.

Was ’t so?

Mar.

My father, as nurse said, did never fear,

But cried ‘Good seamen!’ to the sailors, galling

His kingly hands haling ropes;

And, clasping to the mast, endur’d a sea

That almost burst the deck. 56

Leon.

When was this?

Mar.

When I was born:

Never were waves nor wind more violent;

And from the ladder-tackle washes off 60

A canvas-climber. ‘Ha!’ says one, ‘wilt out?’

And with a dropping industry they skip

From stem to stern; the boatswain whistles, and

The master calls, and trebles their confusion. 64

Leon.

Come; say your prayers.

Mar.

What mean you?

Leon.

If you require a little space for prayer,

I grant it. Pray; but be not tedious, 68

For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn

To do my work with haste.

Mar.

Why will you kill me?

Leon.

To satisfy my lady.

Mar.

Why would she have me kill’d? 72

Now, as I can remember, by my troth,

I never did her hurt in all my life.

I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn

To any living creature; believe me, la, 76

I never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly;

I trod upon a worm against my will,

But I wept for it. How have I offended,

Wherein my death might yield her any profit,

Or my life imply her any danger? 81

Leon.

My commission

Is not to reason of the deed, but do ’t.

Mar.

You will not do ’t for all the world, I hope. 84

You are well favour’d, and your looks foreshow

You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately,

When you caught hurt in parting two that fought;

Good sooth, it show’d well in you; do so now;

Your lady seeks my life; come you between, 89

And save poor me, the weaker.

Leon.

I am sworn,

And will dispatch.

Enter Pirates, whilst Marina is struggling.

First Pirate.

Hold, villain! 92

[Leonine runs away.

Sec. Pirate.

A prize! a prize!

Third Pirate.

Half-part, mates, half-part.

Come, let’s have her aboard suddenly.

[Exeunt Pirates with Marina.

Re-enter Leonine.

Leon.

These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes; 96

And they have seiz’d Marina. Let her go;

There’s no hope she’ll return. I’ll swear she’s dead,

And thrown into the sea. But I’ll see further;

Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, 100

Not carry her aboard. If she remain,

Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Mitylene. A Room in a Brothel.

Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult.

Pand.

Boult.

Sir?

Pand.

Search the market narrowly; Mitylene is full of gallants; we lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless. 5

Bawd.

We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten. 9

Pand.

Therefore, let’s have fresh ones, whate’er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper. 13

Bawd.

Thou sayst true; ’tis not the bringing up of poor bastards, as, I think, I have brought up some eleven— 16

Boult.

Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?

Bawd.

What else, man? The stuff we have a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden. 21

Pand.

Thou sayst true; they’re too unwholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage. 24

Boult.

Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I’ll go search the market.

[Exit.

Pand.

Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.

Bawd.

Why to give over, I pray you? is it a shame to get when we are old? 32

Pand.

O! our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger; therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, ’twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over. 39

Bawd.

Come, other sorts offend as well as we.

Pand.

As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult.

Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina.

Boult.

Come your ways. My masters, you say she’s a virgin? 45

First Pirate.

O! sir, we doubt it not.

Boult.

Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest. 49

Bawd.

Boult, has she any qualities?

Boult.

She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent good clothes; there’s no further necessity of qualities can make her be refused.

Bawd.

What’s her price, Boult?

Boult.

I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand pieces. 56

Pand.

Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment. 60

[Exeunt Pandar and Pirates.

Bawd.

Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her hair, complexion, height, age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry, ‘He that will give most, shall have her first.’ Such a maiden-head were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you. 67

Boult.

Performance shall follow.

[Exit.

Mar.

Alack! that Leonine was so slack, so slow.

He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates—

Not enough barbarous—had not o’erboard thrown me

For to seek my mother! 72

Bawd.

Why lament you, pretty one?

Mar.

That I am pretty.

Bawd.

Come, the gods have done their part in you.

Mar.

I accuse them not. 76

Bawd.

