The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Oxford 1916)

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. W.J. Craig (OUP, 1916)


William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

This is a part of a collection of works by William Shakespeare.

Source

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (London: Oxford University Press, 1916).

See the complete volume in facs. PDF.

Table of Contents (full)

PREFACE
PLAYS
POEMS
GLOSSARY.

Shakespeare from the Chandos Portrait.

PREFACE

THERE is no proof that Shakespeare personally superintended the printing of any of his plays. Although sixteen came separately from the press in small quarto volumes during his lifetime, many, if not all, of these were published without the consent or supervision of the author from copies often surreptitiously obtained from the playhouse. At the time of Shakespeare’s death in 1616, no less than twenty-one plays remained in manuscript. Six years later, in 1622, one of these, ‘Othello,’ was issued to the public in quarto. It was not until 1623 that Shakespeare’s actor friends, John Heming and Henry Condell, brought together the previously printed and unprinted dramas of which they knew him to be the author, and published them in a folio volume in order ‘to keep’ (as they wrote) ‘the memory of so worthy a friend and fellow alive.’ Thirty-six plays were thus claimed for Shakespeare. The thirty-seventh, ‘Pericles,’ had been first printed separately in quarto in 1609, but was not added to the collection until the third folio appeared in 1664.

The text alike of the first folio and the quartos was doubtless supplied by playhouse copies which often embodied the ill-conditioned interpolations and alterations of actors and theatrical managers. As a rule the editors of 1623 followed where they could the text of the quartos, but in a few cases they unwisely had recourse to less correct copies. Moreover, the printers of both Elizabeth’s and James I’s reigns were very liable to typographical error, and they introduced much that is unintelligible into the original editions of Shakespeare’s works. But in the absence of Shakespeare’s manuscripts, the seventeen early quartos and the folio of 1623 jointly present, despite defect of copyist and printer, the sole authorized version of the Shakespearean text. From that version I have only ventured to deviate where it seemed to me that the carelessness of either copyist or printer deprived a word or sentence wholly of meaning. Editors of Shakespeare have sometimes denounced as corrupt and have partially altered passages which owe their difficulty of interpretation to the presence of some word or phrase rare in Shakespeare’s day and long since obsolete. It has been my endeavour to avoid this danger. I have only adopted a change after convincing myself that the characteristics of Shakespeare’s vocabulary or literary style failed to justify the original reading.

For the uncertain orthography of the old editions I have substituted the recognized orthography of the present day. But metrical considerations occasionally render the retention of the older spelling necessary, and I have deemed it desirable to adhere to the older forms of a few words which modern orthography has practically shaped anew. The punctuation has been thoroughly revised, and, to increase facilities of reference, I have numbered the lines at shorter intervals than have been adopted hitherto.

In seeking to emend corrupt passages I have carefully considered the suggestions of my many predecessors, and from few of those who have already laboured in the field of textual criticism have I failed to derive some enlightenment. Of the older editors, Theobald, whose edition of Shakespeare appeared in 1733, and Capell, whose edition appeared in 1768, have proved most helpful. Among more modern editions I am chiefly indebted to the work of Delius, Dyce, and the Cambridge editors. A very few of the emendations which I have adopted are now introduced into the text for the first time. My thanks are due to my friend Mr. P. A. Daniel for many useful suggestions.

I have appended a short glossary, which I trust will adequately explain the meaning of the obsolete words which Shakespeare employed.

W. J. CRAIG.

PLAYS

THE TEMPEST

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

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

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

ACT I.

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

Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally.

Mast.

Boatswain!

Boats.

Here, master: what cheer?

Mast.

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

[Exit.

Enter Mariners.

Boats.

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

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

[Exit.

Gon.

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

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Boatswain.

Boats.

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

Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo.

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

Seb.

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

Boats.

Work you, then. 47

Ant.

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

Gon.

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

Boats.

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

Enter Mariners, wet.

Mar.

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

[Exeunt.

Boats.

What, must our mouths be cold? 58

Gon.

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

For our case is as theirs.

Seb.

I am out of patience. 60

Ant.

We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.—

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

The washing of ten tides!

Gon.

He’ll be hang’d yet,

Though every drop of water swear against it, 64

And gape at wid’st to glut him.

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

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

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

Ant.

Let’s all sink wi’ the king.

[Exit.

Seb.

Let’s take leave of him.

[Exit.

Gon.

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

[Exit.

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

Enter Prospero and Miranda.

Mira.

If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

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

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

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

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

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

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

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

Had I been any god of power, I would

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

It should the good ship so have swallow’d and

The fraughting souls within her.

Pro.

Be collected:

No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart

There’s no harm done.

Mira.

O, woe the day!

Pro.

No harm.

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

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

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am: nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20

And thy no greater father.

Mira.

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Pro.

’Tis time

I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand,

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

[Lays down his mantle.

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

The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art 28

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

No, not so much perdition as an hair,

Betid to any creature in the vessel

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

For thou must now know further.

Mira.

You have often

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

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding, ‘Stay; not yet.’

Pro.

The hour’s now come, 36

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember

A time before we came unto this cell?

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

Out three years old.

Mira.

Certainly, sir, I can.

Pro.

By what? by any other house or person?

Of anything the image tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mira.

’Tis far off; 44

And rather like a dream than an assurance

That my remembrance warrants. Had I not

Four or five women once that tended me?

Pro.

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

That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else

In the dark backward and abysm of time?

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

How thou cam’st here, thou may’st.

Mira.

But that I do not. 52

Pro.

Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,

Thy father was the Duke of Milan and

A prince of power.

Mira.

Sir, are not you my father?

Pro.

Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and

She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father

Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir 58

A princess,—no worse issued.

Mira.

O, the heavens!

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

Or blessed was’t we did?

Pro.

Both, both, my girl:

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

But blessedly holp hither.

Mira.

O! my heart bleeds

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

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

Pro.

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

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

Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself, 68

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

The manage of my state; as at that time,

Through all the signiories it was the first, 71

And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed

In dignity, and for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel: those being all my study,

The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported 76

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—

Dost thou attend me?

Mira.

Sir, most heedfully.

Pro.

Being once perfected how to grant suits,

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

To trash for over-topping; new created

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

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

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

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

The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,

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

Mira.

O, good sir! I do.

Pro.

I pray thee, mark me. 88

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

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

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

Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust,

Like a good parent, did beget of him

A falsehood in its contrary as great 95

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

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,

Not only with what my revenue yielded,

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

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

Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,—he did believe

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

And executing th’ outward face of royalty, 104

With all prerogative:—Hence his ambition growing,—

Dost thou hear?

Mira.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Pro.

To have no screen between this part he play’d

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

Absolute Milan. Me, poor man,—my library

Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties

He thinks me now incapable; confederates,—

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

To give him annual tribute, do him homage;

Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend

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

To most ignoble stooping.

Mira.

O the heavens! 116

Pro.

Mark his condition and the event; then tell me

If this might be a brother.

Mira.

I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Pro.

Now the condition. 120

This King of Naples, being an enemy

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;

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

Of homage and I know not how much tribute,

Should presently extirpate me and mine 125

Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,

With all the honours on my brother: whereon,

A treacherous army levied, one midnight 128

Fated to the purpose did Antonio open

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

The ministers for the purpose hurried thence

Me and thy crying self.

Mira.

Alack, for pity! 132

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

Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint,

That wrings mine eyes to ’t.

Pro.

Hear a little further,

And then I’ll bring thee to the present business

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

Were most impertinent.

Mira.

Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us?

Pro.

Well demanded, wench:

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

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set

A mark so bloody on the business; but

With colours fairer painted their foul ends.

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, 144

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

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

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats

Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,

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

To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,

Did us but loving wrong.

Mira.

Alack! what trouble

Was I then to you!

Pro.

O, a cherubin 152

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

Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

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

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

An undergoing stomach, to bear up 157

Against what should ensue.

Mira.

How came we ashore?

Pro.

By Providence divine. 159

Some food we had and some fresh water that

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity,—who being then appointed

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

Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,

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

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

From mine own library with volumes that

I prize above my dukedom.

Mira.

Would I might 168

But ever see that man!

Pro.

Now I arise:—

[Resumes his mantle.

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

Here in this island we arriv’d; and here

Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit

Than other princes can, that have more time

For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.

Mira.

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

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

For raising this sea-storm?

Pro.

Know thus far forth.

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,

Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies

Brought to this shore; and by my prescience 180

I find my zenith doth depend upon

A most auspicious star, whose influence

If now I court not but omit, my fortunes

Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions; 184

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

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

[Miranda sleeps.

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

Approach, my Ariel; come! 188

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

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

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

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

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

Ariel and all his quality.

Pro.

Hast thou, spirit,

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

Ari.

To every article.

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

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

I flam’d amazement: sometime I’d divide

And burn in many places; on the topmast,

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

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

O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary

And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks

Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune

Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, 205

Yea, his dread trident shake.

Pro.

My brave spirit!

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil

Would not infect his reason?

Ari.

Not a soul 208

But felt a fever of the mad and play’d

Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners,

Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,

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

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

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

And all the devils are here.’

Pro.

Why, that’s my spirit!

But was not this nigh shore?

Ari.

Close by, my master. 216

Pro.

But are they, Ariel, safe?

Ari.

Not a hair perish’d;

On their sustaining garments not a blemish,

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

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

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

Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs

In an odd angle of the isle and sitting,

His arms in this sad knot.

Pro.

Of the king’s ship 224

The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d,

And all the rest o’ the fleet.

Ari.

Safely in harbour

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

Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew

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

The mariners all under hatches stow’d; 230

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

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

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

And are upon the Mediterranean flote,

Bound sadly home for Naples,

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

And his great person perish.

Pro.

Ariel, thy charge

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

Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise 249

To bate me a full year.

Pro.

Dost thou forget

From what a torment I did free thee?

Ari.

No.

Pro.

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

Of the salt deep,

To run upon the sharp wind of the north,

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

To enter human hearing, from Argier,

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

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

Ari.

Ay, sir. 268

Pro.

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

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

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

And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 272

To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,

Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,

By help of her more potent ministers,

And in her most unmitigable rage, 276

Into a cloven pine; within which rift

Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain

A dozen years; within which space she died

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

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

Save for the son that she did litter here,

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

A human shape.

Ari.

Yes; Caliban her son. 284

Pro.

Dull thing, I say so; he that Caliban,

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

What torment I did find thee in; thy groans

Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts

Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment 289

To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax

Could not again undo; it was mine art,

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

The pine, and let thee out.

Ari.

I thank thee, master.

Pro.

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

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

Ari.

Pardon, master; 296

I will be correspondent to command,

And do my spiriting gently.

Pro.

Do so; and after two days

I will discharge thee.

Ari.

That’s my noble master!

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

Pro.

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

To no sight but thine and mine; invisible

To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape,

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

[Exit Ariel.

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

Awake!

Mira.

[Waking.] The strangeness of your story put

Heaviness in me.

Pro.

Shake it off. Come on;

We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never 308

Yields us kind answer.

Mira.

’Tis a villain, sir,

I do not love to look on.

Pro.

But, as ’tis,

We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,

Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices 312

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

Thou earth, thou! speak.

Cal.

[Within.] There’s wood enough within.

Pro.

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

Come, thou tortoise! when? 316

Re-enter Ariel, like a water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,

Hark in thine ear.

Ari.

My lord, it shall be done.

[Exit.

Pro.

Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! 320

Enter Caliban.

Cal.

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

With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen

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

And blister you all o’er! 324

Pro.

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

Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins

Shall forth at vast of night, that they may work

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

As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging

Than bees that made them.

Cal.

I must eat my dinner.

This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,

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

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

Water with berries in’t; and teach me how

To name the bigger light, and how the less,

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

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

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

Cursed be I that did so!—All the charms

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

For I am all the subjects that you have, 341

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

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ th’ island.

Pro.

Thou most lying slave, 344

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

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

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honour of my child. 348

Cal.

Oh ho! Oh ho!—would it had been done!

Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else

This isle with Calibans.

Pro.

Abhorred slave,

Which any print of goodness will not take, 352

Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour

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

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like 356

A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes

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

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

Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou

Deservedly confin’d into this rock, 361

Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.

Cal.

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

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

For learning me your language!

Pro.

Hag-seed, hence!

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

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

If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly 368

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

Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar,

That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

Cal.

No, pray thee!—

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

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

And make a vassal of him.

Pro.

So, slave; hence!

[Exit Caliban.

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

Ariel’s Song.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:  376

Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d,—

The wild waves whist,—

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.  380

Hark, hark!

[Burden Bow, wow, dispersedly.

The watch-dogs bark:

[Burden Bow, wow, dispersedly.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting Chanticleer  384

[Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Fer.

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

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

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

Weeping again the king my father’s wrack, 388

This music crept by me upon the waters,

Allaying both their fury, and my passion,

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

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

No, it begins again.

Ariel sings.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made

Those are pearls that were his eyes: 396

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 400

[Burden ding-dong.

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

If you be maid or no?

Mira.

No wonder, sir; 424

But certainly a maid.

Fer.

My language! heavens!—

I am the best of them that speak this speech,

Were I but where ’tis spoken.

Pro.

How! the best?

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

Fer.

A single thing, as I am now, that wonders

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

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

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

The king, my father wrack’d.

Mira.

Alack, for mercy!

Fer.

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

And his brave son being twain.

Pro.

[Aside.] The Duke of Milan,

And his more braver daughter could control thee,

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

[Aside.]

They have changed eyes:—delicate Ariel,

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

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

Mira.

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

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

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

To be inclin’d my way!

Fer.

[Aside.] O! if a virgin, 444

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

The Queen of Naples.

Pro.

Soft, sir: one word more—

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

I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 448

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

That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp

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

Upon this island as a spy, to win it 452

From me, the lord on’t.

Fer.

No, as I am a man.

Mira.

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

If the ill spirit have so fair a house,

Good things will strive to dwell with’t.

Pro.

[To Fer.] Follow me.— 456

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

I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:

Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be

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

Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

Fer.

No;

I will resist such entertainment till

Mine enemy has more power.

[He draws, and is charmed from moving.

Mira.

O dear father!

Make not too rash a trial of him, for 464

He’s gentle, and not fearful.

Pro.

What! I say,

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

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

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

For I can here disarm thee with this stick 469

And make thy weapon drop.

Mira.

Beseech you, father!

Pro.

Hence! hang not on my garments.

Mira.

Sir, have pity:

I’ll be his surety.

Pro.

Silence! one word more 472

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

An advocate for an impostor? hush!

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

Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! 476

To the most of men this is a Caliban

And they to him are angels.

Mira.

My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

Pro.

[To Fer.] Come on; obey: 480

Thy nerves are in their infancy again,

And have no vigour in them.

Fer.

So they are:

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

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

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

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

Might I but through my prison once a day

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

Let liberty make use of; space enough 489

Have I in such a prison.

Pro.

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

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

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

Mira.

Be of comfort; 492

My father’s of a better nature, sir,

Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted,

Which now came from him.

Pro.

Thou shalt be as free

As mountain winds; but then exactly do 496

All points of my command.

Ari.

To the syllable.

Pro.

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

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Another Part of the Island.

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

Gon.

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

So have we all, of joy; for our escape

Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe

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

The masters of some merchant and the merchant,

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

I mean our preservation, few in millions

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

Our sorrow with our comfort.

Alon.

Prithee, peace. 9

Seb.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

Ant.

The visitor will not give him o’er so.

Seb.

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

Gon.

Sir,—

Seb.

One: tell.

Gon.

The stomach of my sense. Would I had never

Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,

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

Who is so far from Italy remov’d,

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

Of Naples and of Milan! what strange fish

Hath made his meal on thee?

Fran.

Sir, he may live: 120

I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs: he trod the water,

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted

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

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

Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke

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

As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt 128

He came alive to land.

Alon.

No, no; he’s gone.

Seb.

Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,

That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,

But rather lose her to an African; 132

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

Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.

Alon.

Prithee, peace.

Seb.

You were kneel’d to and importun’d otherwise

By all of us; and the fair soul herself 136

Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at

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

I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have

More widows in them of this business’ making,

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

Your own.

Alon.

So is the dearest of the loss.

Gon.

My lord Sebastian,

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness

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

When you should bring the plaster.

Seb.

Very well.

Ant.

And most chirurgeonly.

Gon.

Execute all things; for no kind of traffic

Would I admit; no name of magistrate; 156

Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,

And use of service, none; contract, succession,

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

Seb.

An it had not fallen flat-long. 188

Gon.

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

Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music.

Seb.

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

Ant.

Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

Gon.

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

Ant.

Go sleep, and hear us.

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

Alon.

What! all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes

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

They are inclin’d to do so.

Seb.

Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth

It is a comforter.

Ant.

We two, my lord, 204

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

Alon.

Thank you. Wondrous heavy.

[Alonson sleeps. Exit Ariel.

Seb.

What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

Ant.

It is the quality o’ the climate.

Seb.

Why 208

Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not

Myself dispos’d to sleep.

Ant.

Nor I: my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

Do so: to ebb,

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Ant.

O! 231

If you but knew how you the purpose cherish

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

You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,

Most often do so near the bottom run

By their own fear or sloth.

Seb.

Prithee, say on: 236

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter from thee, and a birth indeed

Which throes thee much to yield.

Ant.

Thus, sir:

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this

Who shall be of as little memory 241

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

For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only

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

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

As he that sleeps here swims.

Seb.

I have no hope

That he’s undrown’d.

Ant.

O! out of that ‘no hope

What great hope have you! no hope that way is

Another way so high a hope that even 249

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me

That Ferdinand is drown’d?

Seb.

He’s gone.

Ant.

Then tell me 252

Who’s the next heir of Naples?

Seb.

Claribel.

Ant.

She that is Queen of Tums; she that dwells

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

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

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

Be rough and razorable: she that, from whom?

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

And by that destiny to perform an act 260

Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come

In yours and my discharge.

Seb.

What stuff is this!—How say you?

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

So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions

There is some space.

Ant.

A space whose every cubit

Seems to cry out, ‘How shall that Claribel 266

Measure us back to Naples?—Keep in Tunis,

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

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

Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples

As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate

As amply and unnecessarily 272

As this Gonzalo; I myself could make

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

The mind that I do! what a sleep were this

For your advancement! Do you understand me?

Seb.

Methinks I do.

Ant.

And how does your content

Tender your own good fortune?

Seb.

I remember 278

You did supplant your brother Prospero.

Ant.

True:

And look how well my garments sit upon me;

Much feater than before; my brother’s servants

Were then my fellows; now they are my men.

Seb.

But, for your conscience,— 283

Ant.

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

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

This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,

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

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

No better than the earth he lies upon,

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

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

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

To the perpetual wink for aye might put 293

This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who

Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,

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

They’ll tell the clock to any business that

We say befits the hour.

Seb.

Thy case, dear friend,

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

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

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

And I the king shall love thee.

Ant.

Draw together;

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

To fall it on Gonzalo.

Seb.

O! but one word.

[They converse apart.

Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible.

Ari.

My master through his art foresees the danger

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

For else his project dies—to keep thee living.

[Sings in Gonzalo’s ear.

While you here do snoring lie, 308

Open-ey’d Conspiracy

His time doth take.

If of life you keep a care,

Shake off slumber, and beware 312

Awake! awake!

Ant.

Then let us both be sudden.

Gon.

Now, good angels

Preserve the king!

[They wake.

Alon.

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

Wherefore this ghastly looking?

Gon.

What’s the matter?

Seb.

Whiles we stood here securing your repose,

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

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

It struck mine ear most terribly.

Alon.

I heard nothing.

Ant.

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

To make an earthquake: sure it was the roar

Of a whole herd of lions.

Alon.

Heard you this, Gonzalo? 324

Gon.

Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,

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

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

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

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

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

Alon.

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

For my poor son. 332

Gon.

Heavens keep him from these beasts!

For he is, sure, i’ the island.

Alon.

Lead away.

[Exit with the others.

Ari.

Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:

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

[Exit.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Island.

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

Cal.

All the infections that the sun sucks up

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

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

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

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

Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark

Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but

For every trifle are they set upon me: 8

Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me

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

Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way and mount

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

All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues

Do hiss me into madness.—

Enter Trinculo.

Lo now! lo!

Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me

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

Perchance he will not mind me.

Trin.

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

Enter Stephano, singing; a bottle in his hand.

Ste.

I shall no more to sea, to sea,

Here shall I die a-shore:—

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

Well, here’s my comfort.

[Drinks.

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

The gunner and his mate,

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

But none of us car’d for Kate;  52

For she had a tongue with a tang,

Would cry to a sailor, ‘Go hang!’

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

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

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

Trin.

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

Cal.

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

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

Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how

To snare the nimble marmozet; I’ll bring thee

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

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

Ste.

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

Cal.

Farewell, master; farewell, farewell

[Sings drunkenly.

Trin.

A howling monster, a drunken monster.

Cal.

No more dams I’ll make for fish,

Nor fetch in firing

At requiring,

Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish, 196

’Ban, ’Ban, Ca—Caliban,

Has a new master—Get a new man.

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

Ste.

O brave monster! lead the way.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Before Prospero’s Cell.

Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log.

Fer.

There be some sports are painful, and their labour

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness

Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters

Point to rich ends. This my mean task 4

Would be as heavy to me as odious; but

The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead

And makes my labours pleasures: O! she is 7

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,

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

Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,

Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress

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

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,

Most busiest when I do it.

Enter Miranda; and Prospero behind.

Mira.

Alas! now, pray you,

Work not so hard: I would the lightning had 16

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

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

’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father

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

He’s safe for these three hours.

Fer.

O most dear mistress,

The sun will set, before I shall discharge

What I must strive to do.

Mira.

If you’ll sit down,

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

I’ll carry it to the pile.

Fer.

No, precious creature:

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,

Than you should such dishonour undergo,

While I sit lazy by.

Mira.

It would become me 28

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

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

And yours it is against.

Pro.

[Aside.] Poor worm! thou art infected:

This visitation shows it.

Mira.

You look wearily. 32

Fer.

No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me

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

Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers—

What is your name?

Mira.

Miranda.—O my father! 36

I have broke your hest to say so.

Fer.

Admir’d Miranda!

Indeed, the top of admiration; worth

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

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

The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage

Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues

Have I lik’d several women; never any

With so full soul but some defect in her 44

Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d,

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

So perfect and so peerless, are created

Of every creature’s best.

Mira.

I do not know 48

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

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

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

And my dear father: how features are abroad, 52

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

The jewel in my dower,—I would not wish

Any companion in the world but you;

Nor can imagination form a shape, 56

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly and my father’s precepts

I therein do forget.

Fer.

I am in my condition

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

I would not so!—and would no more endure

This wooden slavery than to suffer

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

The very instant that I saw you did 64

My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me slave to it; and for your sake

Am I this patient log-man.

Mira.

Do you love me?

Fer.

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

And crown what I profess with kind event

If I speak true: if hollowly, invert

What best is boded me to mischief! I,

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

Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira.

I am a fool

To weep at what I am glad of.

Pro.

[Aside.] Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace

On that which breeds between them!

Fer.

Wherefore weep you? 76

Mira.

At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take

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

And all the more it seeks to hide itself 80

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

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

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

Whether you will or no.