You are lit into my hands, where you are like to live.

Mar.

The more my fault

To ’scape his hands where I was like to die. 80

Bawd.

Ay, and you shall live in pleasure.

Mar.

No.

Bawd.

Yes, indeed, shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions. You shall fare well; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears?

Mar.

Are you a woman?

Bawd.

What would you have me be, an I be not a woman? 89

Mar.

An honest woman, or not a woman.

Bawd.

Marry, whip thee, gosling; I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you are a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you.

Mar.

The gods defend me! 95

Bawd.

If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men must stir you up. Boult’s returned.

Re-enter Boult.

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market? 101

Boult.

I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs; I have drawn her picture with my voice. 104

Bawd.

And I prithee, tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort?

Boult.

Faith, they listened to me, as they would have hearkened to their father’s testament. There was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description.

Bawd.

We shall have him here to-morrow with his best ruff on. 113

Boult.

To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i’ the hams? 116

Bawd.

Who? Monsieur Veroles?

Boult.

Ay; he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her to-morrow. 120

Bawd.

Well, well; as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun. 124

Boult.

Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign.

Bawd.

[To Marina.] Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully, which you commit willingly; to despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers; seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit.

Mar.

I understand you not. 136

Boult.

O! take her home, mistress, take her home; these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practice.

Bawd.

Thou sayst true, i’ faith, so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant.

Boult.

Faith, some do, and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint,— 144

Bawd.

Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit.

Boult.

I may so?

Bawd.

Who should deny it? Come, young one, I like the manner of your garments well.

Boult.

Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet. 150

Bawd.

Boult, spend thou that in the town; report what a sojourner we have; you’ll lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report. 156

Boult.

I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I’ll bring home some to-night. 160

Bawd.

Come your ways; follow me.

Mar.

If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep,

Untied I still my virgin knot will keep.

Diana, aid my purpose! 164

Bawd.

What have we to do with Diana?

Pray you, will you go with us?

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Tarsus. A Room in Cleon’s House.

Enter Cleon and Dionyza.

Dion.

Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone?

Cle.

O Dionyza! such a piece of slaughter

The sun and moon ne’er look’d upon.

Dion.

I think

You’ll turn a child again. 4

Cle.

Were I chief lord of all this spacious world,

I’d give it to undo the deed. O lady!

Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess

To equal any single crown o’ the earth 8

I’ the justice of compare. O villain Leonine!

Whom thou hast poison’d too;

If thou hadst drunk to him ’t had been a kindness

Becoming well thy fact; what canst thou say 12

When noble Pericles shall demand his child?

Dion

That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates,

To foster it, nor ever to preserve.

She died at night; I’ll say so. Who can cross it?

Unless you play the pious innocent, 17

And for an honest attribute cry out

‘She died by foul play.’

Cle.

O! go to. Well, well,

Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods

Do like this worst.

Dion.

Be one of those that think 21

The pretty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence,

And open this to Pericles. I do shame

To think of what a noble strain you are, 24

And of how coward a spirit.

Cle.

To such proceeding

Who ever but his approbation added,

Though not his prime consent, he did not flow

From honourable sources.

Dion.

Be it so, then; 28

Yet none does know but you how she came dead,

Nor none can know, Leonine being gone.

She did distain my child, and stood between

Her and her fortunes; none would look on her,

But cast their gazes on Marina’s face, 33

Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin

Not worth the time of day. It pierc’d me thorough;

And though you call my course unnatural, 36

You not your child well loving, yet I find

It greets me as an enterprise of kindness

Perform’d to your sole daughter.

Cle.

Heavens forgive it!

Dion.

And as for Pericles, 40

What should he say? We wept after her hearse,

And even yet we mourn; her monument

Is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs

In glittering golden characters express 44

A general praise to her, and care in us

At whose expense ’tis done.

Cle.

Thou art like the harpy,

Which, to betray, dost with thine angel’s face,

Seize with thine eagle’s talons. 48

Dion.

You are like one that superstitiously

Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies;

But yet I know you’ll do as I advise.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Before the Monument of Marina at Tarsus.

Enter Gower.

Thus time we waste, and longest leagues make short;

Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for ’t;

Making—to take your imagination—

From bourn to bourn, region to region. 4

By you being pardon’d, we commit no crime

To use one language in each several clime

Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you

To learn of me, who stand i’ the gaps to teach you, 8

The stages of our story. Pericles

Is now again thwarting the wayward seas,

Attended on by many a lord and knight,

To see his daughter, all his life’s delight. 12

Old Helicanus goes along. Behind

Is left to govern it, you bear in mind,

Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late

Advanc’d in time to great and high estate. 16

Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought

This king to Tarsus, think his pilot thought,

So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on,

To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. 20

Like motes and shadows see them move awhile;

Your ears unto your eyes I’ll reconcile.

Dumb Show.

Enter at one door Pericles, with his Train; Cleon and Dionyza at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb of Marina; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs. Exeunt Cleon and Dionyza.

See how belief may suffer by foul show!

This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe;

And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d, 25

With sighs shot through, and biggest tears o’ershower’d,

Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears

Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs; 28

He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears

A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,

And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit

The epitaph is for Marina writ 32

By wicked Dionyza.

[Reads inscription on Marina’s monument.

the fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here,

who wither’d in her spring of year:

she was of tyrus the king’s daughter,

on whom foul death hath made this slaughter. 37

marina was she call’d; and at her birth,

thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part o’ the earth:

therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow’d, 40

hath thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow’d:

wherefore she does, and swears she’ll never stint,

make raging battery upon shores of flint.

No visor does become black villany 44

So well as soft and tender flattery.

Let Pericles believe his daughter’s dead,

And bear his courses to be ordered

By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play

His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day 49

In her unholy service. Patience then,

And think you now are all in Mitylen.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Mitylene. A Street before the Brothel.

Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen.

First Gent.

Did you ever hear the like?

Sec. Gent.

No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone.

First Gent.

But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing? 5

Sec. Gent.

No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy-houses. Shall’s go hear the vestals sing?

First Gent.

I’ll do any thing now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Room in the Brothel.

Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult.

Pand.

Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here.

Bawd.

Fie, fie upon her! she is able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation; we must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master-reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil if he should cheapen a kiss of her.

Boult.

Faith, I must ravish her, or she’ll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make all our swearers priests. 13

Pand.

Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for me!

Bawd.

Faith, there’s no way to be rid on ’t but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus, disguised.

Boult.

We should have both lord and lown if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers. 21

Enter Lysimáchus.

Lys.

How now! How a dozen of virginities?

Bawd.

Now, the gods to-bless your honour!

Boult.

I am glad to see your honour in good health. 25

Lys.

You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now! wholesome iniquity, have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon? 29

Bawd.

We have here one, sir, if she would—but there never came her like in Mitylene.

Lys.

If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say. 33

Bawd.

Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough.

Lys.

Well; call forth, call forth. 36

Boult.

For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed if she had but—

Lys.

What, prithee? 40

Boult.

O! sir, I can be modest.

Lys.

That dignifies the renown of a bawd no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste.

[Exit Boult.

Bawd.

Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never plucked yet, I can assure you.—

Re-enter Boult with Marina.

Is she not a fair creature? 47

Lys.

Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea. Well, there’s for you; leave us.

Bawd.

I beseech your honour, give me leave; a word, and I’ll have done presently.

Lys.

I beseech you do. 52

Bawd.

[To Marina.] First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man.

Mar.

I desire to find him so, that I may worthily note him. 56

Bawd.

Next, he’s the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to.

Mar.

If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that I know not. 61

Bawd.

Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold. 64

Mar.

What he will do graciously, I will thankfully receive.

Lys.

Ha’ you done?

Bawd.

My lord, she’s not paced yet; you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. 71

Lys.