Fer.

My mistress, dearest;

And I thus humble ever.

Mira.

My husband then?

Fer.

Ay, with a heart as willing 88

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

Mira.

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

Till half an hour hence.

Fer.

A thousand thousand!

[Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally.

Pro.

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

Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing

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

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

To hearken once again the suit I made thee?

Ste.

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

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

But this thing dare not,— 65

Ste.

That’s most certain.

Cal.

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

Ste.

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

Cal.

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

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

Ari.

Thou liest; thou canst not. 72

Cal.

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

I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows,

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

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

Trin.

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

Cal.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ste.

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

Cal.

Beat him enough: after a little time 96

I’ll beat him too.

Ste.

Stand further.—Come, proceed.

Cal.

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

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

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

Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,

Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember

First to possess his books; for without them

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

One spirit to command: they all do hate him

As rootedly as I. Burn but his books;

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

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

And that most deeply to consider is 109

The beauty of his daughter; he himself

This will I tell my master.

Cal.

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

Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch

You taught me but while-ere?

Ste.

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

[Sings.

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

Thought is free.

Cal.

That’s not the tune.

Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,

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

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,

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

Will make mesleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches 153

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

I’ll follow, Stephano.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Island.

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

Gon.

By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;

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

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

I needs must rest me.

Alon.

Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 4

Who am myself attach’d with weariness,

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

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

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

Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks

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

Ant.

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

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 12

That you resolv’d to effect.

Seb.

[Aside to Ant.] The next advantage

Will we take throughly.

Ant.

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

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

Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance 16

As when they are fresh.

Seb.

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

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

Alon.

What harmony is this? my good friends, hark!

Gon.

Marvellous sweet music!

Alon.

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

Seb.

A living drollery. Now I will believe

That there are unicorns; that in Arabia

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

At this hour reigning there.

Ant.

I’ll believe both; 24

And what does else want credit, come to me,

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

Though fools at home condemn them.

Gon.

If in Naples

I should report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say I saw such islanders,— 29

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

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

Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 32

Our human generation you shall find

Many, nay, almost any.

Pro.

[Aside.] Honest lord,

Thou hast said well; for some of you there present

Are worse than devils.

Alon.

I cannot too much muse, 36

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

Although they want the use of tongue,—a kind

Of excellent dumb discourse.

Pro.

[Aside.] Praise in departing.

Fran.

They vanish’d strangely.

Seb.

No matter, since 40

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

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

Alon.

Not I.

Gon.

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

Who would believe that there were mountaineers 44

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

Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men

Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find

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

Good warrant of.

Alon.

I will stand to and feed,

Although my last; no matter, since I feel

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

Stand to and do as we. 52

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

Ari.

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny—

That hath to instrument this lower world

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

Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island

Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men

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

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

And even with such-like valour men hang and drown

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

Are ministers of fate: the elements

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

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

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 64

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

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,

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

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

From Milan did supplant good Prospero;

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

Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed 72

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

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

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

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

Lingering perdition,—worse than any death

Can be at once,—shall step by step attend

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

Which here in this most desolate isle, else falls

Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow

And a clear life ensuing.

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

Pro.

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

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

Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 85

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

And observation strange, my meaner ministers

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

And these mine enemies are all knit up

In their distractions: they now are in my power;

And in these fits I leave them, while I visit

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

And his and mine lov’d darling.

[Exit above.

Gon.

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

In this strange stare?

Alon.

O, it is monstrous! monstrous!

Methought the billows spoke and told me of it;

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

That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d

The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.

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

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

And with him there lie mudded.

[Exit.

Seb.

But one fiend at a time,

I’ll fight their legions o’er.

Ant.

I’ll be thy second.

[Exeunt Seb. and Ant.

Gon.

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

Like poison given to work a great time after,

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

That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly

And hinder them from what this ecstasy 108

May now provoke them to.

Adr.

Follow, I pray you.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Before Prospero’s Cell.

Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda.

Pro.

If I have too austerely punish’d you,

Your compensation makes amends; for I

Have given you here a third of mine own life,

Or that for which I live; whom once again 4

I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations

Were but my trials of thy love, and thou

Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,

I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand! 8

Do not smile at me that I boast her off,

For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,

And make it halt behind her.

Fer.

I do believe it

Against an oracle. 12

Pro.

Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition

Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but

If thou dost break her virgin knot before

All sanctimonious ceremonies may 16

With full and holy rite be minister’d,

No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall

To make this contract grow; but barren hate,

Sour-ey’d disdain and discord shall bestrew 20

The union of your bed with weeds so loathly

That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,

As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.

Fer.

As I hope

For quiet days, fair issue and long life, 24

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

The most opportune place, the strong’st sug gestion

Our worser genius can, shall never melt

Mine honour into lust, to take away 28

The edge of that day’s celebration

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

Or Night kept chain’d below.

Pro.

Fairly spoke:

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

What, Ariell my industrious servant Ariell 33

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

What would my potent master? here I am.

Pro.

Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service

Did worthily perform; and I must use you 36

In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,

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

Incite them to quick motion; for I must

Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 40

Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,

And they expect it from me.

Ari.

Presently?

Pro.

Ay, with a twink.

Ari.

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

And breathe twice; and cry, ‘so, so,’

Each one, tripping on his toe,

Will be here with mop and mow.

Do you love me, master? no? 48

Pro.

Dearly my delicate Ariel. Do not approach

Till thou dost hear me call.

Ari.

Well, I conceive.

[Exit.

Pro.

Look, thou be true; do not give dalliance

Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw 52

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

Or else good night your vow!

Fer.

I warrant you, sir;

The white-cold virgin snow upon my heart

Abates the ardour of my liver.

Pro.

Well.— 56

Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,

Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.

No tongue! all eyes! be silent.

[Soft music.

A Masque. Enter Iris.

Iris.

Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 60

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

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,

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

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, 64

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,

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

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,

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

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

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

Whose watery arch and messenger am I,

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

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

To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain:

Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter Ceres.

Cer.

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

Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;

Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers

Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers:

And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown

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

Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen

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

Iris.

A contract of true love to celebrate, 84

And some donation freely to estate

On the bless’d lovers.

Cer.

Tell me, heavenly bow,

If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,

Do now attend the queen? since they did plot

The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, 89

Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company

I have forsworn.

Iris.

Of her society

Be not afraid; I met her deity 92

Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son

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

Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,

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

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

Mars’s hot minion is return’d again;

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,

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

And be a boy right out.

Cer.

Highest queen of state,

Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait.

Enter Juno.

Jun.

How does my bounteous sister? Go with me

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

And honour’d in their issue.

SONG.

Jun.

Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you! 108

Juno sings her blessings on you.

Cer.

Earth’s increase, foison plenty,

Barns and garners never empty:

Vines, with clust’ring bunches growing; 112

Plants with goodly burden bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you; 116

Ceres’ blessing so is on you.

Fer.

This is a most majestic vision, and

Harmonious charmingly: May I be bold

To think these spirits?

Pro.

Spirits, which by mine art 120

I have from their confines call’d to enact

My present fancies.

Fer.

Let me live here ever:

So rare a wonder’d father and a wise,

Makes this place Paradise.

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

Pro.

Sweet, now, silence! 124

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously,

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

Or else our spell is marr’d.

Iris.

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

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

Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land

Answer your summons: Juno does command.

Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate

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

Enter certain Nymphs.

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

Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:

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

And these fresh nymphs encounter every one

In country footing.

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

Pro.

[Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy

Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates 140

Against my life: the minute of their plot

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

Fer.

This is strange: your father’s in some passion

That works him strongly.

Mira.

Never till this day 144

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

Pro.

You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort,

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

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 148

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

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

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 153

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 156

As dreams are made on, and our little life

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

Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled.

Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. 160

If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell

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

To still my beating mind.

Fer. Mira.

We wish your peace.

[Exeunt.

Pro.

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

Enter Ariel.

Ari.

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

Pro.

Spirit,

We must prepare to meet with Caliban.

Ari.

Ay, my commander; when I presented Ceres,

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

Lest I might anger thee.

Pro.

Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?

Ari.

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

So full of valour that they smote the air 172

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

For kissing of their feet; yet always bending

Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor;

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

Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses

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

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

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

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

I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,

There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake

O’erstunk their feet.

Pro.

This was well done, my bird. 184

Thy shape invisible retain thou still:

The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,

For stale to catch these thieves.

Ari.

I go, I go.

[Exit.

Pro.

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature

Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, 189

Humanely taken, are all lost, quite lost;

And as with age his body uglier grows,

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

Even to roaring.

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

Come, hang them on this line.

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

Cal.

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

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

Ste.

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

Trin.

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

Ste.

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

Trin.

Thou wert but a lost monster.

Cal.

Good my lord, give me thy favour still:

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

Cal.

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

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

With foreheads villanous low. 252

Ste.

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

Trin.

And this. 256

Ste.

Ay, and this.

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

Pro.

Hey, Mountain, hey!

Ari.

Silver! there it goes, Silver!

Pro.

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

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

Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints

With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews

With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them

Than pard, or cat o’ mountain.

Ari.

Hark! they roar. 264

Pro.

Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour

Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou

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

Follow, and do me service.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Before the Cell of Prospero.

Enter Prospero in his magic robes; and Ariel.

Pro.

Now does my project gather to a head:

My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time

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

Ari.

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

You said our work should cease.

Pro.

I did say so,

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

How fares the king and’s followers?

Ari.

Confin’d together

In the same fashion as you gave in charge, 8

Just as you left them: all prisoners, sir,

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

They cannot budge till your release. The king,

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

And the remainder mourning over them,

Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly

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

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

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

That if you now beheld them, your affections

Would become tender.

Pro.

Dost thou think so, spirit?

Ari.

Mine would, sir, were I human.

Pro.

And mine shall. 20

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

Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,

One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,

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

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

Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury

Do I take part: the rarer action is

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 28

The sole drift of my purpose doth extend

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

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

And they shall be themselves.

Ari.

I’ll fetch them, sir

[Exit.

Pro.

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

And ye, that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him

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

By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make

Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice

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

Weak masters though ye be—I have bedimm’d

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

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

Set roaring war: to the dread-rattling thunder 44

Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak

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

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

The pine and cedar: graves at my command 48

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

By my so potent art. But this rough magic

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

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

To work mine end upon their senses that 53

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

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 56

I’ll drown my book.

[Solemn music.

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

A solemn air and the best comforter

To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,

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

For you are spell-stopp’d.

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,

Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;

And as the morning steals upon the night, 65

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason.—O good Gonzalo! 68

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

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

Home, both in word and deed.—Most cruelly

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

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act;—

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

You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,

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

Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,—

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

Unnatural though thou art!—Their understanding

Begins to swell, and the approaching tide 80

Will shortly fill the reasonable shores

That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them

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

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

[Exit Ariel.

I will discase me, and myself present,

As I was sometime Milan.—Quickly, spirit;

Thou shalt ere long be free.

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

Ari.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I 88

In a cowslip’s bell I he:

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily 92

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough

Pro.

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

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

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

There shalt thou find the mariners asleep

Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain

Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100

And presently, I prithee.

Ari.

You do yet taste

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

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

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

I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you,

And justify you traitors: at this time 128

I will tell no tales.

Seb.

[Aside.] The devil speaks in him.

Pro.

No.

For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother

Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive

Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require 132

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

Thou must restore.

Alon.

If thou beest Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation;

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

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

How sharp the point of this remembrance is!—

My dear son Ferdinand.

Pro.

I am woe for’t, sir.

Alon.

Irreparable is the loss, and patience

Says it is past her cure.

Pro.

I rather think 141

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

For the like loss I have her sovereign aid,

And rest myself content.

Alon.

You the like loss! 144

Pro.

As great to me, as late; and, supportable

To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker

Than you may call to comfort you, for I

Have lost my daughter.

Alon.

A daughter? 148

O heavens! that they were living both in Naples,

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

Myself were mudded in that oozy bed

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

Pro.

In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords

At this encounter do so much admire

That they devour their reason, and scarce think

Their eyes do offices of truth, their words 156

Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have

Been justled from your senses, know for certain

That I am Prospero and that very duke

Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely 160

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

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

For ’tis a chronicle of day by day,

Not a relation for a breakfast nor 164

Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;

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

And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.

My dukedom since you have given me again, 168

I will requite you with as good a thing;

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye

As much as me my dukedom.

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

Mira.

Sweet lord, you play me false.

Fer.

No, my dearest love, 172

I would not for the world.

Mira.

Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,

And I would call it fair play.

Alon.

If this prove

A vision of the island, one dear son 176

Shall I twice lose.

Seb.

A most high miracle!

Fer.

Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:

I have curs’d them without cause.

[Kneels to Alon.

Alon.

Now, all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about! 180

Arise, and say how thou cam’st here.

Mira.

O, wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

That has such people in’t!

Pro.

’Tis new to thee. 184

Alon.

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

Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:

Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us,

And brought us thus together?

Fer.

Sir, she is mortal; 188

But by immortal Providence she’s mine;

I chose her when I could not ask my father

For his advice, nor thought I had one. She

Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 192

Of whom so often I have heard renown,

But never saw before; of whom I have

Receiv’d a second life; and second father

This lady makes him to me.

Alon.

I am hers: 196

But O! how oddly will it sound that I

Must ask my child forgiveness!

Pro.

There, sir, stop:

Let us not burden our remembrances

With a heaviness that’s gone.

Gon.

I have inly wept, 200

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

And on this couple drop a blessed crown;

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

Which brought us hither!

Alon.

I say, Amen, Gonzalo! 204

Gon.

Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue

Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice

Beyond a common joy, and set it down

With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage 208

Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,

And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife

Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom

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

When no man was his own.

Alon.

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

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart

That doth not wish you joy!

Gon.

Be it so: Amen!

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

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

I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,

This fellow could not drown.—Now, blasphemy,

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

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

Boats.

The best news is that we have safely found 221

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

Which but three glasses since we gave out split,—

Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d as when

We first put out to sea.

Ari.

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

Have I done since I went.

Pro.

[Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit!

Alon.

These are not natural events; they strengthen

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

Boats.

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

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

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

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

Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,

And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible,

We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty:

Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 236

Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master

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

Even in a dream, were we divided from them,

And were brought moping hither.

Ari.

[Aside to Pro.] Was’t well done? 240

Pro

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

Alon.

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

And there is in this business more than nature

Was ever conduct of: some oracle 244

Must rectify our knowledge.

Pro.

Sir, my liege,

Do not infest your mind with beating on

The strangeness of this business: at pick’d leisure

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

Which to you shall seem probable,—of every

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

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

Set Caliban and his companions free; 252

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

There are yet missing of your company

Some few odd lads that you remember not.

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

Ste.

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

Trin.

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

Cal.

O Setebos! these be brave spirits, indeed.

How fine my master is! I am afraid

He will chastise me.

Seb.

Ha, ha!

What things are these, my lord Antonio? 264

Will money buy them?

Ant.

Very like; one of them

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

Pro.

Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,

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

His mother was a witch; and one so strong

That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,

And deal in her command without her power.

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

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

To take my life: two of these fellows you

Must know and own; this thing of darkness I

Acknowledge mine.

Cal.

I shall be pinch’d to death 276

Alon.

Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

Seb.

He is drunk now: where had he wine?

Alon.

And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them?

How cam’st thou in this pickle? 281

Trin.

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

Seb.

Why, how now, Stephano!

Ste.

Seb.

Or stole it, rather.

[Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin.

Pro.

Sir, I invite your highness and your train 300

To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest

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

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

Go quick away; the story of my life 304

And the particular accidents gone by

Since I came to this isle: and in the morn

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

Where I have hope to see the nuptial 308

Of these our dear-beloved solemniz’d;

And thence retire me to my Milan, where

Every third thought shall be my grave.

Alon.

I long

To hear the story of your life, which must 312

Take the ear strangely.

Pro.

I’ll deliver all;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales

And sail so expeditious that shall catch

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

That is thy charge: then to the elements

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

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Prospero.

Now my charms are all o’erthrown,

And what strength I have’s mine own;

Which is most faint: now, ’tis true,

I must be here confin’d by you,  4

Or sent to Naples Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got

And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell;  8

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands.

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,  12

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be reliev’d by prayer,  16

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon’d be,

Let your indulgence set me free.  20

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

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

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

ACT I.

Scene I.— Verona. An open place.

Enter Valentine and Proteus.

Val.

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.

Were’t not affection chains thy tender days

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

I rather would entreat thy company

To see the wonders of the world abroad

Than, living dully sluggardiz’d at home,

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 8

But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein,

Even as I would when I to love begin.

Pro.

Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!

Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest 12

Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel:

Wish me partaker in thy happiness

When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,

If ever danger do environ thee, 16

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,

For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Val.

And on a love-book pray for my success?

Pro.

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

Val.

That’s on some shallow story of deep love,

How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

Pro.

That’s a deep story of a deeper love;

For he was more than over shoes in love. 24

Val.

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

And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Pro.

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

Val.

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

Pro.

What? 28

Val.

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;

Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment’s mirth

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:

If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; 32

If lost, why then a grievous labour won:

However, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro.

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

Val.

So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove.

Pro.

’Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.

Val.

Love is your master, for he masters you;

And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40

Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

Pro.

Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 44

Val.

And writers say, as the most forward bud

Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,

Even so by love the young and tender wit

Is turned to folly; blasting in the bud, 48

Losing his verdure even in the prime,

And all the fair effects of future hopes.

But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee

That art a votary to fond desire? 52

Once more adieu! my father at the road

Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d.

Pro.

And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Val.

Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave. 56

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters

Of thy success in love, and what news else

Betideth here in absence of thy friend;

And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 60

Pro.

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

Val.

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

[Exit.

Pro.

He after honour hunts, I after love:

He leaves his friends to dignify them more; 64

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

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

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,

War with good counsel, set the world at nought;

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

Enter Speed.

Speed.

Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?

Pro.

But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.

Speed.

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

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

Pro.

[Exit Speed.

I must go send some better messenger:

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,

Receiving them from such a worthless post. 163

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. The Garden of Julia’s House.

Enter Julia and Lucetta.

Jul.

But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,

Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Luc.

Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.

Jul.

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 4

That every day with parle encounter me,

In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

Luc.

Please you repeat their names, I’ll show my mind

According to my shallow simple skill. 8

Jul.

What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

Luc.

As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine;

Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? 40

To whisper and conspire against my youth?

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

And you an officer fit for the place.

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

Or else return no more into my sight.

Luc.

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

Jul.

Will ye be gone?

Luc.

That you may ruminate.

[Exit.

Jul.

And yet I would I had o’erlook’d the letter. 48

It were a shame to call her back again

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

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

And would not force the letter to my view! 52

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

Which they would have the profferer construe ‘Ay.’

Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love

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

And presently all humbled kiss the rod!

How churlishly I child Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here:

How angerly I taught my brow to frown, 60

When inward joy enforc’d my heart to smile.

My penance is, to call Lucetta back

And ask remission for my folly past.

What ho! Lucetta!

To take a paper up

That I let fall.

Jul.

And is that paper nothing?

Luc.

Nothing concerning me. 72

Jul.

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Luc.

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,

Unless it have a false interpreter.

Jul.

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

Luc.

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

Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

Jul.

As little by such toys as may be possible;

Here is a coil with protestation!— 96

[Tears the letter.

Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie:

You would be fingering them, to anger me.

Luc.

She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas’d

To be so anger’d with another letter.

[Exit.

Jul.

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

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!

Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!

I’ll kiss each several paper for amends. 105

Look, here is writ ‘kind Julia:’ unkind Julia!

As in revenge of thy ingratitude,

I throw thy name against the bruising stones,

Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 109

And here is writ ‘love-wounded Proteus:’

Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed

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

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.

But twice or thrice was ‘Proteus’ written down:

Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away

Till I have found each letter in the letter, 116

Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear

Unto a ragged, fearful hanging rock,

And throw it thence into the raging sea!

Lo! here in one line is his name twice writ, 120

‘Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,

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

And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names: 124

Thus will I fold them one upon another:

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

Re-enter Lucetta.

Luc.

Madam,

Dinner is ready, and your father stays. 128

Jul.

Well, let us go.

Luc.

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

Jul.

If you respect them, best to take them up.

Luc.

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

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

Jul.

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

Luc.

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

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

Jul.

Come, come; will’t please you go?

[Exeunt

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in Antonio’s House.

Enter Antonio and Panthino.

Ant.

Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

Pant.

‘Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

Ant.

Why, what of him?

Pant.

He wonder’d that your lordship 4

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,

While other men, of slender reputation,

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:

Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; 8

Some to discover islands far away;

Some to the studious universities.

For any or for all these exercises

He said that Proteus your son was meet, 12

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,

Which would be great impeachment to his age,

In having known to travel in his youth. 16

Ant.

Nor need’st thou much importune me to that

Whereon this month I have been hammering.

I have consider’d well his loss of time,

And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20

Not being tried and tutor’d in the world:

Experience is by industry achiev’d

And perfected by the swift course of time.

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

Pant.

I think your lordship is not ignorant

How his companion, youthful Valentine, 26

Attends the emperor in his royal court.

Ant.

I know it well. 28

Pant.

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

There shall be practise tilts and tournaments,

Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,

And be in eye of every exercise 32

Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

Ant.

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

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it

The execution of it shall make known. 36

Even with the speediest expedition

I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court.

Pant.

To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso

With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40

Are journeying to salute the emperor

And to commend their service to his will.

Ant.

Good company; with them shall Proteus go: 43

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

Enter Proteus.

Pro.

Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!

Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;

Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn.

O! that our fathers would applaud our loves, 48

To seal our happiness with their consents!

O heavenly Julia!

Ant.

How now! what letter are you reading there?

Pro.

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

Of commendations sent from Valentine,

Deliver’d by a friend that came from him.

Ant.

Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

Pro.

There is no news, my lord; but that he writes 56

How happily he lives, how well belov’d

And daily graced by the emperor;

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.

Ant.

And how stand you affected to his wish?

Pro.

As one relying on your lordship’s will 61

And not depending on his friendly wish.

Ant.

My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; 64

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

I am resolv’d that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the emperor’s court:

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. 69

To-morrow be in readiness to go:

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

Pro.

My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:

Please you, deliberate a day or two. 73

Ant.

Look, what thou want’st shall be sent after thee:

No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.

Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ’d 76

To hasten on his expedition.

[Exeunt Antonio and Panthino.

Pro.

Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of burning,

And drench’d me in the sea, where I am drown’d.

I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter, 80

Lest he should take exceptions to my love;

And with the vantage of mine own excuse

Hath he excepted most against my love.

O! how this spring of love resembleth 84

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Re-enter Panthino.

Pant.

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:

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

Pro.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,

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

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

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

Enter Valentine and Speed.

Speed.

No, madam; so it stead you, I will write,

Please you command, a thousand times as much.

And yet— 126

Sil.

A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;

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

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

Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 130

Speed.

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

Val.

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

Sil.

Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ,

But since unwillingly, take them again:

Nay, take them.

[Gives back the letter.

Val.

Madam, they are for you.

Sil.

Ay, ay; you writ them, sir, at my request,

But I will none of them; they are for you. 137

I would have had them writ more movingly.

Val.

Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.

Sil.