Go thy ways. [Exeunt Bawd, Pandar, and Boult.] Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade?

Mar.

What trade, sir?

Lys.

Why, I cannot name ’t but I shall offend. 76

Mar.

I cannot be offended with my trade. Please you to name it.

Lys.

How long have you been of this profession? 80

Mar.

E’er since I can remember.

Lys.

Did you go to ’t so young? Were you a gamester at five or at seven?

Mar.

Earlier too, sir, if now I be one. 84

Lys.

Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale.

Mar.

Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into ’t? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place.

Lys.

Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am? 92

Mar.

Who is my principal?

Lys.

Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O! you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place; come, come. 100

Mar.

If you were born to honour, show it now;

If put upon you, make the judgment good

That thought you worthy of it.

Lys.

How’s this? how’s this? Some more; be sage. 104

Mar.

For me,

That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune

Hath plac’d me in this sty, where, since I came,

Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, 108

O! that the gods

Would set me free from this unhallow’d place,

Though they did change me to the meanest bird

That flies i’ the purer air!

Lys.

I did not think 112

Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne’er dream’d thou couldst.

Had I brought hither a corrupted mind,

Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for thee;

Persever in that clear way thou goest, 116

And the gods strengthen thee!

Mar.

The good gods preserve you!

Lys.

For me, be you thoughten

That I came with no ill intent, for to me 120

The very doors and windows savour vilely.

Farewell. Thou art a piece of virtue, and

I doubt not but thy training hath been noble.

Hold, here’s more gold for thee. 124

A curse upon him, die he like a thief,

That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost

Hear from me, it shall be for thy good.

Re-enter Boult.

Boult.

I beseech your honour, one piece for me. 129

Lys.

Avaunt! thou damned door-keeper. Your house,

But for this virgin that doth prop it, would

Sink and overwhelm you. Away!

[Exit.

Boult.

How’s this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways.

Mar.

Whither would you have me? 139

Boult.

I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.

Re-enter Bawd.

Bawd.

How now! what’s the matter? 144

Boult.

Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.

Bawd.

O! abominable. 148

Boult.

She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods.

Bawd.

Marry, hang her up for ever!

Boult.

The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too.

Bawd.

Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure; crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable. 157

Boult.

An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed.

Mar.

Hark, hark, you gods! 160

Bawd.

She conjures; away with her! Would she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang you! She’s born to undo us. Will you not go the way of women-kind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays! 165

[Exit.

Boult.

Come, mistress; come your ways with me.

Mar.

Whither wilt thou have me?

Boult.

To take from you the jewel you hold so dear. 169

Mar.

Prithee, tell me one thing first.

Boult.

Come now, your one thing.

Mar.

What canst thou wish thine enemy to be? 173

Boult.

Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress.

Mar.

Neither of these are so bad as thou art,

Since they do better thee in their command. 177

Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend

Of hell would not in reputation change;

Thou art the damned door-keeper to every 180

Coystril that comes inquiring for his Tib,

To the choleric fisting of every rogue

Thy ear is liable, thy food is such

As hath been belch’d on by infected lungs. 184

Boult.

What would you have me do? go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one? 189

Mar.

Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty.

Old receptacles, or common sewers, of filth;

Serve by indenture to the common hangman:

Any of these ways are yet better than this; 193

For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak,

Would own a name too dear. O! that the gods

Would safely deliver me from this place. 196

Here, here’s gold for thee.

If that thy master would gain by me,

Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,

With other virtues, which I’ll keep from boast;

And I will undertake all these to teach. 201

I doubt not but this populous city will

Yield many scholars.

Boult.

But can you teach all this you speak of? 204

Mar.

Prove that I cannot, take me home again,

And prostitute me to the basest groom

That doth frequent your house.

Boult.

Well, I will see what I can do for thee; if I can place thee, I will. 209

Mar.

But, amongst honest women.

Boult.

Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there’s no going but by their consent; therefore I will make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come; I’ll do for thee what I can; come your ways.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Enter Gower.

Marina thus the brothel ’scapes, and chances

Into an honest house, our story says.

She sings like one immortal, and she dances

As goddess-like to her admired lays; 4

Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her neeld composes

Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry,

That even her art sisters the natural roses;

Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry; 8

That pupils lacks she none of noble race,

Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain

She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place;

And to her father turn our thoughts again, 12

Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost,

Whence, driven before the winds, he is arriv’d

Here where his daughter dwells: and on this coast

Suppose him now at anchor. The city striv’d 16

God Neptune’s annual feast to keep; from whence

Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies,

His banners sable, trimm’d with rich expense;

And to him in his barge with fervour hies. 20

In your supposing once more put your sight

Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark:

Where what is done in action, more, if might,

Shall be discover’d; please you, sit and hark.

[Exit.

Scene I.— On board Pericles’ Ship, off Mitylene. A Pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel.

Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to the barge; to them Helicanus.

Tyr. Sail.

[To the Sailor of Mitylene.] Where’s the Lord Helicanus? he can resolve you.

O! here he is.—

Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mitylene,

And in it is Lysimachus, the governor, 4

Who craves to come aboard. What is your will?

Hel.

That he have his. Call up some gentlemen.

Tyr. Sail.

Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls.

Enter two or three Gentlemen.

First Gent.

Doth your lordship call? 8

Hel.

Gentlemen, there’s some of worth would come aboard;

I pray ye, greet them fairly.

[Gentlemen and Sailors descend, and go on board the barge.

Enter from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; the Gentlemen and the two Sailors.

Tyr. Sail.

Sir,

This is the man that can, in aught you would,

Resolve you. 13

Lys.

Hail, reverend sir! The gods preserve you!

Hel.

And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,

And die as I would do.

Lys.

You wish me well. 16

Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs,

Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,

I made to it to know of whence you are.

Hel.

First, what is your place? 20

Lys.

I am the governor of this place you lie before.

Hel.

Sir,

Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;

A man who for this three months hath not spoken 24

To any one, nor taken sustenance

But to prorogue his grief.

Lys.

Upon what ground is his distemperature?

Hel.

’Twould be too tedious to repeat; 28

But the main grief springs from the loss

Of a beloved daughter and a wife.

Lys.

May we not see him?

Hel.

You may; 32

But bootless is your sight: he will not speak

To any.

Lys.

Yet let me obtain my wish.

Hel.

Behold him. [Pericles discovered.] This was a goodly person, 36

Till the disaster that, one mortal night,

Drove him to this.

Lys.

Sir king, all hail! the gods preserve you!

Hall, royal sir! 40

Hel.

It is in vain; he will not speak to you.

First Lord.

Sir,

We have a maid in Mitylene, I durst wager,

Would win some words of him.

Lys.

’Tis well bethought. 44

She questionless with her sweet harmony

And other chosen attractions, would allure,

And make a battery through his deafen’d ports

Which now are midway stopp’d: 48

She is all happy as the fair’st of all,

And with her fellow maids is now upon

The leafy shelter that abuts against

The island’s side. 52

[Whispers first Lord, who puts off in the barge of Lysimachus.

Hel.

Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we’ll omit,

That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kindness

We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you,

That for our gold we may provision have, 56

Wherein we are not destitute for want,

But weary for the staleness.

Lys.

O! sir, a courtesy,

Which if we should deny, the most just gods

For every graff would send a caterpillar, 60

And so afflict our province. Yet once more

Let me entreat to know at large the cause

Of your king’s sorrow.

Hel.

Sit, sir, I will recount it to you;

But see, I am prevented.

Re-enter, from the barge, Lord, with Marina, and a young Lady.

Lys.

O! here is 64

The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one!

Is’t not a goodly presence?

Hel.

She’s a gallant lady.

Lys.

She’s such a one, that were I well assur’d

Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, 68

I’d wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.

Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty

Expect even here, where is a kingly patient:

If that thy prosperous and artificial feat 72

Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,

Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay

As thy desires can wish.