And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over: 140

And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

Val.

If it please me, madam, what then?

Sil.

Why, if it please you, take it for your labour: 143

And so, good morrow, servant.

[Exit.

Speed.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,

As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple!

My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor,

I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: 172

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

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

Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,

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

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

Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.

Val.

I have dined. 179

Speed.

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

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Verona. A Room in Julia’s House.

Enter Proteus and Julia.

Pro.

Have patience, gentle Julia.

Jul.

I must, where is no remedy.

Pro.

When possibly I can, I will return.

Jul.

If you turn not, you will return the sooner. 4

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake.

[Gives him a ring.

Pro.

Why, then, we’ll make exchange: here, take you this.

[Gives her another.

Jul.

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Pro.

Here is my hand for my true constancy;

And when that hour o’erslips me in the day 9

Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness! 12

My father stays my coming; answer not.

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

That tide will stay me longer than I should.

Julia, farewell.

[Exit Julia.

What! gone without a word? 16

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

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter Panthino.

Pant.

Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.

Pro.

Go; I come, I come.

Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 20

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Launce, leading a dog.

Launce.

Sil.

No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father. 49

Enter Duke.

Duke.

Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.

Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health:

What say you to a letter from your friends 52

Of much good news?

Val.

My lord, I will be thankful

To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke.

Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

Val.

Ay, my good lord; I know the gentleman

To be of worth and worthy estimation, 57

And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke.

Hath he not a son?

Val.

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

The honour and regard of such a father.

Duke.

You know him well?

Val.

I know him as myself; for from our infancy

We have convers’d and spent our hours together:

And though myself have been an idle truant, 65

Omitting the sweet benefit of time

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

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

Made use and fair advantage of his days:

His years but young, but his experience old;

His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe;

And, in a word,—for far behind his worth 72

Come all the praises that I now bestow,—

He is complete in feature and in mind

With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

Duke.

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

He is as worthy for an empress’ love

As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me

With commendation from great potentates; 80

And here he means to spend his time awhile:

I think, ’tis no unwelcome news to you.

Val.

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

Duke.

Welcome him then according to his worth. 84

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

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.

I’ll send him hither to you presently.

[Exit.

Val.

This is the gentleman I told your ladyship 88

Had come along with me, but that his mistress

Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks.

Sil.

Belike that now she hath enfranchis’d them

Upon some other pawn for fealty. 92

Val.

Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you,

Confirm his welcome with some special favour.

Sil.

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, 103

If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from.

Val.

Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him

To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

Sil.

Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Pro.

Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant 108

To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

Val.

Leave off discourse of disability:

We’ll both attend upon your ladyship.

My tales of love were wont to weary you;

I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 128

Val.

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

I have done penance for contemning love;

Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me

With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 132

With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;

For, in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chas’d sleep from my enthralled eyes,

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

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

And hath so humbled me as I confess,

There is no woe to his correction,

Nor to his service no such joy on earth. 140

Now no discourse, except it be of love;

Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep,

Upon the very naked name of love.

Pro.

Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.

When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

Val.

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

Yet let her be a principality,

Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Pro.

Except my mistress.

Val.

Sweet, except not any,

Except thou wilt except against my love. 156

Pro.

Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

Val.

And I will help thee to prefer her too:

She shall be dignified with this high honour,—

To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth 160

Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,

And, of so great a favour growing proud,

Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower,

And make rough winter everlastingly. 164

Pro.

Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

Val.

Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing

To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing.

She is alone.

Pro.

Then, let her alone. 168

Val.

Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 172

Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,

Because thou see’st me dote upon my love.

My foolish rival, that her father likes

Only for his possessions are so huge, 176

Is gone with her along, and I must after,

For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy.

Pro.

But she loves you?

Val.

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

With all the cunning manner of our flight,

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

The ladder made of cords, and all the means

Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. 184

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Pro.

Go on before, I shall inquire you forth:

I must unto the road, to disembark 188

Some necessaries that I needs must use,

And then I’ll presently attend you.

Val.

Will you make haste?

Pro.

I will.

[Exit Valentine.

Even as one heat another heat expels, 193

Or as one nail by strength drives out another,

So the remembrance of my former love

Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 196

Is it mine eye, or Valentinus’ praise,

Her true perfection, or my false transgression,

That makes me reasonless to reason thus?

She’s fair; and so is Julia that I love,— 200

That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d,

Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire,

Bears no impression of the thing it was.

Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, 204

And that I love him not as I was wont:

O! but I love his lady too-too much;

And that’s the reason I love him so little.

How shall I dote on her with more advice, 208

That thus without advice begin to love her?

’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason’s light;

But when I look on her perfections, 212

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

At thy service.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Proteus.

Pro.

To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;

To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;

To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;

And even that power which gave me first my oath 4

Provokes me to this threefold perjury:

Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.

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

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

At first I did adore a twinkling star,

But now I worship a celestial sun.

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;

And he wants wit that wants resolved will 12

To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.

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

Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d

With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.

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

But there I leave to love where I should love.

Julia I lose and Valentine I lose:

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 20

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

For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.

I to myself am dearer than a friend,

For love is still most precious in itself; 24

And Silvia—witness heaven that made her fair!—

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.

I will forget that Julia is alive,

Remembering that my love to her is dead; 28

And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy,

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.

I cannot now prove constant to myself

Without some treachery us’d to Valentine: 32

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder

To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window,

Myself in counsel, his competitor.

Now presently, I’ll give her father notice 36

Of their disguising and pretended flight;

Who, all enrag’d, will banish Valentine;

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;

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

By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding.

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,

As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!

[Exit.

Scene VII.— Verona. A Room in Julia’s House

Enter Julia and Lucetta.

Jul.

Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me:

And e’en in kind love I do conjure thee,

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts

Are visibly character’d and engrav’d, 4

To lesson me and tell me some good mean

How, with my honour, I may undertake

A journey to my loving Proteus.

Luc.

Alas! the way is wearisome and long. 8

Jul.

A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary

To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;

Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly,

And when the flight is made to one so dear, 12

Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.

Luc.

Better forbear till Proteus make return.

Jul.

O! know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food?

Pity the dearth that I have pined in, 16

By longing for that food so long a time.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20

Luc.

I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire,

But qualify the fire’s extreme rage,

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

Jul.

The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. 24

The current that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage;

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with th’ enamell’d stones,

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 29

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 32

Then let me go and hinder not my course:

I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream

A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin,

Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on. 56

Jul.

Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have

What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly.

But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me

For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 60

I fear me, it will make me scandaliz’d.

Luc.

If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

Jul.

Nay, that I will not.

Luc.

Then never dream on infamy, but go. 64

If Proteus like your journey when you come,

No matter who’s displeas’d when you are gone.

I fear me, he will scarce be pleas’d withal.

Jul.

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear: 68

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,

And instances of infinite of love

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Luc.

All these are servants to deceitful men.

Jul.

Base men, that use them to so base effect; 73

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth:

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, 76

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,

His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

Luc.

Pray heaven he prove so when you come to him!

Jul.

Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that wrong 80

To bear a hard opinion of his truth:

Only deserve my love by loving him,

And presently go with me to my chamber,

To take a note of what I stand in need of 84

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation;

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. 88

Come, answer not, but to it presently!

I am impatient of my tarriance.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus.

Duke.

Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;

We have some secrets to confer about.

[Exit Thurio.

Now tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me?

Pro.

My gracious lord, that which I would discover 4

The law of friendship bids me to conceal;

But when I call to mind your gracious favours

Done to me, undeserving as I am,

My duty pricks me on to utter that 8

Which else no worldly good should draw from me.

Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,

This night intends to steal away your daughter:

Myself am one made privy to the plot. 12

I know you have determin’d to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;

And should she thus be stol’n away from you

It would be much vexation to your age. 16

Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose

To cross my friend in his intended drift,

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head

A pack of sorrows which would press you down,

Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 21

Duke.

Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,

Which to requite, command me while I live.

This love of theirs myself have often seen, 24

Haply, when they have judg’d me fast asleep,

And oftentimes have purpos’d to forbid

Sir Valentine her company and my court;

But fearing lest my jealous aim might err 28

And so unworthily disgrace the man,—

A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d,—

I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find

That which thyself hast now disclos’d to me. 32

And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,

Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,

The key whereof myself have ever kept; 36

And thence she cannot be convey’d away.

Pro.

Know, noble lord, they have devis’d a mean

How he her chamber-window will ascend

And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 40

For which the youthful lover now is gone

And this way comes he with it presently;

Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.

But, good my lord, do it so cunningly 44

That my discovery be not aimed at;

For love of you, not hate unto my friend,

Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Duke.

Upon mine honour, he shall never know 48

That I had any light from thee of this.

Pro.

Adieu, my lord: Sir Valentine is coming.

[Exit.

Enter Valentine.

Duke.

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Val.

Please it your Grace, there is a messenger 52

That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And I am going to deliver them.

Duke.

Be they of much import?

Val.

The tenour of them doth but signify 56

My health and happy being at your court.

Duke.

Nay then, no matter: stay with me awhile;

I am to break with thee of some affairs

That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 60

’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought

To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

Val.

I know it well, my lord; and sure, the match

Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman 64

Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities

Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.

Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?

Duke.

No, trust me: she is peevish, sullen, froward, 68

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;

Neither regarding that she is my child,

Nor fearing me as if I were her father:

And, may I say to thee this pride of hers, 72

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;

And, where I thought the remnant of mine age

Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty,

I now am full resolv’d to take a wife 76

And turn her out to who will take her in:

Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;

For me and my possessions she esteems not.

Val.

What would your Grace have me to do in this? 80

Duke.

There is a lady of Verona here,

Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy

And nought esteems my aged eloquence:

Now therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,

For long agone I have forgot to court; 85

Besides, the fashion of the time is chang’d,

How and which way I may bestow myself

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 88

Val.

Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:

Dumb jewels often in their silent kind

More than quick words do move a woman’s mind.

Duke.

But she did scorn a present that I sent her. 92

Val.

A woman sometime scorns what best contents her.

Send her another; never give her o’er,

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.

If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, 96

But rather to beget more love in you;

If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone;

For why the fools are mad if left alone.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 100

For, ‘get you gone,’ she doth not mean, ‘away!’

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;

Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,

If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 105

Duke.

But she I mean is promis’d by her friends

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,

And kept severely from resort of men, 108

That no man hath access by day to her.

Val.

Why then, I would resort to her by night.

Duke.

Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys kept safe,

That no man hath recourse to her by night. 112

Val.

What lets but one may enter at her window?

Duke.

Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,

And built so shelving that one cannot climb it

Without apparent hazard of his life. 116

Val.

Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,

To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower,

So bold Leander would adventure it. 120

Duke.

How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. 136

[Pulls open Valentine’s cloak.

What letter is this same? What’s here?—To Silvia!

And here an engine fit for my proceeding!

I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once.

My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 140

And slaves they are to me that send them flying

O! could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying!

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them;

While I, their king, that thither them importune,

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless’d them,

Because myself do want my servants’ fortune:

I curse myself, for they are sent by me, 148

That they should harbour where their lord would be.

What’s here?

Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee

’Tis so; and here’s the ladder for the purpose.

Why, Phaethon,—for thou art Merops’ son,—

Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car

And with thy daring folly burn the world?

Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? 156

Go, basc intruder! overweening slave!

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence. 160

Thank me for this more than for all the favours

Which all too much I have bestow’d on thee.

But if thou linger in my territories

Longer than swiftest expedition 164

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever borc my daughter or thyself.

Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse; 168

But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence.

[Exit.

Val.

And why not death rather than living torment?

To die is to be banish’d from myself;

And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her 172

Is self from self,—a deadly banishment!

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?

Unless it be to think that she is by 176

And feed upon the shadow of perfection.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,

There is no music in the nightingale;

Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 180

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence; and I leave to be,

If I be not by her fair influence

Foster’d, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive. 184

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:

My ears are stopp’d and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possess’d them.

Pro.

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. 209

That thou art banished, O, that’s the news,

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val.

O, I have fed upon this woe already, 220

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro.

Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom— 223

Which, unrevers’d, stands in effectual force—

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:

Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d;

With them, upon her knees, her humble self;

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them 228

As if but now they waxed pale for woe:

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; 232

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chaf’d him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her, 236

With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val.

No more; unless the next word that thou speak’st

Have some malignant power upon my life:

If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 240

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament’st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 244

Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love;

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that

And manage it against despairing thoughts. 248

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;

Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate: 252

Come, I’ll convey thee through the city-gate,

And, ere I part with thee, confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.

As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself, 256

Regard thy danger, and along with me!

Val.

I pray thee, Launce, and if thou seest my boy,

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

Pro.

Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 260

Val.

O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!

[Exeunt Valentine and Proteus.

Launce.

Launce

Now will he be swing’d for reading my letter. An unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke and Thurio.

Duke.

Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you,

Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight.

Thu.

Since his exile she hath despis’d me most,

Forsworn my company and rail’d at me, 4

That I am desperate of obtaining her.

Duke.

This weak impress of love is as a figure

Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat

Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 8

A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,

And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

Enter Proteus.

How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman

According to our proclamation gone? 12

Pro.

Gone, my good lord.

Duke.

My daughter takes his going grievously.

Pro.

A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.

Duke.

So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.

Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee,— 17

For thou hast shown some sign of good desert,—

Makes me the better to confer with thee.

Pro.

Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace

Your slander never can endamage him:

Therefore the office is indifferent, 44

Being entreated to it by your friend.

Pro.

You have prevail’d, my lord. If I can do it,

By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,

She shall not long continue love to him. 48

But say this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

Thu.

Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,

Lest it should ravel and be good to none, 52

You must provide to bottom it on me;

Which must be done by praising me as much

As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.

Duke.

And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, 56

Because we know, on Valentine’s report,

You are already Love’s firm votary

And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.

Upon this warrant shall you have access 60

Where you with Silvia may confer at large;

For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,

And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you;

Where you may temper her, by your persuasion

To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 65

Pro.

As much as I can do I will effect.

But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;

You must lay lime to tangle her desires 68

By wailful sonnets, whose composed rimes

Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

Duke.

Ay,

Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 72

Pro.

Say that upon the altar of her beauty

You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears

Moist it again, and frame some feeling line 76

That may discover such integrity:

For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews,

Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,

Make tigers tame and huge leviathans 80

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.

After your dire-lamenting elegies,

Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window

With some sweet consort: to their instruments

Tune a deploring dump; the night’s dead silence

Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.

This, or else nothing, will inherit her.

Duke.

This discipline shows thou hast been in love. 88

Thu.

And thy advice this night I’ll put in practice.

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,

Let us into the city presently

To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music. 92

I have a sonnet that will serve the turn

To give the onset to thy good advice.

Duke.

About it, gentlemen!

Pro.

We’ll wait upon your grace till aftersupper, 96

And afterward determine our proceedings.

Duke.

Even now about it! I will pardon you.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Forest between Milan and Verona.

Enter certain Outlaws.

First Out.

Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

Sec. Out.

If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em.

Enter Valentine and Speed.

Third Out.

Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;

If not, we’ll make you sit and rifle you. 4

Speed.

Third Out.

Have you long sojourn’d there?

Val.

Some sixteen months; and longer might have stay’d 21

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

Sec. Out.

What! were you banish’d thence?

Val.

Val.

Nothing, but my fortune.

Third Out.

Know then, that some of us are gentlemen, 44

Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth

Thrust from the company of awful men:

Myself was from Verona banished

For practising to steal away a lady, 48

An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

Sec Out.

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,

Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart.

First Out.

And I for such like petty crimes as these. 52

But to the purpose; for we cite our faults,

That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives;

And, partly, seeing you are beautified

With goodly shape, and by your own report 56

A linguist, and a man of such perfection

As we do in our quality much want—

Sec. Out.

Indeed, because you are a banish’d man,

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. 60

Are you content to be our general?

To make a virtue of necessity

And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Third Out.

What say’st thou? wilt thou be of our consort? 64

Say ‘ay,’ and be the captain of us all:

We’ll do thee homage and be rul’d by thee,

Love thee as our commander and our king.

First Out.

But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. 68

Sec. Out.

Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer’d.

Val.

I take your offer and will live with you,

Provided that you do no outrages

On silly women, or poor passengers. 72

Third Out.

No; we detest such vile, base practices.

Come, go with us; we’ll bring thee to our crews,

And show thee all the treasure we have got,

Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. 76

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Milan. The Court of the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Proteus.

Pro.

Already have I been false to Valentine,

And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.

Under the colour of commending him,

I have access my own love to prefer: 4

But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

When I protest true loyalty to her,

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; 8

When to her beauty I commend my vows,

She bids me think how I have been forsworn

In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov’d:

And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 12

The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope,

Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,

The more it grows, and fawneth on her still.

But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window, 16

And give some evening music to her ear.

Enter Thurio, and Musicians.

Thu.

How now, Sir Proteus! are you crept before us?

Pro.

Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love

That will be music.

Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead

That you shall say my cunning drift excels. 84

Thu.

Where meet we?

Pro.

At Saint Gregory’s well.

Thu.

Farewell.

[Exeunt Thurio and Musicians.

Enter Silvia above, at her window.

Pro.

Madam, good even to your ladyship. 88

Sil.

I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spake?

Pro.

One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth,

Thou subtle, perjur’d, false, disloyal man!

Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,

To be seduced by thy flattery, 100

That hast deceiv’d so many with thy vows?

Return, return, and make thy love amends.

For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,

I am so far from granting thy request 104

That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,

And by and by intend to chide myself

Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

Pro.

I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;

But she is dead.

Jul.

[Aside.] ’Tware false, if I should speak it;

For I am sure she is not buried.

Sil.

Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend

Survives; to whom, thyself art witness 112

I am betroth’d: and art thou not asham’d

To wrong him with thy importunacy?

Pro.

I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

Sil.

And so suppose am I; for in his grave, Assure thyself my love is buried. 117

Pro.

Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Sil.

Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence;

Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 120

Jul.

[Aside.] He heard not that.

Pro.

Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,

Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,

The picture that is hanging in your chamber:

To that I’ll speak, to that I’ll sigh and weep;

For since the substance of your perfect self

Is else devoted, I am but a shadow,

And to your shadow will I make true love. 128

Jul.

[Aside.] If ’twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it,

And make it but a shadow, as I am.

Sil.

I am very loath to be your idol, sir;

But, since your falsehood shall become you well

To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 133

Send to me in the morning and I’ll send it.

And so, good rest.

Pro.

As wretches have o’er night

That wait for execution in the morn. 136

[Exeunt Proteus, and Silvia, above.

Jul.

Host, will you go?

Host.

By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

Jul.

Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Host.

Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost day. 141

Jul.

Not so; but it hath been the longest night

That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Eglamour.

Egl.

This is the hour that Madam Silvia

Entreated me to call, and know her mind:

There’s some great matter she’d employ me in.

O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman—

Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not— 12

Valiant, wise, remorseful, well-accomplish’d.

Thou art not ignorant what dear good will

I bear unto the banish’d Valentine,

Nor how my father would enforce me marry 16

Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.

Thyself hast lov’d; and I have heard thee say

No grief did ever come so near thy heart

As when thy lady and thy true love died, 20

Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity.

Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,

To Mantua, where, I hear he makes abode;

And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 24

I do desire thy worthy company,

Upon whose faith and honour I repose.

Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour,

But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, 28

And on the justice of my flying hence,

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart 32

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company and go with me:

If not, to hide what I have said to thee,

That I may venture to depart alone. 36

Egl.

Madam, I pity much your grievances;

Which since I know they virtuously are plac’d,

I give consent to go along with you,

Recking as little what betideth me 40

As much I wish all good befortune you.

When will you go?

Sil.

This evening coming.

Egl.

Where shall I meet you?

Sil.

At Friar Patrick’s cell,

Where I intend holy confession. 44

Egl.

I will not fail your ladyship.

Good morrow, gentle lady.

Sil.

Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene IV.— The Same.

Enter Launce with his dog.

Launce.

When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard; one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, ‘Thus would I teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master, and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O! ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies. I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for’t: sure as I live, he had suffered for’t: you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke’s table: he had not been there—bless the mark—a pissing-while, but all the chamber smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one; ‘What cur is that?’ says another; ‘Whip him out,’ says the third; ‘Hang him up,’ says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: ‘Friend,’ quoth I, ‘you mean to whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry, do I,’ quoth he. ‘You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘’twas I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t; thou thinkest not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick? 44

Enter Proteus, and Julia in boy’s clothes.

Pro.

Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well

And will employ thee in some service presently.

Jul.

In what you please: I will do what I can.

Pro.

I hope thou wilt. [To Launce.] How now, you whoreson peasant! 48

Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again,

Or ne’er return again into my sight.

Away, I say! Stay’st thou to vex me here?

A slave that still an end turns me to shame. 68

[Exit Launce.

Sebastian, I have entertained thee

Partly, that I have need of such a youth,

That can with some discretion do my business,

For’t is no trusting to yond foolish lout; 72

But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour,

Which, if my augury deceive me not,

Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth:

Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee.

Go presently, and take this ring with thee. 77

Deliver it to Madam Silvia:

She lov’d me well deliver’d it to me.

Jul

It seems, you lov’d not her, to leave her token. 80

She’s dead, belike?

Pro.

Not so: I think, she lives.

Jul.

Alas!

Pro.

Why dost thou cry ‘alas?’

Jul.

I cannot choose

But pity her. 84

Pro.

Wherefore should’st thou pity her?

Jul.

Because methinks that she lov’d you as well

As you do love your lady Silvia.

She dreams on him that has forgot her love; 88

You dote on her, that cares not for your love.

’Tis pity, love should be so contrary;

And thinking on it makes me cry, ‘alas!’

Pro.

Well, well, give her that ring and therewithal 92

This letter: that’s her chamber. Tell my lady

I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.

Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,

Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary.

[Exit.

Jul.

How many women would do such a message? 97

Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him 100

That with his very heart despiseth me?

Because he loves her, he despiseth me;

Because I love him, I must pity him.

This ring I gave him when he parted from me,

To bind him to remember my good will; 105

And now am I—unhappy messenger—

To plead for that which I would not obtain,

To carry that which I would have refus’d, 108

To praise his faith which I would have disprais’d.

I am my master’s true-confirmed love,

But cannot be true servant to my master,

Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 112

Yet will I woo for him; but yet so coldly

As heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

Enter Silvia, attended.

Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean

To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.

Sil.

What would you with her, if that I be she?

Jul.

If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on.

Sil.

From whom? 120

Jul.

From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

Sil

O! he sends you for a picture?

Jul.

Ay, madam.

Sil.

Ursula, bring my picture there. 124

[A picture brought.

Go, give your master this: tell him from me,

One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,

Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

Jul.

Madam, please you peruse this letter.—

What say’st thou?

Jul.

I thank you, madam, that you tender her.

And threw her sun-expelling mask away, 160

The air hath starv’d the roses in her cheeks

And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.

Sil.

How tall was she? 164

Jul.

About my stature; for, at Pentecost,

When all our pageants of delight were play’d,

Our youth got me to play the woman’s part,

And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown, 168

Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments,

As if the garment had been made for me:

Therefore I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood; 172

For I did play a lamentable part.