Mar.

Sir, I will use

My utmost skill in his recovery, 76

Provided

That none but I and my companion maid

Be suffer’d to come near him.

Lys.

Come, let us leave her;

And the gods make her prosperous! 80

[Marina sings.

Lys.

Mark’d he your music?

Mar.

No, nor look’d on us.

Lys.

See, she will speak to him.

Mar.

Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear.

Per.

Hum! ha! 84

Mar.

I am a maid,

My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,

But have been gaz’d on like a comet; she speaks,

My lord, that, may be, hath endur’d a grief 88

Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d.

Though wayward Fortune did malign my state,

My derivation was from ancestors

Who stood equivalent with mighty kings; 92

But time hath rooted out my parentage,

And to the world and awkward casualties

Bound me in servitude.—[Aside.] I will desist;

But there is something glows upon my cheek,

And whispers in mine ear, ‘Go not till he speak.’

Per.

My fortunes—parentage—good parentage—

To equal mine!—was it not thus? what say you?

Mar.

I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage, 100

You would not do me violence.

Per.

I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.

You are like something that—What country-woman?

Here of these shores?

Mar.

No, nor of any shores; 104

Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am

No other than I appear.

Per.

I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.

My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one 108

My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows;

Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;

As silver-voic’d; her eyes as jewel-like,

And cas’d as richly; in pace another Juno; 112

Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,

The more she gives them speech. Where do you live?

Mar.

Where I am but a stranger; from the deck

You may discern the place.

Per.

Where were you bred? 116

And how achiev’d you these endowments, which

You make more rich to owe?

Mar.

Should I tell my history, it would seem

Like lies, disdain’d in the reporting. 120

Per.

Prithee, speak;

Falseness cannot come from thee, for thou look’st

Modest as justice, and thou seem’st a palace

For the crown’d truth to dwell in. I believe thee,

And make my senses credit thy relation 125

To points that seem impossible; for thou lookest

Like one I lov’d indeed. What were thy friends?

Didst thou not say when I did push thee back,—

Which was when I perceiv’d thee,—that thou cam’st 129

From good descending?

Mar.

So indeed I did.

Per.

Report thy parentage. I think thou saidst

Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury,

And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine, 133

If both were open’d.

Mar.

Some such thing

I said, and said no more but what my thoughts

Did warrant me was likely.

Per.

Tell thy story; 136

If thine consider’d prove the thousandth part

Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I

Have suffer’d like a girl; yet thou dost look

Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling 140

Extremity out of act. What were thy friends?

How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin?

Recount, I do beseech thee. Come, sit by me.

Mar.

My name is Marina.

Per.

O! I am mock’d, 144

And thou by some incensed god sent hither

To make the world to laugh at me.

Mar.

Patience, good sir,

Or here I’ll cease.

Per.

Nay, I’ll be patient.

Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me,

To call thyself Marina.

Mar.

The name 149

Was given me by one that had some power;

My father, and a king.

Per.

How! a king’s daughter?

And call’d Marina?

Mar.

You said you would believe me;

But, not to be a troubler of your peace, 153

I will end here.

Per.

But are you flesh and blood?

Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy?

Motion!—Well; speak on. Where were you born? 156

And wherefore call’d Marina?

Mar.

Call’d Marina

For I was born at sea.

Per.

At sea! what mother?

Mar.

My mother was the daughter of a king;

Who died the minute I was born, 160

As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft

Deliver’d weeping.

Per.

O! stop there a little.

This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep

Did mock sad fools withal; this cannot be. 164

My daughter’s buried. Well; where were you bred?

I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,

And never interrupt you.

Mar.

You’ll scorn to believe me; ’twere best I did give o’er. 168

Per.

I will believe you by the syllable

Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:

How came you in these parts? where were you bred?

Mar.