Madam, ’twas Ariadne passioning

For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight;

Which I so lively acted with my tears 176

That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,

Wept bitterly, and would I might be dead

If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!

Sil.

She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.—

Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! 181

I weep myself to think upon thy words.

Here, youth, there is my purse: I give thee this

For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lov’st her. 184

Farewell.

Jul.

And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know her.—

[Exit Silvia, with Attendants.

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful.

I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, 188

Since she respects my mistress’ love so much.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Here is her picture: let me see; I think,

If I had such a tire, this face of mine 192

Were full as lovely as is this of hers;

And yet the painter flatter’d her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 196

If that be all the difference in his love

I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig.

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:

Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high.

What should it be that he respects in her 201

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?

Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,

For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form! 205

Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, lov’d, and ador’d,

And, were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead. 208

I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake,

That us’d me so; or else, by Jove I vow,

I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes,

To make my master out of love with thee.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Milan. An Abbey.

Enter Eglamour.

Egl.

The sun begins to gild the western sky,

And now it is about the very hour

That Silvia at Friar Patrick’s cell should meet me.

She will not fail; for lovers break not hours, 4

Unless it be to come before their time,

So much they spur their expedition.

See, where she comes.

Enter Silvia.

Lady, a happy evening!

Sil.

Amen, amen! go on, good Eglamour, 8

Out at the postern by the abbey-wall.

I fear I am attended by some spies.

Egl.

Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;

If we recover that, we’re sure enough.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia.

Thu.

Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?

Pro.

O, sir, I find her milder than she was;

But pearls are fair, and the old saying is,

‘Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.’

Jul.

Pro.

That they are out by lease.

Jul.

Here comes the duke.

Enter Duke.

Duke.

How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!

Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? 32

Thu.

Not I.

Pro.

Nor I.

Duke.

Saw you my daughter?

Pro.

Neither.

Duke

Why then,

She’s fled unto that peasant Valentine,

And Eglamour is in her company. 36

’Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,

As he in penance wander’d through the forest;

Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she,

But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it; 40

Besides, she did intend confession

At Patrick’s cell this even, and there she was not.

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 44

But mount you presently and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot,

That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled.

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.

[Exit.

Thu.

Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,

That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50

I’ll after, more to be reveng’d on Eglamour

Than for the love of reckless Silvia.

[Exit.

Pro.

And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love

Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her.

[Exit.

Jul.

And I will follow, more to cross that love

Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love.

[Exit.

Scene III.— Frontiers of Mantua. The Forest.

Enter Outlaws with Silvia.

First Out.

Come, come,

Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

Sil.

A thousand more mischances than this one

Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. 4

Second Out.

Come, bring her away.

First Out.

Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Third Out.

Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us;

But Moyses and Valerius follow him. 8

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;

There is our captain. We’ll follow him that’s fled:

The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape.

[Exeunt all except the First Outlaw and Silvia.

First Out.

Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave. 12

Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,

And will not use a woman lawlessly.

Sil.

O Valentine! this I endure for thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Valentine.

Val.

How use doth breed a habit in a man!

This shadowy desart, unfrequented woods,

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 4

And to the nightingale’s complaining notes

Tune my distresses and record my woes.

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, 8

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall

And leave no memory of what it was!

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia! 11

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!

[Noise within.

What halloing and what stir is this to-day?

These are my mates, that make their wills their law,

Have some unhappy passenger in chase.

They love me well; yet I have much to do 16

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who’s this comes here?

[Steps aside.

Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia.

Pro

Madam, this service I have done for you—

Though you respect not aught your servant doth— 20

To hazard life and rescue you from him

That would have forc’d your honour and your love.

Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, 24

And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.

Val.

[Aside.] How like a dream is this I see and hear!

Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.

Sil.

O, miserable, unhappy that I am! 28

Pro.

Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;

But by my coming I have made you happy.

Sil.

By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy.

Jul.

[Aside.] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. 32

Sil.

Had I been seized by a hungry lion,

I would have been a breakfast to the beast,

Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.

O! heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 36

Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul,

And full as much—for more there cannot be—

I do detest false perjur’d Proteus.

Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 40

Pro.

What dangerous action, stood it next to death,

Would I not undergo for one calm look!

O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approv’d,

When women cannot love where they’re belov’d! 44

Sil.

When Proteus cannot love where he’s belov’d.

Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love,

For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith

Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths 48

Descended into perjury to love me.

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two,

And that’s far worse than none: better have none

Than plural faith which is too much by one. 52

Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love—

For such is a friend now—treach’rous man!

Thou hast beguil’d my hopes: naught but mine eye 64

Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say

I have one friend alive: thou wouldst disprove me.

Who should be trusted now, when one’s right hand

Is perjur’d to the bosom? Proteus, 68

I am sorry I must never trust thee more,

But count the world a stranger for thy sake.

The private wound is deep’st. O time most curst!

’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

Pro.

My shame and guilt confound me. 73

Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender’t here: I do as truly suffer 76

As e’er I did commit.

Val.

Then, I am paid;

And once again I do receive thee honest.

Who by repentance is not satisfied

Is nor of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleas’d.

By penitence the Eternal’s wrath’s appeas’d: 81

And, that my love may appear plain and free,

All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.

Jul.

O me unhappy!

[Swoons.

Pro.

Look to the boy. 85

Val.

Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s the matter?

Look up; speak.

Jul.

O good sir, my master charg’d me 88

To deliver a ring to Madam Silvia,

Which out of my neglect was never done.

Pro.

Where is that ring, boy?

Jul.

Here ’tis this is it.

[Gives a ring.

Pro.

How! let me see. 92

Why this is the ring I gave to Julia.

Jul.

O, cry you mercy, sir; I have mistook:

This is the ring you sent to Silvia.

[Shows another ring.

Pro.

But how cam’st thou by this ring? 96

At my depart I gave this unto Julia.

Jul.

And Julia herself did give it me;

And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

Pro.

How! Julia! 100

Jul.

Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,

And entertain’d them deeply in her heart:

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!

O Proteus! let this habit make thee blush. 104

Be thou asham’d that I have took upon me

Such an immodest raiment; if shame live

In a disguise of love.

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 108

Women to change their shapes than men their minds.

Pro.

Than men their minds! ’tis true. O heaven! were man

But constant, he were perfect: that one error

Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins: 112

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.

What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy

More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye?

Val.

Come, come, a hand from either. 116

Let me be blest to make this happy close:

’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

Pro.

Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish, for ever.

Jul.

And I mine. 120

Enter Outlaws with Duke and Thurio.

Out.

A prize! a prize! a prize!

Val.

Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the duke.

Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac’d,

Banished Valentine.

Duke.

Sir Valentine! 124

Thu.

Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia’s mine.

Val.

Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;

Come not within the measure of my wrath;

Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, 128

Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands;

Take but possession of her with a touch;

I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.

Thu.

Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I. 132

I hold him but a fool that will endanger

His body for a girl that loves him not:

I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 135

Duke.

The more degenerate and base art thou,

To make such means for her as thou hast done,

And leave her on such slight conditions.

Now, by the honour of my ancestry,

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 140

And think thee worthy of an empress’ love.

Know then, I here forget all former griefs,

Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,

Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit, 144

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,

Thou art a gentleman and well deriv’d;

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv’d her.

Val.

I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy. 148

I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake,

To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

Duke.

I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be.

Val.

These banish’d men, that I have kept withal 152

Are men endu’d with worthy qualities:

Forgive them what they have committed here,

And let them be recall’d from their exile.

They are reformed, civil, full of good, 156

And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

Duke.

Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them, and thee:

Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts.

Come, let us go: we will include all jars 160

With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.

Val.

And as we walk along, I dare be bold

With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.

What think you of this page, my lord? 164

Duke.

I think the boy hath grace in him: he blushes.

Val.

I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

Duke.

What mean you by that saying?

Val.

Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along,

That you will wonder what hath fortuned. 169

Come, Proteus; ’tis your penance, but to hear

The story of your loves discovered:

That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;

One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. 173

[Exeunt.

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sir John Falstaff.
Fenton,	a young Gentleman.
Shallow,	a Country Justice.
Slender,	Cousin to Shallow.
Ford, }	two Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor.
Page, }	two Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor.
William Page,	a Boy, Son to Page.
Sir Hugh Evans,	a Welsh Parson.
Doctor Caius,	a French Physician.
Host	of the Garter Inn.
Bardolph, Pistol, Nym,	Followers of Falstaff.
Robin,	Page to Falstaff.
Simple,	Servant to Slender.
Rugby,	Servant to Doctor Caius.
Mistress Ford.
Mistress Page.
Anne Page,	her Daughter, in love with Fenton.
Mistress Quickly,	Servant to Doctor Caius.
Servants to Page, Ford, &c.

Scene.—Windsor; and the Neighbourhood.

[Within ] Who’s there? 76

Eva

Fal.

Is this true, Pistol? 164

Eva.

No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

Pist.

Ha, thou mountain foreigner!—Sir John and master mine,

Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but ’tis no matter. I’ll ne’er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick: if I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. 191

Eva.

So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

Fal.

You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it. 194

Enter Anne Page, with Wine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Page.

Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we’ll drink within.

[Exit Anne Page.

Slen.

O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.

Page.

How now, Mistress Ford!

Fal.

Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met: by your leave, good mistress. 200

[Kissing her.

Page.

Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. 204

I’ll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! 329

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple.

Eva.

Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house, which is the way: and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his try nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. 5

Sim.

Well, sir.

Eva.

Host.

I have spoke; let him follow. [To Bard.] Let me see thee forth and lime: I am at a word; follow.

[Exit.

Fal.

Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade: an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man, a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.

Bard.

It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. 20

Pist.

Nym.

I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the haviour of reputation. 85

Fal.

[To Robin.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly:

Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.

Rogues, hence! avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;

Trudge, plod away o’the hoof; seek shelter, pack!

Falstaff will learn the humour of this age,

French thrift, you rogues: myself and skirted page.

[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.

Pist.

Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, 92

And high and low beguile the rich and poor.

Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,

Pist.

And I to Ford shall eke unfold

How Falstaff, varlet vile, 104

His dove will prove, his gold will hold,

And his soft couch defile.

Nym.

My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour. 110

Pist.

Quick.

Quick.

Caius.

Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a little-a while. 93

[Writes.

Quick.

I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud, and so melancholy. But, notwithstanding, man, I’ll do your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master,—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself,— 102

Sim.

’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand.

Quick.

Are you avis’d o’ that? you shall find it a great charge: and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding,—to tell you in your ear,—I would have no words of it,—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind, that’s neither here nor there. 111

Caius.

You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a challenge: I vill cut his troat in de Park; and I vill teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here: by gar, I vill cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to trow at his dog.

[Exit Simple.

Farewell to your worship.—[Exit Fenton.] Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon’t! what have I forgot?

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Before Page’s House.

Enter Mistress Page, with a Letter.

Mrs. Page.

What! have I ’scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see.

Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to then, there’s sympathy; you are merry, so am I, ha! ha! then, there’s more sympathy, you love sack, and so do I, would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of a soldier can suffice, that I love thee I will not say, pity me,—’tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, love me. By me,

Thine own true knight,

By day or night, 16

Or any kind of light,

With all his might

For thee to fight,

John Falstaff.

Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do sing.

Away, sir Corporal Nym!

Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.

[Exit.

Ford.

[Aside.] I will be patient: I will find out this. 129

Nym.

Mrs. Page.

Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George? [Aside to Mrs. Ford.] Look, who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight.

Mrs. Ford.

Trust me, I thought on her: she’ll fit it. 165

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Mrs. Page.

You are come to see my daughter Anne?

Quick.

Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? 169

Mrs. Page.

Host.

What sayest thou, my bully-rook? 212

[They go aside.

Shal.

[Exeunt Host, Shallow, and Page.

Ford.

Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there, I know not. Well, I will look further into’t; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff and Pistol.

Fal.

I will not lend thee a penny.

Pist.

Why, then the world’s mine oyster,

Which I with sword will open.

I will retort the sum in equipage. 4

Fal.

Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 14

[Exit.

Ford.

Host.

And moreover, bully,—But first, Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. 77

[Aside to them.

Page.

Sir Hugh is there, is he?

Host.

He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? 81

Shal.

We will do it.

Page, Shal., and Slen.

Eva.

I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. 9

Sim.

I will, sir.

[Exit.

Eva.

Pless my soul! how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave’s costard when I have goot opportunities for the ’ork: pless my soul!

[Sings.

To shallow rivers, to whose falls 17

Melodious birds sing madrigals;

There will we make our peds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant pasies. 20

To shallow—

Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.

[Sings.

Melodious birds sing madrigals,—

When as I sat in Pabylon,— 24

And a thousand vagram posies.

To shallow,—

Re-enter Simple.

Sim.

Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh.

Eva.

He’s welcome.

[Sings.

To shallow rivers, to whose falls— 29

[Aside.] O, sweet Anne Page! 72

Shal.

Host.

Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;—give me thy hand celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. 114

Shal.

Trust me, a mad host!—Follow, gentlemen, follow.

Slen.

[Aside.] O, sweet Anne Page!

[Exeunt Shallow, Slender, Page, and Host.

Caius.

Ha! do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? 119

Eva.

This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. 124

Caius.

By gar, vit all my heart. He promise to bring me vere is Anne Page: by gar, he deceive me too.

Eva.

Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Street in Windsor.

Enter Mistress Page and Robin.

Mrs. Page.

Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels? 4

Rob.

I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf.

Mrs. Page.

[Exeunt Mistress Page and Robin.

Ford.

Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind: and Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots! they are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actæon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes.] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm, that Falstaff is there: I will go. 52

Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius, and Rugby.

Page, Shal., &c.

Well met, Master Ford.

Ford.

Trust me, a good knot. I have good cheer at home; and I pray you all go with me.

Shal.

I must excuse myself, Master Ford. 56

Slen.

And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I’ll speak of.

Shal.

We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

Slen.

I hope I have your good will, father Page. 64

Page.

You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you: but my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether.

Caius.

Ay, by gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 69

Host.

What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will carry’t, he will carry’t; ’tis in his buttons; he will carry’t. 74

Page.

Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild prince and Pointz; he is of too high a region; he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance: if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. 82

Ford.

I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh.

Shal.

Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page’s. 89

[Exeunt Shallow and Slender.

Caius.

Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.

[Exit Rugby.

Host.

Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him.

[Exit Host.

Ford.

[Aside.] I think I shall drink in pipewine first with him; I’ll make him dance. Will you go, gentles? 96

All.

Have with you to see this monster.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Ford’s House.

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Mrs. Ford.

What, John! what, Robert!

Mrs. Page.

Quickly, quickly:—Is the buckbasket—

Mrs. Ford.

I warrant. What, Robin, I say! 4

I have told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called.

[Exeunt Servants.

Mrs. Page.

Here comes little Robin. 21

Enter Robin.

Mrs. Ford.

How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?

Rob.

My master, Sir John, is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

Mrs. Page

You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? 28

Rob.

Ay, I’ll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he’ll turn me away. 32

Mrs. Page.

Thou’rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I’ll go hide me.

Mrs. Ford.

Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit Robin.] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. 38

Mrs. Page.

I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.

[Exit.

Mrs. Ford.

What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight? 149

Fal.

I love thee, and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here. I’ll never—

[He gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen.

Mrs. Page.

Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! 154

Mrs. Ford.

What, John! Robert! John!

[Exit Robin.

Re-enter Servants.

Go take up these clothes here quickly; where’s the cowl-staff? look, how you drumble! carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead; quickly, come.

True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen; you shall see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen.

[Exit.

Eva.

This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. 181

Caius.

By gar, ’tis no de fashion of France; it is not jealous in France.

Page.

Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. 185

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Page’s House.

Enter Fenton, Anne Page, and Mistress Quickly. Mistress Quickly stands apart.

Fent.

I see I cannot get thy father’s love;

Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.

Anne.

Alas! how then?

Fent.

Why, thou must be thyself.

He doth object, I am too great of birth, 4

And that my state being gall’d with my expense,

I seek to heal it only by his wealth.

Besides these, other bars he lays before me,

My riots past, my wild societies; 8

And tells me ’tis a thing impossible

I should love thee but as a property.

Anne.

May be he tells you true.

Fent.

No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! 12

Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth

Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne:

Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value

Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags; 16

And ’tis the very riches of thyself

That now I aim at.

Anne.

Gentle Master Fenton,

Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir:

If opportunity and humblest suit 20

Cannot attain it, why, then,—hark you hither.

[They converse apart.

Page.

Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.

Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here?

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:

I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos’d of.

Fent.

Nay, Master Page, be not impatient.

Mrs. Page.

Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. 76

Page.

She is no match for you.

Fent.

Sir, will you hear me?

Page.

No, good Master Fenton.

Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.

Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. 80

[Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender.

Quick.

Speak to Mistress Page.

Fent.

Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter

In such a righteous fashion as I do,

Perforce, against all checks, rebukes and manners, 84

I must advance the colours of my love

And not retire: let me have your good will.

Anne.

Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

Mrs. Page.

I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. 88

Quick.

That’s my master, Master doctor.

Anne.

Alas! I had rather be set quick i’ the earth,

And bowl’d to death with turnips.

Mrs. Page.

Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton, 92

I will not be your friend nor enemy:

My daughter will I question how she loves you,

And as I find her, so am I affected.

’Till then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in;

Her father will be angry. 97

Fent

Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan.

[Exeunt Mistress Page and Anne.

Quick.

This is my doing, now: ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.’ This is my doing. 102

Fent.

I thank thee: and I pray thee, once to-night

Give my sweet Nan this ring. There’s for thy pains. 104

Quick.

Now heaven send thee good fortune! [Exit Fenton.] A kind heart he hath: a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her. I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised, and I’ll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!

[Exit.

Scene V.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

Bardolph, I say,—

Bard.

Here, sir.

Fal.

Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in’t. [Exit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the Thames like a barrow of butcher’s offal? Well, if I be served such another trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out, and buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year’s gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man, and what a thing should I have been when I had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy. 19

Re-enter Bardolph, with the sack.

Bard.

Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. 21

Fal.

Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water, for my belly’s as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. 25

Bard.

Fal.

[Exit.

Ford.

Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford! there’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married: this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am: I will now take the lecher; he is at my house; he cannot ’scape me; ’tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepper-box; but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame: if I have horns to make me mad, let the proverb go with me; I’ll be horn-mad.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head.

Mrs. Page.

Quick, quick! we’ll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while. 87

Mrs. Page.

Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough. 108

We’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do,

Wives may be merry, and yet honest too:

We do not act that often jest and laugh;

’Tis old, but true, ‘Still swine eats all the draff.’

[Exit.

Re-enter Mistress Ford, with two Servants.

Mrs. Ford.

Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders: your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly; dispatch.

[Exit.

First Serv.

Come, come, take it up. 117

Sec. Serv.

Pray heaven, it be not full of knight again.

First Serv.

Well, he’s not here I seek for.

Page.

No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.

[Servants carry away the basket.

Enter Falstaff in women’s clothes, led by Mistress Page.

Mrs. Page.

Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. 196

Ford.

I’ll ‘prat’ her.—[Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you.

[Exit Falstaff.

Mrs. Page.

Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman.

Mrs. Ford.

Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you. 204

Ford.

Hang her, witch!

Eva.

By yea and no, I think the ’oman is a witch indeed: I like not when a ’oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler. 209

Ford.

Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow: see but the issue of my jealousy. If I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. 213

Page.

Let’s obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen.

Scene III.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Host and Bardolph.

Bard.

Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. 3

Host.

What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English?

Bard.

Ay, sir; I’ll call them to you. 8

Host.

They shall have my horses, but I’ll make them pay; I’ll sauce them: they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests: they must come off; I’ll sauce them. Come.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Ford’s House.

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans.

Eva.

’Tis one of the pest discretions of a ’oman as ever I did look upon.

Page.

And did he send you both these letters at an instant? 4

Mrs. Page.

Within a quarter of an hour.

Ford.

Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou wilt;

I rather will suspect the sun with cold

Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand, 8

In him that was of late an heretic,

As firm as faith.

Page.

’Tis well, ’tis well; no more.

Be not as extreme in submission

As in ofrence; 12

But let our plot go forward: let our wives

Yet once again, to make us public sport,

Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,

Where we may take him and disgrace him for it.

Ford.

There is no better way than that they spoke of. 17

Page.

How? to send him word they’ll meet him in the Park at midnight? Fie, fie! he’ll never come. 20

Eva.

You say he has been thrown into the rivers, and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman: methinks there should be terrors in him that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall have no desires. 25

Page.

So think I too.

Mrs. Ford.

Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes,

And let us two devise to bring him thither. 28

Mrs. Page.

There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,

Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,

Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,

Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns; 32

And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,

And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain

In a most hideous and dreadful manner:

You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know 36

The superstitious idle-headed eld

Receiv’d and did deliver to our age

This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

Page.

Why, yet there want not many that do fear 40

In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak.

But what of this?

Mrs. Ford.

Marry, this is our device;

That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us,

Disguis’d like Herne with huge horns on his head. 44

Page.

Well, let it not be doubted but he’ll come,

And in this shape when you have brought him thither,

What shall be done with him? what is your plot?

Mrs. Page.

That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: 48

Nan Page my daughter, and my little son,

And three or four more of their growth, we’ll dress

Like urchins, ouphs and fairies, green and white,

With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, 52

And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden,

As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met,

Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once

With some diffused song: upon their sight, 56

We two in great amazedness will fly:

Then let them all encircle him about,

And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight;

And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, 60

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread

In shape profane.

Mrs. Ford.

And till he tell the truth,

Nay, I’ll to him again in name of Brook;

He’ll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he’ll come.

Mrs. Page.

Fear not you that. Go, get us properties, 80

And tricking for our fairies.

Eva.

Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries.

[Exeunt Page, Ford, and Evans.

Mrs. Page.

Go, Mistress Ford, 84

Send Quickly to Sir John, to know his mind.

[Exit Mistress Ford.

I’ll to the doctor: he hath my good will,

And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.

That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; 88

And him my husband best of all affects:

The doctor is well money’d, and his friends

Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,

Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.

[Exit.

Host.

Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee? 59

Fal.

Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life: and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. 63

Enter Bardolph.

Bard.

Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!

Host.

Where be my horses? speak well of them, varletto. 66

Bard.

Run away, with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off, from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. 71

Host.

They are gone but to meet the duke, villain. Do not say they be fled: Germans are honest men.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans.

Eva.

Where is mine host?

Host.

What is the matter, sir? 76

Eva.

Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you: you are wise and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and ’tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.

[Exit.

Enter Doctor Caius.

Caius.

Vere is mine host de Jarteer? 85

Host.

Here, Master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.

Caius.

I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany: by my trot, dere is no duke dat de court is know to come. I tell you for good vill: adieu.

[Exit.

Host.

Hue and cry, villain! go. Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone! 95

[Exeunt Host and Bardolph.

Fal.

I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop, and liquor fishermen’s boots with me: I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. 107

Enter Mistress Quickly.

Come up into my chamber.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Fenton and Host.

Host.

Master Fenton, talk not to me: my mind is heavy; I will give over all.

Fent.

Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,

And, as I am a gentleman, I’ll give thee 4

A hundred pound in gold more than your loss.

Host.

I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel.