The king my father did in Tarsus leave me, 172

Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,

Did seek to murder me; and having woo’d

A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do ’t,

A crew of pirates came and rescu’d me; 176

Brought me to Mitylene. But, good sir,

Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It may be

You think me an impostor; no, good faith;

I am the daughter to King Pericles, 180

If good King Pericles be.

Per.

Ho, Helicanus!

Hel.

Calls my lord?

Per.

Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,

Most wise in general; tell me, if thou canst, 185

What this maid is, or what is like to be,

That thus hath made me weep?

Hel.

I know not; but

Here is the regent, sir, of Mitylene, 188

Speaks nobly of her.

Lys.

She never would tell

Her parentage; being demanded that,

She would sit still and weep.

Per.

O Helicanus! strike me, honour’d sir;

Give me a gash, put me to present pain, 193

Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me

O’erbear the shores of my mortality,

And drown me with their sweetness. O! come hither, 196

Thou that begett’st him that did thee beget;

Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,

And found at sea again. O Helicanus!

Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud 200

As thunder threatens us; this is Marina.

What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that,

For truth can never be confirm’d enough,

Though doubts did ever sleep.

Mar.

First, sir, I pray, 204

What is your title?

Per.

I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now

My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said

Thou hast been god-like perfect; 208

Thou’rt heir of kingdoms, and another life

To Pericles thy father.

Mar.

Is it no more to be your daughter than

To say my mother’s name was Thaisa? 212

Thaisa was my mother, who did end

The minute I began.

Per.

Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child,

Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus;

She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been, 217

By savage Cleon; she shall tell thee all;

When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge

She is thy very princess. Who is this? 220

Hel.

Sir, ’tis the governor of Mitylene,

Who, hearing of your melancholy state,

Did come to see you.

Per.

I embrace you.

Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.

O heavens! bless my girl. But, hark! what music? 225

Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him

O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,

How sure you are my daughter. But, what music? 228

Hel.

My lord, I hear none.

Per.

None!

The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.

Lys.

It is not good to cross him; give him way. 232

Per.

Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear?

Lys.

My lord, I hear.

[Music.

Per.

Most heavenly music:

It nips me unto list’ning, and thick slumber

Hangs upon mine eyes; let me rest.

[Sleeps.

Lys.

A pillow for his head. 237

So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends,

If this but answer to my just belief,

I’ll well remember you. 240

[Exeunt all but Pericles.

Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision.

Dia.

My temple stands in Ephesus; hie thee thither,

And do upon mine altar sacrifice.

There, when my maiden priests are met together,

Before the people all, 244

Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife;

To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call

And give them repetition to the life.

Perform my bidding, or thou liv’st in woe; 248

Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!

Awake, and tell thy dream!

[Disappears.

Per.

Celestial Dian, goddess argentine,

I will obey thee! Helicanus!

Enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Marina.

Hel.

Sir? 252

Per.

My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike

The inhospitable Cleon: but I am

For other service first: toward Ephesus

Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I’ll tell thee why. 256

[To Lysimachus.] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,

And give you gold for such provision

As our intents will need?

Lys.

Sir, 260

With all my heart; and when you come ashore,

I have another suit.

Per.

You shall prevail,

Were it to woo my daughter; for it seems

You have been noble towards her.

Lys.

Sir, lend me your arm. 264

Per.

Come, my Marina.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before the Temple of Diana at Ephesus.

Enter Gower.

Now our sands are almost run;

More a little, and then dumb.

This, my last boon, give me,

For such kindness must relieve me,  4

That you aptly will suppose

What pageantry, what feats, what shows,

What minstrelsy, and pretty din,

The regent made in Mitylen  8

To greet the king. So he thriv’d,

That he is promis’d to be wiv’d

To fair Marina; but in no wise

Till he had done his sacrifice,  12

As Dian bade: whereto being bound,

The interim, pray you, all confound.

In feather’d briefness sails are fill’d,

And wishes fall out as they’re will’d.  16

At Ephesus, the temple see,

Our king and all his company.

That he can hither come so soon,

Is by your fancy’s thankful doom.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and other Inhabitants of Ephesus attending.

Enter Pericles, with his Train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina, and a Lady.

Per.

Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command,

I here confess myself the King of Tyre;

Who, frighted from my country, did wed

At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. 4

At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth

A maid-child call’d Marina; who, O goddess!

Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus

Was nurs’d with Cleon, whom at fourteen years 8

He sought to murder; but her better stars

Brought her to Mitylene, ’gainst whose shore

Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,

Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she 12

Made known herself my daughter.

Thai.

Voice and favour!

You are, you are—O royal Pericles!—

[She faints.

Per.

What means the nun? she dies! help, gentlemen!

Cer.

Noble sir, 16

If you have told Diana’s altar true,

This is your wife.

Per.

Reverend appearer, no;

I threw her o’erboard with these very arms.

Cer.

Upon this coast, I warrant you.

Per.

’Tis most certain.

Cer.

Look to the lady. O! she’s but o’erjoy’d. 21

Early in blustering morn this lady was

Thrown upon this shore. I op’d the coffin,

Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and plac’d her 24

Here in Diana’s temple.

Per.

May we see them?

Cer.

Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house,

Whither I invite you. Look! Thaisa is

Recovered.

Thai.

O! let me look! 28

If he be none of mine, my sanctity

Will to my sense bend no licentious ear,

But curb it, spite of seeing. O! my lord,

Are you not Pericles? Like him you speak, 32

Like him you are. Did you not name a tempest,

A birth, and death?

Per.

The voice of dead Thaisa!

Thai.

That Thaisa am I, supposed dead

And drown’d. 36

Per.

Immortal Dian!

Thai.

Now I know you better.

When we with tears parted Pentapolis,

The king my father gave you such a ring.

[Shows a ring.

Per.

This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness 40

Makes my past miseries sport: you shall do well,

That on the touching of her lips I may

Melt and no more be seen. O! come, be buried

A second time within these arms.

Mar.

My heart 44

Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom.

[Kneels to Thaisa.

Per.

Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa;

Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina,

For she was yielded there.

Thai.

Bless’d, and mine own! 48

Hel.

Hail, madam, and my queen!

Thai.

I know you not.

Per.

You have heard me say, when I did fly from Tyre,

I left behind an ancient substitute;

Can you remember what I call’d the man? 52

I have nam’d him oft.

Thai.

’Twas Helicanus then.

Per.

Still confirmation!

Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.

Now do I long to hear how you were found, 56

How possibly preserv’d, and whom to thank,

Besides the gods, for this great miracle.

Thai.

Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,

Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can 60

From first to last resolve you.

Per.

Reverend sir,

The gods can have no mortal officer

More like a god than you. Will you deliver

How this dead queen re-lives?

Cer.

I will, my lord. 64

Beseech you, first go with me to my house.

Where shall be shown you all was found with her;

How she came placed here in the temple;

No needful thing omitted. 68

Per.

Pure Dian! bless thee for thy vision; I

Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,

This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter,

Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now 72

This ornament

Makes me look dismal will I clip to form;

And what this fourteen years no rasor touch’d,

To grace thy marriage-day I’ll beautify. 76

Thai.

Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir,

My father’s dead.

Per.

Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen,

We’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves 80

Will in that kingdom spend our following days;

Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign.

Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay

To hear the rest untold. Sir, lead’s the way. 84

[Exeunt.

Enter Gower.

In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard

Of monstrous lust the due and just reward:

In Pericles, his queen, and daughter, seen—

Although assail’d with fortune fierce and keen— 88

Virtue preserv’d from fell destruction’s blast,

Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last.

In Helicanus may you well descry

A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty. 92

In reverend Cerimon there well appears

The worth that learned charity aye wears.

For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame

Had spread their cursed deed, and honour’d name 96

Of Pericles, to rage the city turn,

That him and his they in his palace burn:

The gods for murder seemed so content

To punish them; although not done, but meant. 100

So on your patience evermore attending,

New joy wait on you! Here our play hath ending.

[Exit.