Fent.

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page; 9

Who, mutually hath answer’d my affection,

So far forth as herself might be her chooser,

Even to my wish. I have a letter from her 12

Of such contents as you will wonder at;

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,

That neither singly can be manifested,

Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff

Hath a great scare: the image of the jest 17

I’ll show you here at large [Pointing to the Letter]. Hark, good mine host:

To-night at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one,

Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;

The purpose why, is here: in which disguise, 21

While other jests are something rank on foot,

Her father hath commanded her to slip

Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 24

Immediately to marry: she hath consented:

Now, sir,

Her mother, even strong against that match

And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 28

That he shall likewise shuffle her away,

While other sports are tasking of their minds;

And at the deanery, where a priest attends,

Straight marry her: to this her mother’s plot

She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 33

Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests:

Her father means she shall be all in white,

And in that habit, when Slender sees his time

To take her by the hand and bid her go, 37

She shall go with him: her mother hath intended,

The better to denote her to the doctor,—

For they must all be mask’d and vizarded— 40

That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob’d,

With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head;

And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,

To pinch her by the hand; and on that token 44

The maid hath given consent to go with him.

Host.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

Fent.

Both, my good host, to go along with me:

And here it rests, that you’ll procure the vicar

To stay for me at church ’twixt twelve and one,

And, in the lawful name of marrying, 51

To give our hearts united ceremony.

Host.

Well, husband your device; I’ll to the vicar.

Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.

Fent.

So shall I evermore be bound to thee;

Besides, I’ll make a present recompense. 56

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A Room in the Garter Inn.

Shal.

That’s good too: but what needs either your ‘mum,’ or her ‘budget?’ the white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o’clock. 12

Page.

The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me.

[Exeunt.

Those that betray them do no treachery.

Mrs. Ford.

The hour draws on: to the oak, to the oak!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Windsor Park.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised, and others as Fairies.

Eva.

Trib, trib, fairies: come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit, and when I give the watch-ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another part of the Park.

Enter Falstaff disguised as Herne, with a buck’s head on.

Fal.

The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that, in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other, a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda; O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl: think on ’t, Jove; a foul fault! When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest: send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe? 17

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.

Mrs. Ford.

Sir John! art thou there, my deer? my male deer?

Fal.

Anne.

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,

You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 44

You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,

Attend your office and your quality.

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

Pist.

Elves, list your names: silence, you airy toys! 48

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:

Where fires thou find’st unrak’d and hearths unswept,

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:

Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. 52

Fal.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:

I’ll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.

[Lies down upon his face.

Eva.

Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,

Rein up the organs of her fantasy, 57

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy;

But those that sleep and think not on their sins,

Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. 60

Anne.

About, about!

Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphs, on every sacred room,

That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 64

In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit,

Worthy the owner, and the owner it.

The several chairs of order look you scour

With juice of balm and every precious flower: 68

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, ever more be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,

Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring: 72

The expressure that it bears, green let it be,

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;

And, Honi soit qui mal y pense write

In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white;

Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 77

Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee:

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Away! disperse! But, till ’tis one o’clock, 80

Our dance of custom round about the oak

Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

Eva.

Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set;

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanthorns be,

To guide our measure round about the tree. 85

But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

Fal.

Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

Pist.

Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy birth.

Anne.

With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:

If he be chaste, the flame will back descend

And turn him to no pain; but if he start, 92

It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

Pist.

A trial! come.

Eva.

Come, will this wood take fire?

[They burn him with their tapers.

Fal.

Oh, oh, oh!

Anne.

Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! 96

About him, fairies, sing a scornful rime;

And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

SONG.

Fie on sinful fantasy!

Fie on lust and luxury! 100

Lust is but a bloody fire,

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire,

As thoughts do blow them higher and higher. 104

Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villany;

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,

Till candles and star-light and moonshine be out.

During this song, the Fairies pinch Falstaff. Doctor Caius comes one way, and steals away a Fairy in green; Slender another way, and takes off a Fairy in white; and Fenton comes, and steals away Anne Page. A noise of hunting is heard within. The Fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off his buck’s head, and rises.

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. They lay hold on Falstaff.

Page.

Nay, do not fly: I think we have watch’d you now: 109

Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

Mrs. Page.

I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher.

Nay, husband, let that go to make amends;

Forgive that sum, and so we’ll all be friends. 184

Ford.

Well, here’s my hand: all is forgiven at last.

Page.

Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her, Master Slender hath married her daughter.

Mrs. Page.

Mrs. Page.

Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. 226

Enter Doctor Caius.

Caius.

Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened: I ha’ married un garçon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am cozened. 230

Mrs. Page.

Why, did you not take her in green?

Shakespeare's Birthplace, by W.W. Quatremain.

Caius.

Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy: by gar, I’ll raise all Windsor.

[Exit.

Ford.

This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? 235

Page.

My heart misgives me: here comes Master Fenton.

Enter Fenton and Anne Page.

How now, Master Fenton!

Anne.

Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon! 240

Page.

Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender?

Mrs. Page.

Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? 244

Fent.

You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.

You would have married her most shamefully,

Where there was no proportion held in love.

The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, 248

Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us.

The offence is holy that she hath committed,

And this deceit loses the name of craft,

Of disobedience, or unduteous title, 252

Since therein she doth evitate and shun

A thousand irreligious cursed hours,

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.

Ford.

Stand not amaz’d: here is no remedy:

In love the heavens themselves do guide the state: 257

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

Fal.

I am glad, though you have ta’en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. 261

Page.

Well, what remedy?—Fenton, heaven give thee joy!

What cannot be eschew’d must be embrac’d.

Fal.

When night dogs run all sorts of deer are chas’d. 264

Mrs. Page.

Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,

Heaven give you many, many merry days!

Good husband, let us every one go home,

And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire; 268

Sir John and all.

Ford.

Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word;

For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford. 272

[Exeunt.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Vincentio,	the Duke.
Angelo,	Lord Deputy in the Duke’s absence.
Escalus,	an Ancient Lord, joined with Angelo in the deputation.
Claudio,	a young Gentleman.
Lucio,	a Fantastic.
Two other like Gentlemen.
Varrius,	a Gentleman attending on the Duke.
Provost.
Thomas, }	two Friars.
Peter, }	two Friars.
A Justice.
Elbow,	a simple Constable.
Froth,	a foolish Gentleman.
Pompey,	Tapster to Mistress Overdone.
Abhorson,	an Executioner.
Barnardine,	a dissolute Prisoner.
Isabella,	sister to Claudio.
Mariana,	betrothed to Angelo.
Juliet,	beloved of Claudio.
Francisca,	a Nun.
Mistress Overdone,	a Bawd.
Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants.

Scene.—Vienna.

ACT I.

Scene I.— An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke.

Escalus.

Escal.

My lord?

Duke.

Of government the properties to unfold,

Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,

Since I am put to know that your own science 5

Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

My strength can give you: then no more remains,

But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work. The nature of our people, 9

Our city’s institutions, and the terms

For common justice, you’re as pregnant in,

As art and practice hath enriched any 12

That we remember. There is our commission,

[Giving it.

From which we would not have you warp. Call hither,

I say, bid come before us Angelo.

[Exit an Attendant.

What figure of us think you he will bear? 16

For you must know, we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply,

Lent him our terror, drest him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs 20

Of our own power: what think you of it?

Escal.

If any in Vienna be of worth

To undergo such ample grace and honour,

It is Lord Angelo.

Duke.

Look where he comes. 24

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

Always obedient to your Grace’s will,

I come to know your pleasure.

Duke.

Angelo,

There is a kind of character in thy life,

That, to th’ observer doth thy history 28

Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper, as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, 32

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d

But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends 36

The smallest scruple of her excellence,

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech

To one that can my part in him advertise; 41

Hold, therefore, Angelo:

[Tendering his commission.

In our remove be thou at full ourself;

Mortality and mercy in Vienna 44

Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,

Though first in question, is thy secondary.

Take thy commission.

[Giving it.

Ang.

Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,

Before so noble and so great a figure 49

Be stamp’d upon it.

Duke.

No more evasion:

We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice

Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

Our haste from hence is of so quick condition 53

That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion’d

Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,

As time and our concernings shall importune, 56

How it goes with us; and do look to know

What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:

To the hopeful execution do I leave you

Of your commissions.

Ang.

Yet, give leave, my lord, 60

That we may bring you something on the way.

Duke.

My haste may not admit it;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple: your scope is as mine own, 64

So to enforce or qualify the laws

As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

I’ll privily away: I love the people,

But do not like to stage me to their eyes. 68

Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause and Aves vehement,

Nor do I think the man of safe discretion

That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 72

Ang.

The heavens give safety to your purposes!

Escal.

Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!

Duke.

I thank you. Fare you well.

[Exit.

Escal.

I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave

To have free speech with you; and it concerns me

To look into the bottom of my place:

A power I have, but of what strength and nature

I am not yet instructed. 80

Ang.

’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,

And we may soon our satisfaction have

Touching that point.

Escal.

Away! let’s go learn the truth of it.

What’s to do here, Thomas tapster?

Let’s withdraw.

Pom.

Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there’s Madam Juliet.

[Exeunt.

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Officers.

Claud.

Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

Prov.

I do it not in evil disposition,

But from Lord Angelo by special charge. 128

Claud.

Thus can the demi-god Authority

Make us pay down for our offence’ by weight.

The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will;

On whom it will not, so: yet still ’tis just. 132

Re-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.

Lucio.

Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint?

Claud.

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:

As surfeit is the father of much fast,

So every scope by the immoderate use 136

Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue—

Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,—

One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.

Lucio.

A hundred, if they’ll do you any good.

Is lechery so looked after?

Claud.

Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract

I got possession of Julietta’s bed: 156

You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

Save that we do the denunciation lack

Of outward order: this we came not to,

Only for propagation of a dower 160

Remaining in the coffer of her friends,

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

Till time had made them for us. But it chances

The stealth of our most mutual entertainment

With character too gross is writ on Juliet. 165

Lucio.

With child, perhaps?

Claud.

Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the duke,—

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, 168

Or whether that the body public be

A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur;

Whether the tyranny be in his place, 173

Or in his eminence that fills it up,

I stagger in:—but this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties 176

Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the wall

So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round,

And none of them been worn; and, for a name,

Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 180

Freshly on me: ’tis surely for a name.

Lucio.

I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal to him. 185

Claud.

I have done so, but he’s not to be found.

I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service.

This day my sister should the cloister enter, 188

And there receive her approbation:

Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him: 192

I have great hope in that; for in her youth

There is a prone and speechless dialect,

Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art

When she will play with reason and discourse,

And well she can persuade. 197

Lucio.

I pray she may: as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her.

Claud.

I thank you, good friend Lucio.

Lucio.

Within two hours.

Claud.

Come, officer, away!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Monastery.

Enter Duke and Friar Thomas.

Duke.

No, holy father; throw away that thought:

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee

To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 4

More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

Of burning youth.

Fri. T.

May your Grace speak of it?

Duke.

My holy sir, none better knows than you

How I have ever lov’d the life remov’d, 8

And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.

I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo—

A man of stricture and firm abstinence— 12

My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

And he supposes me travell’d to Poland;

For so I have strew’d it in the common ear,

And so it is receiv’d. Now, pious sir, 16

You will demand of me why I do this?

Fri. T.

Gladly, my lord.

Duke.

We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds,— 20

Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep;

Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,

Only to stick it in their children’s sight 25

For terror, not to use, in time the rod

Becomes more mock’d than fear’d; so our decrees,

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead, 28

And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

Goes all decorum.

Fri. T.

It rested in your Grace

T’ unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas’d;

And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d

Than in Lord Angelo.

Duke.

I do fear, too dreadful:

Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope, 35

’Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,

When evil deeds have their permissive pass

And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

I have on Angelo impos’d the office, 40

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet my nature never in the sight

To do it slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as ’twere a brother of your order, 44

Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee,

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

How I may formally in person bear me

Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

At our more leisure shall I render you; 49

Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite 52

Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. 9

When you have vow’d, you must not speak with men

But in the presence of the prioress:

Then, if you speak, you must not show your face,

Or, if you show your face, you must not speak.

He calls again; I pray you, answer him.

[Exit.

Isab.

Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls?

Enter Lucio.

Lucio.

Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses 16

Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me

As bring me to the sight of Isabella,

A novice of this place, and the fair sister

To her unhappy brother Claudio? 20

Isab.

Why ‘her unhappy brother?’ let me ask;

The rather for I now must make you know

I am that Isabella and his sister.

Lucio.

Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you: 24

Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.

Isab.

Woe me! for what?

Lucio.

For that which, if myself might be his judge,

He should receive his punishment in thanks: 28

He hath got his friend with child.

Isab.

Sir, make me not your story.

Lucio.

It is true.

I would not, though ’tis my familiar sin

With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest, 32

Tongue far from heart, play with all virgins so:

Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

In hand and hope of action; but we do learn 52

By those that know the very nerves of state,

His givings out were of an infinite distance

From his true-meant design. Upon his place,

And with full line of his authority, 56

Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood

Is very snow-broth; one who never feels

The wanton stings and motions of the sense,

But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 60

With profits of the mind, study and fast.

He,—to give fear to use and liberty,

Which have for long run by the hideous law,

As mice by lions, hath pick’d out an act, 64

Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life

Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it,

And follows close the rigour of the statute,

To make him an example. All hope is gone, 68

Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer

To soften Angelo; and that’s my pith of business

Twixt you and your poor brother.

Isab.

Doth he so seek his life?

Lucio.

He’s censur’d him 72

Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath

A warrant for his execution.

Isab.

Alas! what poor ability’s in me

To do him good?

Lucio.

Assay the power you have. 76

Isab.

My power? alas! I doubt—

Lucio.

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win,

By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,

And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 80

Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

All their petitions are as freely theirs

As they themselves would owe them.

Isab.

I’ll see what I can do.

Lucio.

But speedily. 84

Isab.

I will about it straight;

No longer staying but to give the Mother

Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you:

Commend me to my brother; soon at night 88

I’ll send him certain word of my success.

Lucio.

I take my leave of you.

Isab.

Good sir, adieu.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Hall in Angelo’s House.

Enter Angelo, Escalus, a Justice, Provost, Officers, and other Attendants.

Ang.

We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,

And let it keep one shape, till custom make it

Their perch and not their terror.

Escal.

Ay, but yet 4

Let us be keen and rather cut a little,

Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman,

Whom I would save, had a most noble father.

Let but your honour know,— 8

Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,—

That, in the working of your own affections,

Had time coher’d with place or place with wishing,

Or that the resolute acting of your blood 12

Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose,

Whether you had not, some time in your life,

Err’d in this point which now you censure him,

And pull’d the law upon you. 16

Ang.

’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,

Another thing to fall. I not deny,

The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two 20

Guiltier than him they try; what’s open made to justice,

That justice seizes: what know the laws

That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant,

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it 24

Because we see it; but what we do not see

We tread upon, and never think of it.

You may not so extenuate his offence

For I have had such faults; but rather tell me,

When I, that censure him, do so offend, 29

Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,

And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

Escal.

Be it as your wisdom will.

Ang.

Where is the provost?

Prov.

Here, if it like your honour.

Ang.

See that Claudio

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:

Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar’d;

For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. 36

[Exit Provost.

Escal.

Well, heaven forgive him, and forgive us all!

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:

This will last out a night in Russia, 144

When nights are longest there: I’ll take my leave,

And leave you to the hearing of the cause,

But there is no remedy. 304

Just.

Lord Angelo is severe.

Escal.

It is but needful:

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so;

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.

But yet, poor Claudio! There’s no remedy. 308

Come, sir.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Provost and a Servant.

Serv.

He’s hearing of a cause: he will come straight:

I’ll tell him of you.

Prov.

Pray you, do. [Exit Serv.] I’ll know

His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas!

He hath but as offended in a dream: 4

All sects, all ages smack of this vice, and he

To die for it!

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

Now, what’s the matter, provost?

Prov.

Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow?

Ang.

Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order? 8

Why dost thou ask again?

Prov.

Lest I might be too rash.

Under your good correction, I have seen,

When, after execution, Judgment hath

Repented o’er his doom.

Ang

Go to; let that be mine: 12

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spar’d.

Prov.

I crave your honour’s pardon.

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

She’s very near her hour.

Ang.

Dispose of her 16

To some more fitter place; and that with speed.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

Here is the sister of the man condemn’d

Desires access to you.

Ang.

Hath he a sister?

Prov.

Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, 20

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

If not already.

Ang.

Well, let her be admitted.

[Exit Servant.

See you the fornicatress be remov’d:

Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; 24

There shall be order for’t.

Enter Isabella and Lucio.

Prov.

God save your honour!

[Offering to retire.

Ang.

Stay a little while.—[To Isab.] You’re welcome: what’s your will?

Isab.

I am a woful suitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

Ang.

Well; what’s your suit? 28

Isab.

There is a vice that most I do abhor,

And most desire should meet the blow of justice,

For which I would not plead, but that I must;

For which I must not plead, but that I am 32

At war ’twixt will and will not.

Ang.

Well; the matter?

Isab.

I have a brother is condemn’d to die:

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Prov.

[Aside.] Heaven give thee moving graces! 36

Ang.

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Why, every fault’s condemn’d ere it be done.

Mine were the very cipher of a function,

To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, 40

And let go by the actor.

Isab.

O just, but severe law!

I had a brother, then.—Heaven keep your honour!

[Retiring.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Give’t not o’er so: to him again, entreat him;

Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;

You are too cold; if you should need a pin, 45

You could not with more tame a tongue desire it.

To him. I say!

Isab.

Must he needs die?

Ang.

Maiden, no remedy.

Isab.

Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, 49

No ceremony that to great ones ’longs,

Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 60

The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,

Become them with one half so good a grace

As mercy does.

If he had been as you, and you as he, 64

You would have slipt like him; but he, like you,

Would not have been so stern.

Ang.

Pray you, be gone.

Isab.

I would to heaven I had your potency,

And you were Isabel! should it then be thus? 68

No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge,

And what a prisoner.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.

Ang.

Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

And you but waste your words.

Isab.

Alas! alas! 72

Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once;

And He that might the vantage best have took,

Found out the remedy. How would you be,

If He, which is the top of judgment, should 76

But judge you as you are? O! think on that,

And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

Ang.

Be you content, fair maid;

It is the law, not I, condemn your brother: 80

Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,

It should be thus with him: he must die to-morrow.

Isab.

To-morrow! O! that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!

He’s not prepar’d for death. Even for our kitchens 84

We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven

With less respect than we do minister

To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:

Who is it that hath died for this offence? 88

There’s many have committed it.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Ay, well said.

Ang.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:

Those many had not dar’d to do that evil,

If that the first that did th’ edict infringe 92

Had answer’d for his deed: now ’tis awake,

Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,

For every pelting, petty officer 112

Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder.

Merciful heaven!

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt

Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 116

Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 120

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent: 124

He’s coming: I perceive’t.

Prov.

[Aside.] Pray heaven she win him!

Isab.

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:

Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them,

But, in the less foul profanation. 128

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Thou’rt in the right, girl: more o’ that.

Isab.

That in the captain’s but a choleric word,

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Art advis’d o’ that? more on ’t. 132

Ang.

Why do you put these sayings upon me?

Isab.

Because authority, though it err like others,

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,

That skins the vice o’ the top. Go to your bosom;

Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know 137

That’s like my brother’s fault: if it confess

A natural guiltiness such as is his,

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 140

Against my brother’s life.

Ang.

She speaks, and ’tis

As fancy values them; but with true prayers

That shall be up at heaven and enter there 152

Ere sun-rise: prayers from preserved souls,

From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate

To nothing temporal.

Ang.

Well; come to me to-morrow.

Lucio.

[Aside to Isab.] Go to; ’tis well: away!

Isab.

Heaven keep your honour safe!

Ang.

[Aside.] Amen:

For I am that way going to temptation,

Where prayers cross.

Isab.

At what hour to-morrow

Shall I attend your lordship?

Ang.

At any time ’fore noon. 160

Isab.

Save your honour!

[Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost.

Ang.

From thee; even from thy virtue!

What’s this? what’s this? Is this her fault or mine?

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?

Ha! 164

Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I,

That, lying by the violet in the sun,

Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,

Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be 168

That modesty may more betray our sense

Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! 172

What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, let her brother live!

Thieves for their robbery have authority 176

When judges steal themselves. What! do I love her,

That I desire to hear her speak again,

And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on?

O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 180

With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous

Is that temptation that doth goad us on

To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet,

With all her double vigour, art and nature, 184

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite. Ever till now,

When men were fond, I smil’d and wonder’d how.

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in a Prison.

Enter Duke, disguised as a friar, and Provost.

Duke.

Juliet.

Mutually.

Duke.

Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. 28

Juliet.

I do confess it, and repent it, father.

Duke.

’Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,

As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,

Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven, 32

Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,

But as we stand in fear,—

Juliet.

I do repent me, as it is an evil,

And take the shame with joy.

Duke.

There rest. 36

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,

And I am going with instruction to him.

God’s grace go with you! Benedicite!

[Exit.

Juliet.

Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,

That respites me a life, whose very comfort 41

Is still a dying horror!

Prov.

’Tis pity of him.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Angelo’s House.

Enter Angelo.

Ang.

When I would pray and think, I think and pray

To several subjects: heaven hath my empty words,

Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,

Anchors on Isabel: heaven in my mouth, 4

As if I did but only chew his name,

And in my heart the strong and swelling evil

Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied,

Is like a good thing, being often read, 8

Grown fear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity,

Wherein, let no man hear me, I take pride,

Could I with boot change for an idle plume,

Which the air beats for vain. O place! O form!

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, 13

Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls

To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:

Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn, 16

’Tis not the devil’s crest.

Enter a Servant.

How now! who’s there?

Serv.

One Isabel, a sister,

Desires access to you.

Ang.

Teach her the way.

[Exit Servant.

O heavens! 20

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

Making both it unable for itself,

And dispossessing all my other parts

Of necessary fitness? 24

So play the foolish throngs with one that swounds;

Come all to help him, and so stop the air

By which he should revive: and even so

The general, subject to a well-wish’d king, 28

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

Must needs appear offence.

Yea.

Isab.

When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, 40

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

That his soul sicken not.

Ang.

Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 44

A man already made, as to remit

Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image

In stamps that are forbid: ’tis all as easy

Falsely to take away a life true made, 48

As to put metal in restrained means

To make a false one.

Isab.

’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

Ang.

Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly. 52

Which had you rather, that the most just law

Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him,

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

As she that he hath stain’d?

Isab.

Sir, believe this, 56

I had rather give my body than my soul.

Ang.

I talk not of your soul. Our compell’d sins

Stand more for number than for accompt.

Isab.

How say you?

Ang.

Nay, I’ll not warrant that; for I can speak 60

Against the thing I say. Answer to this:

I, now the voice of the recorded law,

Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life:

Might there not be a charity in sin 64

To save this brother’s life?

Isab.

Please you to do’t,

I’ll take it as a peril to my soul;

It is no sin at all, but charity.

Ang.

Pleas’d you to do’t, at peril of your soul,

Were equal poise of sin and charity.

Isab.

That I do beg his life, if it be sin,

Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit,

If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn prayer 72

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

Ang.

Nay, but hear me.

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,

Or seem so craftily; and that’s not good. 76

Isab.

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

But graciously to know I am no better.

Ang.

Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

When it doth tax itself; as these black masks 80

Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder

Than beauty could, display’d. But mark me;

To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross:

Your brother is to die. 84

Isab.

So.

Ang.

And his offence is so, as it appears

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

Isab.

True. 88

Ang.

Admit no other way to save his life,—

As I subscribe not that, nor any other,

But in the loss of question,—that you, his sister,

Finding yourself desir’d of such a person, 92

Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,

Could fetch your brother from the manacles

Of the all-building law; and that there were

No earthly mean to save him, but that either 96

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this suppos’d, or else to let him suffer;

What would you do?

Isab.

As much for my poor brother, as myself:

That is, were I under the terms of death, 101

Th’ impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,

And strip myself to death, as to a bed

That, longing, have been sick for, ere I’d yield

My body up to shame.

Ang.

Then must your brother die.

Isab.

And ’twere the cheaper way:

Better it were a brother died at once,

Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 108

Should die for ever.

Ang.

Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

That you have slander’d so?

Isab.

Ignomy in ransom and free pardon 112

Are of two houses: lawful mercy

Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

Ang.

You seem’d of late to make the law a tyrant;

And rather prov’d the sliding of your brother 116

A merriment than a vice.

Isab.

O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,

To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.

I something do excuse the thing I hate, 120

For his advantage that I dearly love.

Ang.

We are all frail.

Isab.

Else let my brother die,

If not a feodary, but only he

Owe and succeed thy weakness. 124

Ang.

Nay, women are frail too.

Isab.

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves,

Which are as easy broke as they make forms.

Women! Help heaven! men their creation mar

In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail,

For we are soft as our complexions are,

And credulous to false prints.

Ang.

I think it well:

And from this testimony of your own sex,— 132

Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger

Than faults may shake our frames,—let me be bold;

I do arrest your words. Be that you are,

That is, a woman; if you be more, you’re none;

If you be one, as you are well express’d 137

By all external warrants, show it now,

Ang.

Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose. 149

Isab.

Ha! little honour to be much believ’d,

And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t: 152

Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud

What man thou art.

Ang.

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life, 156

My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state,

Will so your accusation overweigh,

That you shall stifle in your own report

And smell of calumny. I have begun; 160

And now I give my sensual race the rein:

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,

That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother 164

By yielding up thy body to my will,

Or else he must not only die the death,

But thy unkindness shall his death draw out

To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,

Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 170

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

[Exit.

Isab.

To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, 172

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths!

That bear in them one and the self-same tongue,

Either of condemnation or approof,

Bidding the law make curt’sy to their will; 176

Hooking both right and wrong to th’ appetite,

To follow as it draws. I’ll to my brother:

Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,

Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour, 180

That, had he twenty heads to tender down

On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up,

Before his sister should her body stoop

To such abhorr’d pollution. 184

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:

More than our brother is our chastity.

I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request,

And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. 188

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Prison.

Enter Duke, as a friar, Claudio, and Provost.

Duke.

So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

Claud.

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope:

I have hope to live, and am prepar’d to die. 4

Duke.

Be absolute for death; either death or life

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, 8

Servile to all the skyey influences,

That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st,

Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool;

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun, 12

And yet run’st toward him still. Thou art not noble:

For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st

Are nurs’d by baseness. Thou art by no means valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 16

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provok’st; yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains 20

That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get,

And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 24

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;

For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,

The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age; 32

But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 37

To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life

Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.

Claud.

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die,

And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

Isab.

[Within.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company! 44

Prov.

Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

Duke.

Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

Claud.

Most holy sir, I thank you. 47

Enter Isabella.

Is.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

Prov.

Claud.

But in what nature? 68

Isab.

In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

Claud.

Let me know the point.

Isab.

O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,

And six or seven winters more respect

Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension, 76

And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

Claud.

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch 80

From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

Isab.

There spake my brother: there my father’s grave 84

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,

Whose settled visage and deliberate word 88

Nips youth i’ the head, and follies doth enmew

As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil;

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

Claud.

The prenzie Angelo? 92

Isab.

O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,

The damned’st body to invest and cover

In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio?

If I would yield him my virginity, 96

Thou mightst be freed.

Claud.

O heavens! it cannot be.

Isab.

Yes, he would give’t thee, from this rank offence,

So to offend him still. This night’s the time

That I should do what I abhor to name, 100

Yes. Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,

When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin; 108

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 120

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendant world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts

Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury and imprisonment 128

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Isab.

Alas! alas!

Claud.

Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother’s life, 132

Nature dispenses with the deed so far

That it becomes a virtue.

Isab.

O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? 136

Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life

From thine own sister’s shame? What should I think?

Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair;

For such a warped slip of wilderness 140

Ne’er issu’d from his blood. Take my defiance;

Die, perish! Might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.

I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 144

No word to save thee.

Claud.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

Isab.

O, fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd: 148

’Tis best that thou diest quickly.

[Going.

Claud.

O hear me, Isabella.

Re-enter Provost.

Provost, a word with you.

Prov.

What’s your will, father?

Duke.

That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company. 180

Prov.

The evil that thou causest to be done,

That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back

From such a filthy vice: say to thyself, 24

From their abominable and beastly touches

I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend. 28

Pom.

Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove—

Duke.

Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer; 32

Correction and instruction must both work

Ere this rude beast will profit.

Elb.

He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.

Duke.

That we were all, as some would seem to be, 40

From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!

Elb.

His neck will come to your waist,—a cord, sir.

Pom.

I spy comfort: I cry, bail. Here’s a gentleman and a friend of mine. 45

Duke.

No might nor greatness in mortality

Can censure ’scape: back-wounding calumny

The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong

Not of this country, though my chance is now 236

To use it for my time: I am a brother

Of gracious order, late come from the See,

Peace be with you!

[Exeunt Escalus and Provost.

He, who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe; 284

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self offences weighing. 288

Shame to him whose cruel striking

Kills for faults of his own liking!

Twice treble shame on Angelo,

To weed my vice and let his grow! 292

O, what may man within him hide,

Though angel on the outward side!

How many likeness made in crimes,

Making practice on the times, 296

To draw with idle spiders’ strings

Most pond’rous and substantial things!

Craft against vice I must apply:

With Angelo to-night shall lie 300

His old betrothed but despis’d:

So disguise shall, by the disguis’d,

Pay with falsehood false exacting,

And perform an old contracting.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The moated Grange at St. Luke’s.

Enter Mariana and a Boy: Boy sings.

Take, O take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn: 4

But my kisses bring again,

bring again,

Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,

seal’d in vain. 8

Mari.

Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away:

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

Hath often still’d my brawling discontent.

[Exit Boy.

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish 12

You had not found me here so musical:

Let me excuse me, and believe me so,

My mirth it much displeas’d, but pleas’d my woe.

Duke.

’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm 16

To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet. 20

Mari.

You have not been inquired after: I have sat here all day.

Duke.

I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little; may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.

Mari.

I am always bound to you.

[Exit.

Enter Isabella.

Duke.

Very well met, and well come. 28

What is the news from this good deputy?

Isab.

He hath a garden circummur’d with brick,

Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d;

And to that vineyard is a planched gate, 32

That makes his opening with this bigger key;

This other doth command a little door

Which from the vineyard to the garden leads;

There have I made my promise 36

Upon the heavy middle of the night

To call upon him.

Duke.

But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

Isab.

I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t: 40

With whispering and most guilty diligence,

In action all of precept, he did show me

The way twice o’er.

Duke.

Are there no other tokens

Between you ’greed concerning her observance?

Isab.

No, none, but only a repair i’ the dark;

And that I have possess’d him my most stay

Can be but brief; for I have made him know

I have a servant comes with me along, 48

That stays upon me, whose persuasion is

I come about my brother.

Duke.

’Tis well borne up.

I have not yet made known to Mariana

A word of this. What ho! within! come forth.

Re-enter Mariana.

I pray you, be acquainted with this maid; 53

She comes to do you good.

Isab.

I do desire the like.

Duke.

Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

Mari.

Good friar, I know you do, and oft have found it. 56

Duke.

Take then this your companion by the hand,

Who hath a story ready for your ear.

I shall attend your leisure: but make haste;

The vaporous night approaches.

Mari.

Will’t please you walk aside? 60

[Exeunt Mariana and Isabella.

Duke.

O place and greatness! millions of false eyes

Are stuck upon thee: volumes of report

Run with these false and most contrarious quests

Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit 64

Make thee the father of their idle dream,

And rack thee in their fancies!

Re-enter Mariana and Isabella.

Welcome! How agreed?

Isab.

She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father,

If you advise it.

Duke.

It is not my consent, 68

But my entreaty too.

Isab.

Little have you to say

When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

‘Remember now my brother.’

Mari.

Fear me not.

Duke.

Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.

He is your husband on a pre-contract: 73

To bring you thus together, ’tis no sin,

Sith that the justice of your title to him

Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go: 76

Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow.

What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there? 21

Enter Abhorson.

Abhor.

Do you call, sir?

Prov.

Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd. 28

Abhor.

A bawd, sir? Fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.

Prov.

Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.

[Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson.

The one has my pity; not a jot the other, 64

Being a murderer, though he were my brother.

Enter Claudio.

Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:

’Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow

Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine? 68

Claud.

As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour

When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones;

He will not wake.

Prov.

Who can do good on him?

Well, go; prepare yourself. [Knocking within.] But hark, what noise?— 72

Heaven give your spirits comfort!—[Exit Claudio.] By and by.

I hope it is some pardon or reprieve

For the most gentle Claudio.

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

Welcome, father.

Duke.

The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night 76

Not so, not so: his life is parallel’d

Even with the stroke and line of his great justice:

He doth with holy abstinence subdue 84

That in himself which he spurs on his power

To qualify in others: were he meal’d with that

Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous;

But this being so, he’s just.—[Knocking within.] Now are they come.

[Exit Provost.

This is a gentle provost: seldom when 89

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.

[Knocking.

How now! What noise? That spirit’s possess’d with haste

That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes. 92

Re-enter Provost.

Prov.

There he must stay until the officer

Arise to let him in; he is call’d up.

Duke.

Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,

But he must die to-morrow?

Prov.

None, sir, none. 96

Duke.

As near the dawning, provost, as it is,

You shall hear more ere morning.

Prov.

Happily

You something know; yet, I believe there comes

No countermand: no such example have we. 100

Besides, upon the very siege of justice,

Lord Angelo hath to the public ear

Profess’d the contrary.

Enter a Messenger.

This is his lordship’s man.

Duke.

And here comes Claudio’s pardon. 104

Mes.

[Giving a paper.] My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day.

Prov.

I shall obey him.

[Exit Messenger.

Duke.

[Aside.] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin

For which the pardoner himself is in; 112

Hence hath offence his quick celerity,

When it is borne in high authority.

When vice makes mercy, mercy’s so extended,

That for the fault’s love is the offender friended.

Now, sir, what news? 117

Prov.

I told you; Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before. 121

Duke.

Pray you, let’s hear.

Prov.

Scene III.— Another Room in the Same.

Enter Pompey.

Pom.

I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession: one would think it were Mistress Overdone’s own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here’s young Master Rash; he’s in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine-score and seventeen pounds, of which he made five marks, ready money: marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-colour’d satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that kill’d lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight, the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now ‘for the Lord’s sake.’ 21

Enter Abhorson.

Abhor.

Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

Very ready, sir.

Enter Barnardine.

Barnar.

How now, Abhorson! what’s the news with you?

Abhor.

Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant’s come. 46

Barnar.

You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for’t.

Pom.

O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hang’d betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day. 51

Abhor.

Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you?

Enter Duke, disguised as before.

Duke.

Here in the prison, father, 76

There died this morning of a cruel fever

One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,

A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head

Just of his colour. What if we do omit 80

This reprobate till he were well inclin’d,

And satisfy the deputy with the visage

Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?

Duke.

O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides! 84

Dispatch it presently: the hour draws on

Prefix’d by Angelo. See this be done,

And sent according to command, whiles I

Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 88

Prov.

This shall be done, good father, presently.

But Barnardine must die this afternoon:

And how shall we continue Claudio,

To save me from the danger that might come 92

If he were known alive?

Duke.

Let this be done:

Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio:

Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting

To the under generation, you shall find 96

Your safety manifested.

Prov.

I am your free dependant.

Duke.

Quick, dispatch,

And send the head to Angelo.

[Exit Provost.

Now will I write letters to Angelo,— 101

The provost, he shall bear them,—whose contents

Shall witness to him I am near at home,

And that, by great injunctions, I am bound 104

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. 120

Isab.

The better, given me by so holy a man.

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?

Duke.

He hath releas’d him, Isabel, from the world:

His head is off and sent to Angelo. 124

Mark what I say, which you shall find

By every syllable a faithful verity.

The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes: 136

One of our covent, and his confessor,

Gives me this instance: already he hath carried

Notice to Escalus and Angelo,

Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, 140

There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom

In that good path that I would wish it go,

And you shall have your bosom on this wretch,

Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, 144

And general honour.

Isab.

I am directed by you.

Duke.

This letter then to Friar Peter give;

’Tis that he sent me of the duke’s return:

Say, by this token, I desire his company 148

At Mariana’s house to-night. Her cause and yours,

I’ll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you

Before the duke; and to the head of Angelo

Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self, 152

I am combined by a sacred vow

And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter.

Sir, your company is fairer than honest.

Rest you well.

Lucio.

And by an eminent body that enforc’d 25

The law against it! But that her tender shame

Will not proclaim against her maiden loss,

How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no: 28

For my authority bears so credent bulk,

That no particular scandal once can touch:

But it confounds the breather. He should have liv’d,

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, 32

Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge,

By so receiving a dishonour’d life

With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had liv’d!

Alack! when once our grace we have forgot, 36

Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Fields without the Town.

Enter Duke, in his own habit, and Friar Peter.

Duke.

These letters at fit time deliver me.

[Giving letters.

The provost knows our purpose and our plot.

The matter being afoot, keep your instruction,

And hold you ever to our special drift, 4

Though sometimes you do blench from this to that,

As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius’ house,

And tell him where I stay: give the like notice

To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 8

And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;

But send me Flavius first.

F. Peter.

It shall be speeded well.

[Exit.

Enter Varrius.

Duke.

I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste.

Come, we will walk. There’s other of our friends

Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. 13

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Street near the City Gate.

Enter Isabella and Mariana.

Isab.

To speak so indirectly I am loath:

I would say the truth; but to accuse him so,

That is your part: yet I’m advis’d to do it;

He says, to veil full purpose.

Mari.

Be rul’d by him. 4

Isab.

Besides, he tells me that if peradventure

He speak against me on the adverse side,

I should not think it strange; for ’tis a physic

That’s bitter to sweet end. 8

Mari.

I would, Friar Peter—

Isab.

O, peace! the friar is come.

Enter Friar Peter.

F. Peter.

Come; I have found you out a stand most fit,

Where you may have such vantage on the duke,

He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded: 12

The generous and gravest citizens

Have hent the gates, and very near upon

The duke is ent’ring: therefore hence, away!

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A public Place near the City Gate.

Mariana, veiled, Isabella, and Friar Peter, at their stand. Enter Duke, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers, and Citizens at several doors.

Duke.

My very worthy cousin, fairly met!

Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

Ang.

Happy return be to your royal Grace!

Escal.

Happy return be to your royal Grace!

Duke.

Many and hearty thankings to you both. 4

We have made inquiry of you; and we hear

Such goodness of your justice, that our soul

Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks,

Forerunning more requital.

Ang.

You make my bonds still greater. 8

Duke.

O! your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,

When it deserves, with characters of brass,

A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time 12

And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand,

And let the subject see, to make them know

That outward courtesies would fain proclaim

Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, 16

You must walk by us on our other hand;

And good supporters are you.

Friar Peter and Isabella come forward.

F. Peter.

Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.

Isab.

Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard

Upon a wrong’d, I’d fain have said, a maid! 21

O worthy prince! dishonour not your eye

By throwing it on any other object

Till you have heard me in my true complaint 24

And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!

Duke.

Relate your wrongs: in what? by whom? Be brief;

Here is Lord Angelo, shall give you justice:

Reveal yourself to him.

Isab.

O worthy duke! 28

You bid me seek redemption of the devil.

Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak

Must either punish me, not being believ’d,

Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here! 32

Ang.

My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:

She hath been a suitor to me for her brother

Cut off by course of justice,—

Isab.

By course of justice!

Ang.

And she will speak most bitterly and strange. 36

Isab.

Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak.

That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange?

That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange?

That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 40

A hypocrite, a virgin-violator;

Is it not strange, and strange?

Duke.

Nay, it is ten times strange.

Isab.

It is not truer he is Angelo

Than this is all as true as it is strange; 44

Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth

To the end of reckoning.

Duke.

Away with her! poor soul,

She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.

Isab.

O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st 48

There is another comfort than this world,

That thou neglect me not, with that opinion

That I am touch’d with madness. Make not impossible

That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not impossible 52

But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground,

May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute

As Angelo; even so may Angelo,

In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, 56

Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal prince:

If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more,

Had I more name for badness.

Duke.

By mine honesty,

If she be mad,—as I believe no other,— 60

Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,

Such a dependency of thing on thing,

As e’er I heard in madness.

Isab.

O gracious duke!

Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason 64

For inequality; but let your reason serve

To make the truth appear where it seems hid,

And hide the false seems true.

Duke.

Many that are not mad

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say? 68

Isab.

I am the sister of one Claudio,

Condemn’d upon the act of fornication

To lose his head; condemn’d by Angelo.

I, in probation of a sisterhood, 72

Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio

As then the messenger,—

Lucio.

That’s I, an’t like your Grace:

I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her

To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo 76

For her poor brother’s pardon.

Isab.

Isab.

This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—

Lucio.

Right.

Duke.

It may be right; but you are in the wrong

For this was of much length,—the vile conclusion 96

I now begin with grief and shame to utter.

He would not, but by gift of my chaste body

To his concupiscible intemperate lust,

Release my brother; and, after much debatement, 100

My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,

And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes,

His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant

For my poor brother’s head.

Duke.

This is most likely! 104

Isab.

O, that it were as like as it is true!

Duke.

By heaven, fond wretch! thou know’st not what thou speak’st,

Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour

In hateful practice. First, his integrity 108

Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason

That with such vehemency he should pursue

Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended,

He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself,

And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on: 113

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice

Thou cam’st here to complain.

Isab.

And is this all?

Then, O you blessed ministers above, 116

Keep me in patience; and, with ripen’d time

Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up

In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe,

As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go! 120

Duke.

I know you’d fain be gone. An officer!

To prison with her! Shall we thus permit

A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall

On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. 124

Who knew of your intent and coming hither?

Isab.

One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

Duke.

A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

Lucio.

My lord, I know him; ’tis a meddling friar; 128

I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord,

For certain words he spake against your Grace

In your retirement, I had swing’d him soundly.

Duke.

Words against me! This’ a good friar, belike! 132

And to set on this wretched woman here

Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.

Lucio.

But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,

I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar, 136

A very scurvy fellow.

F. Peter.

Bless’d be your royal Grace!

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard

Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman

Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute, 140

Who is as free from touch or soil with her,

As she from one ungot.

Duke.

We did believe no less.

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

F. Peter.

I know him for a man divine and holy; 144

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,

As he’s reported by this gentleman;

And, on my trust, a man that never yet

Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace. 148

Lucio.

My lord, most villanously; believe it.

F. Peter.

Well; he in time may come to clear himself,

But at this instant he is sick, my lord,

Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 152

Being come to knowledge that there was complaint

Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither,

To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know

Is true and false; and what he with his oath 156

And all probation will make up full clear,

Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman,

To justify this worthy nobleman,

So vulgarly and personally accus’d, 160

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

Till she herself confess it.

Duke.

Good friar, let’s hear it.

[Isabella is carried off guarded; and Mariana comes forward.

Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?—

O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! 164

Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo;

In this I’ll be impartial; be you judge

Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar?

First, let her show her face, and after speak. 168

Mari.

Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face

Lucio.

My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. 176

Duke.

Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause

To prattle for himself.

Lucio.

Well, my lord.

Mari.

My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married; 180

And I confess besides I am no maid:

I have known my husband yet my husband knows not

That ever he knew me.

Lucio.

He was drunk then my lord: it can be no better. 184

Duke.

For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!

Lucio.

Well, my lord.

Duke.

This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

Mari.

Now I come to’t, my lord: 188

She that accuses him of fornication,

In self-same manner doth accuse my husband;

And charges him, my lord, with such a time,

When, I’ll depose, I had him in mine arms, 192

With all th’ effect of love.

Ang.

Charges she moe than me?

Mari.

Not that I know.

Duke.

No? you say your husband.

Mari.

Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,

Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body 197

But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s.

Ang.

This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

Mari.

My husband bids me; now I will unmask.

[Unveiling.

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, 201

Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on:

This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract,

Was fast belock’d in thine: this is the body 204

That took away the match from Isabel,

And did supply thee at thy garden-house

In her imagin’d person.

Duke.

Know you this woman?

Lucio.

Carnally, she says.

Duke.

Sirrah, no more! 208

Lucio.

Enough, my lord.

Ang.

My lord, I must confess I know this woman; 210

And five years since there was some speech of marriage

Betwixt myself and her, which was broke off,

Partly for that her promised proportions

Came short of composition; but, in chief

For that her reputation was disvalu’d

In levity: since which time of five years 216

I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,

Upon my faith and honour.

Mari.

Noble prince,

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,

I am affianc’d this man’s wife as strongly 221

As words could make up vows: and, my good lord,

But Tuesday night last gone in ’s garden-house

He knew me as a wife. As this is true, 224

Let me in safety raise me from my knees

Or else for ever be confixed here,

A marble monument.

Ang.

I did but smile till now:

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice;

My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive 229

These poor informal women are no more

But instruments of some more mightier member

That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,

To find this practice out.

Duke.

Ay, with my heart; 233

And punish them unto your height of pleasure.

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,

Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths, 236

Though they would swear down each particular saint,

Were testimonies against his worth and credit

That’s seal’d in approbation? You, Lord Escalus,

Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains

To find out this abuse, whence ’tis deriv’d. 241

There is another friar that set them on;

Let him be sent for.

F. Peter.

Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed 244

Hath set the women on to this complaint:

Your provost knows the place where he abides

And he may fetch him.

Duke.

Go do it instantly.

[Exit Provost.

And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin,

Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,

Do with your injuries as seems you best, 250

In any chastisement: I for awhile will leave you;

But stir not you, till you have well determin’d

Upon these slanderers.

Escal.

My lord, we’ll do it throughly.—

[Exit Duke.

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that

That’s the way: for women are light at midnight.

Re-enter Officers with Isabella.

Escal.

[To Isab.] Come on, mistress: here’s a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.

Lucio.

My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of; here with the provost.

Escal.

In very good time: speak not you to him, till we call upon you. 282

Enter Duke, disguised as a friar, and Provost.

Lucio.

Mum.

Escal.

Come, sir. Did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.

Duke.

’Tis false.

Escal.

How! know you where you are? 288

Duke.

Respect to your great place! and let the devil

Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne.

Where is the duke? ’tis he should hear me speak.

Escal.

The duke’s in us, and we will hear you speak: 292

Look you speak justly.

Duke.

Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls!

Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox?

Good night to your redress! Is the duke gone?

Then is your cause gone too. The duke’s unjust, 297

Thus to retort your manifest appeal,

And put your trial in the villain’s mouth

Which here you come to accuse. 300

Lucio.

This is the rascal: this is he I spoke of.

Escal.

Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d friar!

Is’t not enough thou hast suborn’d these women

To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth,

And in the witness of his proper ear, 305

To call him villain?

And then to glance from him to the duke himself.

To tax him with injustice? take him hence; 308

To the rack with him! We’ll touse you joint by joint,

But we will know his purpose. What! ‘unjust’?

Duke.

Be not so hot; the duke

Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he

Dare rack his own: his subject am I not, 313

Nor here provincial. My business in this state

Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble

Till it o’er-run the stew: laws for all faults, 317

But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong statutes

Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,

As much in mock as mark. 320

Escal.

Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!

Ang.

Ang.

Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!

Escal.

Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal.

Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? 344

Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough on him, let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion! 348

[The Provost lays hands on the Duke.

Duke.

Stay, sir; stay awhile.

Ang.

What! resists he? Help him, Lucio.

Lucio.

Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh! sir. Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! show your sheepbiting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off? 356

[Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers the Duke.]

Duke.

Thou art the first knave that e’er made a duke.

First, provost, let me bail these gentle three.

[To Lucio.] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and you

Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him. 360

Lucio.

This may prove worse than hanging.

Duke.

[To Escalus.] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down:

We’ll borrow place of him. [To Angelo.] Sir, by your leave.

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, 364

That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,

Rely upon it till my tale be heard,

And hold no longer out.

Ang.

O my dread lord!

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 368

To think I can be undiscernible

When I perceive your Grace, like power divine,

Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good prince,

No longer session hold upon my shame, 372

But let my trial be mine own confession:

Immediate sentence then and sequent death

Come hither, Isabel.

Your friar is now your prince: as I was then

Advertising and holy to your business, 384

Not changing heart with habit, I am still

Attorney’d at your service.

Isab.

O, give me pardon,

That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d

Your unknown sovereignty!

Duke.

You are pardon’d, Isabel:

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 389

Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart;

And you may marvel why I obscur’d myself,

Labouring to save his life, and would not rather

Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power

Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid!

It was the swift celerity of his death, 395

Which I did think with slower foot came on,

That brain’d my purpose: but, peace be with him!

That life is better life, past fearing death,

Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,

So happy is your brother.

Isab.

I do, my lord. 400

Re-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and Provost.

Duke.

For this new-married man approaching here,

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d

Your well-defended honour, you must pardon

For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudg’d your brother,— 404

Being criminal, in double violation

Of sacred chastity, and of promise-breach,

Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life,—

The very mercy of the law cries out 408

Most audible, even from his proper tongue,

‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!’

Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure,

Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure. 412

Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested,

Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage.

We do condemn thee to the very block

Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like haste. 416

Away with him!

Mari.

O, my most gracious lord!

I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

Duke.

It is your husband mock’d you with a husband.

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 420

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,

For that he knew you, might reproach your life

And choke your good to come. For his possessions,

And take her hence in horror.

Mari.

Isabel, 437

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me:

Hold up your hands, say nothing, I’ll speak all.

They say best men are moulded out of faults, 440

And, for the most, become much more the better

For being a little bad: so may my husband.

O, Isabel! will you not lend a knee? 443

Duke.

He dies for Claudio’s death.

Isab.

[Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir,

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,

As if my brother liv’d. I partly think

A due sincerity govern’d his deeds,

Till he did look on me: since it is so, 448

Let him not die. My brother had but justice,

In that he did the thing for which he died:

For Angelo,

His act did not o’ertake his bad intent; 452

And must be buried but as an intent

That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

Mari.

Merely, my lord.

Duke.

Your suit’s unprofitable: stand up, I say. 456

I have bethought me of another fault.

Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded

At an unusual hour?

Prov.

It was commanded so.

Duke.

Had you a special warrant for the deed? 460

Prov.

No, my good lord; it was by private message.

Duke.

For which I do discharge you of your office:

Give up your keys.

Prov.

Pardon me, noble lord:

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not, 464

Yet did repent me, after more advice;

For testimony whereof, one in the prison,

That should by private order else have died

I have reserv’d alive.

Duke.

What’s he?

Prov.

His name is Barnardine.

Duke.

I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.

Go, fetch him hither: let me look upon him.

[Exit Provost.

Escal.

I am sorry, one so learned and so wise

As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d, 472

Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,

And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.

Ang.

I am sorry that such sorrow I procure;

And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart 476

That I crave death more willingly than mercy:

’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.

Re-enter Provost, with Barnardine, Claudio muffled, and Juliet.

Duke.

Which is that Barnardine?

Prov.

This, my lord.

Duke.

There was a friar told me of this man.

Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul,

That apprehends no further than this world, 482

And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemn’d:

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, 484

And pray thee take this mercy to provide

For better times to come. Friar, advise him:

I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that?

Prov.

This is another prisoner that I sav’d,

That should have died when Claudio lost his head, 489

As like almost to Claudio as himself.

[Unmuffles Claudio.

Duke.

[To Isabella.] If he be like your brother, for his sake

Is he pardon’d; and, for your lovely sake 492

Give me your hand and say you will be mine,

He is my brother too. But fitter time for that.

By this, Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe:

Methinks I see a quickening in his eye. 496

Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well:

Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.—

I find an apt remission in myself,

And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon.—

[To Lucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, 501

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman:

Wherein have I so deserv’d of you,

That you extol me thus? 504

Lucio.

’Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped. 508

Duke.

Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after.

Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,

If any woman’s wrong’d by this lewd fellow,—

As I have heard him swear himself there’s one

Whom he begot with child, let her appear, 513

And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,

Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.

Lucio.

I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now, I made you a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.

Duke.

Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. 520

Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal

Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison,

And see our pleasure herein executed.

Lucio.

Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging. 525

Duke.

Slandering a prince deserves it.

She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.

Joy to you, Mariana! love her, Angelo: 528

I have confess’d her and I know her virtue.

Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness:

There’s more behind that is more gratulate.

Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy; 532

We shall employ thee in a worthier place.

Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home

The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s:

The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, 536

I have a motion much imports your good;

Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline,

What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.

So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show 540

What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know.

[Exeunt.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Solinus,	Duke of Ephesus.
Ægeon,	a Merchant of Syracuse.
Antipholus of Ephesus, {	Twin Brothers, sons to Ægeon and Æmilia.
Antipholus of Syracuse, {	Twin Brothers, sons to Ægeon and Æmilia.
Dromio of Ephesus, {	Twin Brothers, attendants on the two Antipholuses.
Dromio of Syracuse, {	Twin Brothers, attendants on the two Antipholuses.
Balthazar,	a Merchant.
Angelo,	a Goldsmith.
Merchant,	Friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.
A Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtor.
Pinch,	a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer.
Æmilia,	Wife to Ægeon, an Abbess at Ephesus.
Adriana,	Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.
Luciana,	her Sister.
Luce,	Servant to Andriana,
A Courtezan.
Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Ephesus.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Hall in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Ægeon, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Æge.

Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,

And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Duke.

Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more.

I am not partial to infringe our laws: 4

The enmity and discord which of late

Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke

To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,

Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives, 8

Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods,

Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks.

For, since the mortal and intestine jars

’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 12

It hath in solemn synods been decreed,

Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,

T’ admit no traffic to our adverse towns:

Nay, more, if any, born at Ephesus 16

Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs;

Again, if any Syracusian born

Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,

His goods confiscate to the duke’s dispose; 20

Unless a thousand marks be levied,

To quit the penalty and to ransom him.

Thy substance, valu’d at the highest rate,

Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; 24

Therefore, by law thou art condemn’d to die.

Æge.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke.

Well, Syracusian; say, in brief the cause 28

Why thou departedst from thy native home,

And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.

Æge.

A heavier task could not have been impos’d

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable; 32

Yet, that the world may witness that my end

Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,

I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.

In Syracusa was I born, and wed 36

Unto a woman, happy but for me,

And by me too, had not our hap been bad.

With her I liv’d in joy: our wealth increas’d

By prosperous voyages I often made 40

To Epidamnum; till my factor’s death,

And the great care of goods at random left,

Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:

From whom my absence was not six months old,

Before herself,—almost at fainting under 45

The pleasing punishment that women bear,—

Had made provision for her following me,

And soon and safe arrived where I was. 48

There had she not been long but she became

A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

And, which was strange, the one so like the other,

As could not be distinguish’d but by names. 52

That very hour, and in the self-same inn,

A meaner woman was delivered

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike.

Those,—for their parents were exceeding poor,—

I bought, and brought up to attend my sons. 57

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,

Made daily motions for our home return:

Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon 60

We came aboard.

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,

Before the always-wind-obeying deep

Gave any tragic instance of our harm: 64

But longer did we not retain much hope;

For what obscured light the heavens did grant

Did but convey unto our fearful minds

A doubtful warrant of immediate death; 68

Which, though myself would gladly have embrac’d,

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,

Weeping before for what she saw must come,

And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, 72

That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear,

Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me.

And this it was, for other means was none:

The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 76

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:

My wife, more careful for the latter-born,

Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast,

Such as seafaring men provide for storms; 80

To him one of the other twins was bound,

Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.

The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,

Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, 84

Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast;

And floating straight, obedient to the stream,

Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.

At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 88

Dispers’d those vapours that offended us,

And, by the benefit of his wished light

The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered

Two ships from far making amain to us; 92

Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:

But ere they came,—O! let me say no more;

Gather the sequel by that went before.

Duke.

Nay, forward, old man; do not break off so; 96

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Æge.

O! had the gods done so, I had not now

Worthily term’d them merciless to us!

For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, 100

We were encounter’d by a mighty rock;

Which being violently borne upon,

Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;

So that, in this unjust divorce of us 104

Fortune had left to both of us alike

What to delight in, what to sorrow for.

Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened

With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe, 108

Was carried with more speed before the wind,

And in our sight they three were taken up

By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.

At length, another ship had seiz’d on us; 112

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,

Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests;

And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

Had not their bark been very slow of sail; 116

And therefore homeward did they bend their course.

Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss,

That by misfortune was my life prolong’d,

To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 120

Duke.

And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,

Do me the favour to dilate at full

What hath befall’n of them and thee till now.

Æge.

My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care, 124

At eighteen years became inquisitive

After his brother; and importun’d me

That his attendant—for his case was like,

Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name— 128

Might bear him company in the quest of him;

Whom whilst I labour’d of a love to see,

I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d.

Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,

Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 133

And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,

Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought

Or that or any place that harbours men. 136

But here must end the story of my life;

And happy were I in my timely death,

Could all my travels warrant me they live.

Duke.

Hapless Ægeon, whom the fates have mark’d 140

To bear the extremity of dire mishap!

Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,

Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,

Which princes, would they, may not disannul,

My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 145

But though thou art adjudged to the death

And passed sentence may not be recall’d

But to our honour’s great disparagement, 148

Yet will I favour thee in what I can:

Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day

To seek thy life by beneficial help.

Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; 152

Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,

And live; if no, then thou art doom’d to die.

Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

Gaol.

I will, my lord. 156

Æge.

Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,

But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Mart.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syracuse, and a Merchant.

Mer.

Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,

Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.

This very day, a Syracusian merchant

Is apprehended for arrival here; 4

And, not being able to buy out his life,

According to the statute of the town

Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.

There is your money that I had to keep. 8

Ant. S.

Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,

And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.

Within this hour it will be dinner-time:

Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town, 12

Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,

And then return and sleep within mine inn,

For with long travel I am stiff and weary.

Get thee away. 16

Dro. S.

Many a man would take you at your word,

And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,

When I am dull with care and melancholy, 20

Lightens my humour with his merry jests.

What, will you walk with me about the town,

And then go to my inn and dine with me?

Mer.

I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,

Of whom I hope to make much benefit; 25

I crave your pardon. Soon at five o’clock,

Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart,

And afterward consort you till bed-time: 28

My present business calls me from you now.

Ant. S.

Farewell till then: I will go lose myself,

And wander up and down to view the city.

Mer.

Sir, I commend you to your own content.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

He that commends me to mine own content, 33

Commends me to the thing I cannot get.

I to the world am like a drop of water

That in the ocean seeks another drop; 36

Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,

Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:

So I, to find a mother and a brother,

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 40

Enter Dromio of Ephesus.

Here comes the almanack of my true date.

What now? How chance thou art return’d so soon?

Dro. E.

Return’d so soon! rather approach’d too late:

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, 44

The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;

My mistress made it one upon my cheek:

She is so hot because the meat is cold;

The meat is cold because you come not home;

You come not home because you have no stomach; 49

You have no stomach, having broke your fast;

But we, that know what ’tis to fast and pray,

Are penitent for your default to-day. 52

Ant. S.

Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:

Where have you left the money that I gave you?

Dro. E.

O!—sixpence, that I had o’ Wednesday last

To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper; 56

The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

Ant. S.

I am not in a sportive humour now.

Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?

We being strangers here, how dar’st thou trust

So great a charge from thine own custody? 61

Dro. E.

I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner.

I from my mistress come to you in post;

If I return, I shall be post indeed, 64

For she will score your fault upon my pate.

Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock

And strike you home without a messenger.

Ant. S.

Come, Dromio, come; these jests are out of season; 68

Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.

Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

Dro. E.

To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

Ant. S.

Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness, 72

And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.

Dro. E.

My charge was but to fetch you from the mart

Home to your house, the Phœnix, sir, to dinner:

My mistress and her sister stays for you. 76

Ant. S.

Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,

In what safe place you have bestow’d my money;

Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours

That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d. 80

Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

Dro. E.

I have some marks of yours upon my pate,

Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders,

But not a thousand marks between you both. 84

If I should pay your worship those again,

Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

Ant. S.

Thy mistress’ marks! what mistress, slave, hast thou?

Dro. E.

Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phœnix; 88

She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,

And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

Ant. S.

What! wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,

Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave. 92

[Strikes him.

Dro. E.

What mean you, sir? for God’s sake, hold your hands!

Nay, an you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

Upon my life, by some device or other

The villain is o’er-raught of all my money. 96

They say this town is full of cozenage;

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,

Soul-killing witches that deform the body, 100

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties of sin:

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.

I’ll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave: 104

I greatly fear my money is not safe.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The House of Antipholus of Ephesus.

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Neither my husband, nor the slave return’d,

That in such haste I sent to seek his master!

Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.

Luc.

Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, 4

And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner.

Good sister, let us dine and never fret:

A man is master of his liberty:

Time is their master, and, when they see time, 8

Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe.

There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye 16

But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:

The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,

Are their males’ subjects and at their controls.

Men, more divine, the masters of all these, 20

Lords of the wide world, and wild wat’ry seas,

Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls,

Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,

Are masters to their females and their lords: 24

A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity,

We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;

But were we burden’d with like weight of pain, 36

As much, or more we should ourselves complain:

So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,

With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me:

But if thou live to see like right bereft. 40

This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.

Luc.

Well, I will marry one day, but to try.

Here comes your man: now is your husband nigh.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus.

I mean not cuckold-mad; but, sure, he is stark mad.

When I desir’d him to come home to dinner, 60

He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold:

‘’Tis dinner time,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:

‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:

‘Will you come home?’ quoth I: ‘my gold!’ quoth he: 64

‘Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?’

‘The pig,’ quoth I, ‘is burn’d;’ ‘my gold!’ quoth he:

‘My mistress, sir,’ quoth I: ‘hang up thy mistress!

I know not thy mistress: out on thy mistress!’

Luc.

Quoth who? 69

Dro. E.

Quoth my master:

‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’

So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 72

Am I so round with you as you with me,

That like a football you do spurn me thus?

You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither: 84

If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

[Exit.

Luc.

Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

Adr.

His company must do his minions grace,

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. 88

Hath homely age the alluring beauty took

From my poor cheek? then, he hath wasted it:

Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?

If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d, 92

Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:

Do their gay vestments his affections bait?

That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state:

What ruins are in me that can be found 96

By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground

Of my defeatures. My decayed fair

A sunny look of his would soon repair;

But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale 100

And feeds from home: poor I am but his stale.

Luc.

Self-harming jealousy! fie! beat it hence.

Adr.

Unfeeling fools can with such wrengs dispense.

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere, 104

Or else what lets it but he would be here?

Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain:

Would that alone, alone he would detain,

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed! 108

I see, the jewel best enamelled

Will lose his beauty; and though gold bides still

That others touch, yet often touching will

Wear gold; and no man that hath a name, 112

By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,

I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.

Luc.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A public Place.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse.

Ant. S.

The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up

Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave

Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out.

By computation, and mine host’s report, 4

I could not speak with Dromio since at first

I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?

As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 8

You know no Centaur? You receiv’d no gold?

Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

Hold, sir, for God’s sake! now your jest is earnest. 24

Upon what bargain do you give it me?

Ant. S.

Because that I familiarly sometimes

Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,

Your sauciness will jest upon my love, 28

And make a common of my serious hours.

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,

But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.

If you will jest with me, know my aspect, 32

And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

Why, first,—for flouting me; and then, wherefore,—

I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion.

But soft! who wafts us yonder? 113

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and frown:

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects,

I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 116

The time was once when thou unurg’d wouldst vow

That never words were music to thine ear,

That never object pleasing in thine eye,

That never touch well welcome to thy hand, 120

That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste,

Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d to thee.

How comes it now, my husband, O! how comes it,

That thou art thus estranged from thyself? 124

Thyself I call it, being strange to me,

That, undividable, incorporate,

Am better than thy dear self’s better part.

Ah! do not tear away thyself from me, 128

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall

A drop of water in the breaking gulf,

And take unmingled thence that drop again,

Without addition or diminishing, 132

As take from me thyself and not me too.

How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,

Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious,

And that this body, consecrate to thee, 136

By ruffian lust should be contaminate!

Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,

And hurl the name of husband in my face,

And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow, 140

And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring

And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?

I know thou canst; and therefore, see thou do it.

I am possess’d with an adulterate blot; 144

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:

For if we two be one and thou play false,

I do digest the poison of thy flesh,

Being strumpeted by thy contagion. 148

Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;

I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured.

Ant. S.

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:

In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 152

As strange unto your town as to your talk;

Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,

Want wit in all one word to understand.

Luc.

Fie, brother: how the world is chang’d with you! 156

When were you wont to use my sister thus?

She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

Ant. S.

By Dromio?

Dro. S.

By me?

Adr.

By thee; and this thou didst return from him,

That he did buffet thee, and in his blows,

Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

Ant. S

Did you converse, sir, with this gentle-woman? 164

What is the course and drift of your compact?

Dro. S.

I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

Ant. S.

Villain, thou liest; for even her very words

Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 168

Dro. S.

I never spake with her in all my life.

Ant. S.

How can she thus then, call us by our names,

Unless it be by inspiration?

Adr.

How ill agrees it with your gravity 172

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,

A betting him to thwart me in my mood!

Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. 176

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine;

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,

Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,

Makes me with thy strength to communicate:

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 181

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion

Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion. 184

Ant. S.

To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme!

What! was I married to her in my dream?

Or sleep I now and think I hear all this?

What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? 188

Until I know this sure uncertainty,

I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.

Luc.

Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner

Dro. S.

O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. 192

This is the fairy land: O! spite of spites.

We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites:

If we obey them not, this will ensue,

They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. 196

Luc.

Why prat’st thou to thyself and answer’st not?

Come, come; no longer will I be a fool,

To put the finger in the eye and weep, 208

Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.

Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.

Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day,

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. 212

Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,

Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.

Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.

Ant. S.

[Aside.] Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? 216

Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advis’d?

Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d!

I’ll say as they say, and persever so,

And in this mist at all adventures go. 220

Dro. S.

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Adr.

Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

Luc.

Come, come, Antipholus; we dine too late.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Before the House of Antipholus of Ephesus.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of Ephesus, Angelo, and Balthazar.

Ant. E.

Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;

My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours;

Say that I linger’d with you at your shop

To see the making of her carkanet, 4

And that to-morrow you will bring it home.

But here’s a villain, that would face me down

He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,

And charg’d him with a thousand marks in gold,

And that I did deny my wife and house. 9

Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

Dro. E.

Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;

That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show: 12

And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.

Bal.

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Ant. E.

Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest:

But though my cates be mean, take them in good part; 28

Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.

But soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.

Dro. E.

Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!

Dro. S.

[Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! 32

[Within.] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

Dro. E.

O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name: 44

The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame.

If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,

Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.

Luce.

[Within.] What a coil is there, Dromio! who are those at the gate? 48

Dro. E.

Let my master in, Luce.

Luce.

[Within.] Faith, no; he comes too late;

And so tell your master.

Dro. E.

[Within.] Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.

Dro. E.

A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind:

Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind. 76

Dro. S.

[Within.] It seems thou wantest breaking: out upon thee, hind!

Dro. E.

Here’s too much ‘out upon thee!’ I pray thee, let me in.

Dro. S.

[Within.] Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin.

Ant. E.

Well, I’ll break in. Go borrow me a crow. 80

Dro. E.

A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?

For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather:

If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together.

Ant. E.

Go get thee gone: fetch me an iron crow. 84

Bal.

Have patience, sir; O! let it not be so;

Herein you war against your reputation,

And draw within the compass of suspect

The unviolated honour of your wife. 88

Once this,—your long experience of her wisdom,

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty,

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 92

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be rul’d by me: depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner;

And about evening come yourself alone, 96

To know the reason of this strange restraint.

If by strong hand you offer to break in

Now in the stirring passage of the day,

A vulgar comment will be made of it, 100

And that supposed by the common rout

Against your yet ungalled estimation,

That may with foul intrusion enter in

And dwell upon your grave when you are dead;

For slander lives upon succession, 105

For ever housed where it gets possession.

Ant. E.

You have prevail’d: I will depart in quiet,

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. 108

I know a wench of excellent discourse,

Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle:

There will we dine: this woman that I mean,

My wife,—but, I protest, without desert,— 112

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:

To her will we to dinner. [To Angelo.] Get you home,

And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made:

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine; 116

For there’s the house: that chain will I bestow,

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife,

Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 120

I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.

Ang.

I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.

Ant. E.

Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse.

Luc.

And may it be that you have quite forgot A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus,

Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? 4

If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

Then, for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness:

Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

Muffle your false love with some show of blindness; 8

Let not my sister read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator;

Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger; 12

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;

Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?

What simple thief brags of his own attaint?

’Tis double wrong to truant with your bed, 17

And let her read it in thy looks at board:

Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;

Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 20

Alas! poor women, make us but believe,

Being compact of credit, that you love us;

Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;

We in your motion turn, and you may move us. 24

Then, gentle brother, get you in again;

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:

’Tis holy sport to be a little vain,

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. 28

Ant. S.

Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,

Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,—

Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not

Than our earth’s wonder; more than earth divine. 32

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak:

Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,

Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,

The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. 36

Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you

To make it wander in an unknown field?

Are you a god? would you create me new?

Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield. 40

But if that I am I, then well I know

Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,

Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:

Far more, far more, to you do I decline. 44

O! train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

To drown me in thy sister flood of tears:

Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote:

Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

And as a bed I’ll take them and there lie; 49

And, in that glorious supposition think

He gains by death that hath such means to die:

No; 60

It is thyself, mine own self’s better part;

Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart;

My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope’s aim,

My sole earth’s heaven, and my heaven’s claim.

Luc.

All this my sister is, or else should be.

Ant. S.

Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee.

Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:

Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife. 68

Give me thy hand.

Luc.

O! soft, sir; hold you still:

Go hie thee presently post to the road:

An if the wind blow any way from shore, 154

I will not harbour in this town to-night:

If any bark put forth, come to the mart,

Where I will walk till thou return to me.

If every one knows us and we know none, 158

’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone.

Dro. S.

As from a bear a man would run for life,

So fly I from her that would be my wife.

[Exit.

Ant. S.

There’s none but witches do inhabit here,

And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence.

She that doth call me husband, even my soul

Doth for a wife abhor; but her fair sister, 165

Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace,

Of such enchanting presence and discourse,

Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 168

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,

I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.

Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.

Go home with it and please your wife withal;

And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you, 181

And then receive my money for the chain.

Ant. S.

I pray you, sir, receive the money now,

For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.

Ang.

You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.

[Exit, leaving the chain.

Ant. S.

What I should think of this, I cannot tell:

But this I think, there’s no man is so vain

That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain. 188

I see, a man here needs not live by shifts,

When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.

I’ll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay:

If any ship put out, then straight away.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Public Place.

Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an Officer.

Mer.

You know since Pentecost the sum is due,

And since I have not much importun’d you;

Nor now I had not, but that I am bound

To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage: 4

Therefore make present satisfaction,

Or I’ll attach you by this officer.

Ang.

Even just the sum that I do owe to you

Is growing to me by Antipholus; 8

And in the instant that I met with you

He had of me a chain: at five o’clock

I shall receive the money for the same.

Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,

I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. 13

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus from the Courtezan’s.

Off.

That labour may you save: see where he comes.

Ant. E.

While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou

And buy a rope’s end, that I will bestow 16

Among my wife and her confederates,

For locking me out of my doors by day.

But soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;

Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20

Dro. E.

I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope!

[Exit.

Ant. E.

A man is well holp up that trusts to you:

I promised your presence and the chain;

But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. 24

Belike you thought our love would last too long,

If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not.

Ang.

Saving your merry humour, here’s the note

How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat. 28

The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,

Which doth amount to three odd ducats more

Than I stand debted to this gentleman:

I pray you see him presently discharg’d, 32

For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.

Ant. E.

I am not furnish’d with the present money;

Besides, I have some business in the town.

Good signior, take the stranger to my house, 36

And with you take the chain, and bid my wife

Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:

Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

Ang.

Ant. E.

Why, give it to my wife and fetch your money.

Ang.

Come, come; you know I gave it you even now.

Either send the chain or send by me some token.

Ant. E.

Fie! now you run this humour out of breath.

Come, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

Mer.

My business cannot brook this dalliance.

Good sir, say whe’r you’ll answer me or no: 60

You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:

Consider how it stands upon my credit. 68

Mer.

Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

Off.

I do;

And charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.

Ang.

This touches me in reputation. 72

Either consent to pay this sum for me,

Or I attach you by this officer.

Ant. E.

Consent to pay thee that I never had!

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st. 76

Ang.

Here is thy fee: arrest him, officer.

I would not spare my brother in this case,

If he should scorn me so apparently.

Off.

I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit. 80

Ant. E.

I do obey thee till I give thee bail.

But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear

As all the metal in your shop will answer.

Ang.

Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 84

To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

Dro. S.

Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum

That stays but till her owner comes aboard,

And then she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,

I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought 89

The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitæ.

The ship is in her trim; the merry wind

Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all 92

But for their owner, master, and yourself.

Ant. E.

How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,

What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

Dro. S.

A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 96

Ant. E.

Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;

And told thee to what purpose, and what end.

Dro. S.

You sent me for a rope’s end as soon:

You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 100

Ant. E.

I will debate this matter at more leisure,

And teach your ears to list me with more heed.

To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight;

Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk 104

That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry,

There is a purse of ducats: let her send it.

Tell her I am arrested in the street,

And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be gone!

On, officer, to prison till it come. 109

[Exeunt Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Antipholus of Ephesus.

Dro. S.

To Adriana! that is where we din’d,

Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:

She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. 112

Thither I must, although against my will,

For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.

[Exit.

Scene II.— A Room in the House of Antipholus of Ephesus.

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

Adr.

Ah! Luciana, did he tempt thee so?

Mights thou perceive austerely in his eye

That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?

Look’d he or red or pale? or sad or merrily?

What observation mad’st thou in this case 5

Adr.

Didst speak him fair?

Luc.

Have patience, I beseech.

Adr.

I cannot, nor I will not hold me still:

My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.

He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,

Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless every where: 20

Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Luc.

Who would be jealous then, of such a one?

No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone. 24

Adr.

Ah! but I think him better than I say,

And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse.

Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:

My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. 28

One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel;

A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;

A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; 36

A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands

The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;

A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;

One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40

Adr.

Why, man, what is the matter?

Dro. S.

I do not know the matter: he is ’rested on the case.

Adr.

What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit.

Dro. S.

I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; 44

But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I tell.

Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

Adr.

Go fetch it, sister.—[Exit Luciana.] This I wonder at:

That he, unknown to me, should be in debt: 48

Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

Dro. S.

Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;

A chain, a chain. Do you not hear it ring?

Adr.

What, the chain? 52

Dro. S.

No, no, the bell: ’tis time that I were gone:

It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.

Adr.

The hours come back! that did I never hear.

Dro. S.

O yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ turns back for very fear. 56

Adr.

As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

Dro. S.

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he’s worth to season.

Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say,

That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60

If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,

Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter Luciana.

Adr.

Go, Dromio: there’s the money, bear it straight,

And bring thy master home immediately. 64

Come, sister; I am press’d down with conceit; Conceit, my comfort and my injury.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Public Place.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse.

Ant. S.

There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me,

As if I were their well acquainted friend;

And every one doth call me by my name.

Some tender money to me; some invite me; 4

Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

Some offer me commodities to buy:

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop

And show’d me silks that he had bought for me,

And therewithal, took measure of my body. 9

Sure these are but imaginary wiles,

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

Dro. S.

Master, here’s the gold you sent me for. 12

Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Why, Dromio?

Dro. S.

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil. 65

Ant. S.

Avoid thee, fiend! what tell’st thou me of supping?

Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:

I conjure thee to leave me and be gone. 68

Cour.

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d,

And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Dro. S.

Some devils ask but the parings of one’s nail, 72

A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,

A nut, a cherry-stone;

But she, more covetous, would have a chain.

Master, be wise: an if you give it her, 76

The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

Cour.

I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:

I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

Ant. S.

Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go. 80

Dro. S.

‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

Cour.

Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,

Else would he never so demean himself.

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 84

And for the same he promis’d me a chain:

Both one and other he denies me now.

The reason that I gather he is mad,

Besides this present instance of his rage, 88

Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,

Of his own doors being shut against his entrance

Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,

On purpose shut the doors against his way. 92

My way is now to hie home to his house,

And tell his wife, that, being lunatic,

He rush’d into my house, and took perforce

My ring away. This course I fittest choose, 96

For forty ducats is too much to lose.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— A Street.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer.

Ant. E.

Fear me not, man; I will not break away:

I’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,

To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for.

My wife is in a wayward mood to-day, 4

And will not lightly trust the messenger.

That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,

I tell you, ’twill sound harshly in her ears.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope’s end.

Here comes my man: I think he brings the money. 8

His incivility confirms no less. 48

Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;

Establish him in his true sense again,

And I will please you what you will demand.

Luc.

Alas! how fiery and how sharp he looks.

Cour.

Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

Pinch.

Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.

Ant. E.

There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

[Strikes him.

Pinch.

I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man, 56

To yield possession to my holy prayers,

And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:

I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.

Ant. E.

And did not I in rage depart from thence?

Dro. E.

In verity you did: my bones bear witness,

That since have felt the vigour of his rage. 80

Adr.

Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries?

Pinch.

It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein,

And, yielding to him humours well his frenzy.

Ant. E.

Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest me. 84

Adr.

Alas! I sent you money to redeem you,

By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

Dro. E.

Money by me! heart and good will you might;

But surely, master, not a rag of money. 88

Ant. E.

Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?

Adr.

He came to me, and I deliver’d it.

Luc.

And I am witness with her that she did.

Dro. E.

God and the rope-maker bear me witness 92

That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

Pinch.

Mistress, both man and master is possess’d:

I know it by their pale and deadly looks.

They must be bound and laid in some dark room. 96

Ant. E.

Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?

And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

Adr.

I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

Dro. E.

And, gentle master, I receiv’d no gold; 100

But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.

Adr.

Dissembling villain! thou speak’st false in both.

Ant. E.

Dissembling harlot! thou art false in all;

And art confederate with a damned pack 104

To make a loathsome abject scorn of me;

But with these nails I’ll pluck out those false eyes

That would behold in me this shameful sport.

Adr.

O! bind him, bind him, let him not come near me. 108

Pinch.

More company! the fiend is strong within him.

Luc.

Ay me! poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

Enter three or four and bind Antipholus of Ephesus.

Ant. E.

What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,

I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them 112

To make a rescue?

Off.

Masters, let him go:

He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

Pinch.

Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.

[They bind Dromio of Ephesus.

Adr.

What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?

Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 117

Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

Off.

He is my prisoner: if I let him go,

The debt he owes will be requir’d of me. 120

Adr.

I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:

Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,

And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.

Good Master doctor, see him safe convey’d 124

Due for a chain your husband had of him.

Adr.

He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

Cour.

When as your husband all in rage, to-day

Came to my house, and took away my ring,—

The ring I saw upon his finger now,— 141

Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

Adr.

It may be so, but I did never see it.

Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:

I long to know the truth hereof at large. 145

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse, with rapiers drawn.

Luc.

God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

Adr.

And come with naked swords. Let’s call more help

To have them bound again.

Off.

Away! they’ll kill us.

[Exeunt Adriana, Luciana, and Officer.

Ant. S.

I see, these witches are afraid of swords. 149

Dro. S.

She that would be your wife now ran from you.

Ant. S.

Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:

I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 152

Dro. S.

Faith, stay here this night, they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold: methinks they are such a gentle nation, that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still, and turn witch.

Ant. S.

I will not stay to-night for all the town;

Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. 160

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— A Street before an Abbey.

Enter Merchant and Angelo.

Ang.

I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you;

But, I protest, he had the chain of me,

Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

Mer.

How is the man esteem’d here in the city? 4

Ang.

Of very reverend reputation, sir,

Of credit infinite, highly belov’d,

Second to none that lives here in the city:

His word might bear my wealth at any time. 8

Mer.

Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

Ang.

’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck

Which he forswore most monstrously to have.

Good sir, draw near to me, I’ll speak to him. 12

Signior Antipholus, I wonder much

That you would put me to this shame and trouble;

And not without some scandal to yourself,

With circumstance and oaths so to deny 16

This chain which now you wear so openly:

Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,

You have done wrong to this my honest friend,

Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20

Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day.

This chain you had of me; can you deny it?

Ant. S.

[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse to the Abbey.

Enter the Abbess.

Abb.

Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

Adr.

To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.

Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 40

And bear him home for his recovery.

Ang.

I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

Mer.

I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

Abb.

How long hath this possession held the man? 44

Adr.

This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,

And much different from the man he was;

But, till this afternoon his passion

Ne’er brake into extremity of rage. 48

Abb.

Hath he not lost much wealth by wrack of sea?

Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye

Stray’d his affection in unlawful love?

A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 52

Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.

Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

Adr.

To none of these, except it be the last;

It was the copy of our conference:

In bed, he slept not for my urging it;

At board, he fed not for my urging it; 64

Alone, it was the subject of my theme;

In company I often glanced it:

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

Abb.

And thereof came it that the man was mad: 68

The venom clamours of a jealous woman

Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth.

It seems, his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing,

And thereof comes it that his head is light. 72

Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d with thy upbraidings:

Unquiet meals make ill digestions;

Thereof the raging fire of fever bred:

And what’s a fever but a fit of madness? 76

Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls:

Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue

But moody moping, and dull melancholy,

Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, 80

And at her heels a huge infectious troop

Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?

In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest

To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast: 84

The consequence is then, thy jealous fits

Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.

Luc.

She never reprehended him but mildly

When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly. 88

Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?

Adr.

She did betray me to my own reproof.

Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.

Abb.

No; not a creature enters in my house.

Adr.

Then, let your servants bring my husband forth. 93

Abb.

Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,

And it shall privilege him from your hands

Till I have brought him to his wits again, 96

Or lose my labour in assaying it.

Adr.

I will attend my husband, be his nurse,

Diet his sickness, for it is my office,

And will have no attorney but myself; 100

And therefore let me have him home with me.

Abb.

Be patient; for I will not let him stir

Till I have us’d the approved means I have,

With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,

To make of him a formal man again. 105

It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,

A charitable duty of my order;

Therefore depart and leave him here with me.

Adr.

I will not hence and leave my husband here; 109

And ill it doth beseem your holiness

To separate the husband and the wife.

Abb.

Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have him.

[Exit.

Luc.

Complain unto the duke of this indignity. 113

Adr.

Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet,

And never rise until my tears and prayers

Have won his Grace to come in person hither,

And take perforce my husband from the abbess.

Sec. Mer.

By this, I think, the dial points at five:

Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person

Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 120

The place of death and sorry execution,

Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

Ang.

Upon what cause?

Sec. Mer.

To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, 124

Who put unluckily into this bay

Against the laws and statutes of this town,

Beheaded publicly for his offence.

Ang.

See where they come: we will behold his death. 128

Luc.

Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter Duke attended; Ægeon bare-headed; with the Headsman and other Officers.

Duke.

Yet once again proclaim it publicly,

If any friend will pay the sum for him,

He shall not die; so much we tender him. 132

Adr.

Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess!

Duke.

She is a virtuous and a reverend lady:

It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.

Adr.

May it please your Grace, Antipholus, my husband, 136

Whom I made lord of me and all I had,

At your important letters, this ill day

A most outrageous fit of madness took him,

That desperately he hurried through the street,—

With him his bondman, all as mad as he,— 141

Doing displeasure to the citizens

By rushing in their houses, bearing thence

Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like. 144

Once did I get him bound and sent him home,

Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went

That here and there his fury had committed.

Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 148

He broke from those that had the guard of him,

And with his mad attendant and himself,

Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords

Met us again, and, madly bent on us 152

Chas’d us away, till, raising of more aid

We came again to bind them. Then they fled

Into this abbey, whither we pursu’d them;

And here the abbess shuts the gates on us, 156

And will not suffer us to fetch him out,

Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.

Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command

Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 160

Duke.

Long since thy husband serv’d me in my wars,

And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word,

When thou didst make him master of thy bed,

To do him all the grace and good I could. 164

Go, some of you, knock at the abbey gate

And bid the lady abbess come to me.

I will determine this before I stir.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

O mistress, mistress! shift and save yourself! 168

My master and his man are both broke loose,

Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor,

Whose beard they have sing’d off with brands of fire;

And ever as it blaz’d they threw on him 172

Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.

My master preaches patience to him, and the while

His man with scissors nicks him like a fool;

And sure, unless you send some present help,

Between them they will kill the conjurer. 177

Adr.

Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,

And that is false thou dost report to us.

Serv.

Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;

I have not breath’d almost, since I did see it. 181

He cries for you and vows, if he can take you,

To scotch your face, and to disfigure you.

[Cry within.

Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone!

Duke.

Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds! 185

Adr.

Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,

That he is borne about invisible:

Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here, 188

And now he’s here, past thought of human reason.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus.

Ant. E.

Justice, most gracious duke! O! grant me justice,

Even for the service that long since I did thee,

When I bestrid thee in the wars and took 192

Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood

That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

Æge.

Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,

I see my son Antipholus and Dromio! 196

Ant. E.

Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!

She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife,

That hath abused and dishonour’d me,

Even in the strength and height of injury! 200

Beyond imagination is the wrong

That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

Duke.

Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

Ant. E.

This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me, 204

While she with harlots feasted in my house.

Duke.

A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?

Adr.

No, my good lord: myself, he, and my sister

To-day did dine together. So befall my soul 208

As this is false he burdens me withal!

Luc.

Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,

But she tells to your highness simple truth!

Ang.

O perjur’d woman! They are both forsworn: 212

In this the madman justly chargeth them!

Ant. E.

My liege, I am advised what I say:

Neither disturb’d with the effect of wine,

Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire, 216

Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.

This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:

That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,

Could witness it, for he was with me then; 220

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,

Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,

Where Balthazar and I did dine together.

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 224

I went to seek him: in the street I met him,

And in his company that gentleman.

There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down

That I this day of him receiv’d the chain, 228

Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which

He did arrest me with an officer.

I did obey, and sent my peasant home

For certain ducats: he with none return’d. 232

Then fairly I bespoke the officer

To go in person with me to my house.

By the way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 236

Of vile confederates: along with them

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, 240

A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,

A living-dead man. This pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,

And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 244

And with no face, as ’twere, out-facing me,

Cries out, I was possess’d. Then, altogether

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,

And in a dark and dankish vault at home 248

There left me and my man, both bound together;

Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,

I gain’d my freedom, and immediately

Ran hither to your Grace; whom I beseech 252

To give me ample satisfaction

For these deep shames and great indignities.

Ang.

My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,

That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out.

Duke.

But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

Ang.

He had, my lord; and when he ran in here,

These people saw the chain about his neck.

Sec. Mer.

Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine 260

Heard you confess you had the chain of him

After you first forswore it on the mart;

And thereupon I drew my sword on you;

And then you fled into this abbey here, 264

From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

Ant. E.

I never came within these abbey walls;

Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;

I never saw the chain, so help me heaven! 268

And this is false you burden me withal.

Duke.

Why, what an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.

If here you hous’d him, here he would have been; 272

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly;

You say he din’d at home; the goldsmith here

Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

Dro. E.

Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

Æge.

Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus?

And is not that your bondman Dromio? 288

Dro. E.

Within this hour I was his bondman, sir;

But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:

O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,

And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,

Have written strange defeatures in my face: 300

Not know my voice! O, time’s extremity,

Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue

In seven short years, that here my only son

Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares? 312

Though now this grained face of mine be hid

In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,

And all the conduits of my blood froze up,

Yet hath my night of life some memory, 316

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,

My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:

All these old witnesses, I cannot err,

Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. 320

Ant. E.

I never saw my father in my life.

Æge.

But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,

Thou know’st we parted: but perhaps, my son,

Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.

Ant. E.

The duke and all that know me in the city 325

Can witness with me that it is not so:

I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.

Duke.

I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years

Have I been patron to Antipholus, 329

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa.

I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Re-enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

Abb.

Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.

[All gather to see him.

Adr.

I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me! 333

Duke.

One of these men is Genius to the other;

And so of these: which is the natural man,

And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?

Dro. S.

I, sir, am Dromio: command him away. 337

Dro. E.

I, sir, am Dromio: pray let me stay.

Ant. S.

Ægeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

Dro. S.

O! my old master; who hath bound him here? 340

Abb.

Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,

And gain a husband by his liberty.

Speak, old Ægeon, if thou be’st the man

That hadst a wife once call’d Æmilia, 344

That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.

O! if thou be’st the same Ægeon, speak,

And speak unto the same Æmilia!

Æge.

If I dream not, thou art Æmilia: 348

If thou art she, tell me where is that son

That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

Abb.

By men of Epidamnum, he and I,

And the twin Dromio, all were taken up: 352

But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth

By force took Dromio and my son from them,

And me they left with those of Epidamnum.

What then became of them, I cannot tell; 356

I to this fortune that you see me in.

Duke.

Why, here begins his morning story right:

These two Antipholus’, these two so like,

And these two Dromios, one in semblance, 360

Besides her urging of her wrack at sea;

These are the parents to these children,

Which accidentally are met together.

Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first? 364

Ant. S.

No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.

Duke.

Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.

Ant. E.

I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord,—

Dro. E.

And I with him. 368

Ant. E.

Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,

Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

Adr.

Which of you two did dine with me to-day?

Ant. S.

I, gentle mistress. 372

Adr.

And are not you my husband?

Ant. E.

No; I say nay to that.

Ant. S.

And so do I; yet did she call me so;

And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, 376

Did call me brother. [To Luciana.] What I told you then,

I hope I shall have leisure to make good,

If this be not a dream I see and hear.

Ang.

That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. 380

Ant. S.

I think it be, sir; I deny it not.

Ant. E.

And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

Ang.

I think I did, sir; I deny it not.

Adr.

I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,

By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. 385

Dro. E.

No, none by me.

Ant. S.

This purse of ducats I receiv’d from you,

And Dromio, my man, did bring them me. 388

I see we still did meet each other’s man,

And I was ta’en for him, and he for me,

And thereupon these errors are arose.

Ant. E.

These ducats pawn I for my father here. 392

Duke.

It shall not need: thy father hath his life.

Cour.

Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

Ant. E.

There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.

Abb.

Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains 396

To go with us into the abbey here,

And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;

And all that are assembled in this place,

That by this sympathized one day’s error 400

Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company,

And we shall make full satisfaction.

Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons; and, till this present hour 404

My heavy burdens ne’er delivered.

The duke, my husband, and my children both,

And you the calendars of their nativity,

Go to a gossip’s feast, and joy with me: 408

After so long grief such festivity!

Duke.

With all my heart I’ll gossip at this feast.

[Exeunt Duke, Abbess, Ægeon, Courtezan, Merchant, Angelo, and Attendants.

Dro. S.

Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

Ant. E.

Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d? 412

Dro. S.

Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

Ant. S.

He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:

Come, go with us; we’ll look to that anon:

Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.

[Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Antipholus of Ephesus, Adriana and Luciana.

Dro. S.

There is a fat friend at your master’s house, 417

That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner:

She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

Dro. E.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: 420

I see by you I am a sweet-fac’d youth.

Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

Dro. S.

Not I, sir; you are my elder.

Dro. E.

That’s a question: how shall we try it?

Dro. S.

We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first. 425

Dro. E.

Nay, then, thus:

We came into the world like brother and brother;

And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.

[Exeunt.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Don Pedro,	Prince of Arragon.
Don John,	his bastard Brother.
Claudio,	a young Lord of Florence.
Benedick,	a young Lord of Padua.
Leonato,	Governor of Messina.
Antonio,	his Brother.
Balthazar,	Servant to Don Pedro.
Borachio, }	followers of Don John.
Conrade, }	followers of Don John.
Dogberry,	a Constable.
Verges,	a Headborough.
Friar Francis.
A Sexton.
A Boy.
Hero,	Daughter to Leonato.
Beatrice,	Niece to Leonato.
Margaret, }	Waiting-gentlewomen attending on Hero.
Ursula, }	Waiting-gentlewomen attending on Hero.
Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c.

Scene.—Messina.

You will never run mad, niece.

Beat.

No, not till a hot January. 96

Mess.

[Exit.

Claud.

My liege, your highness now may do me good. 300

D. Pedro.

My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,

And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn

Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

Claud.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord? 304

D. Pedro.

No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.

Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

Claud.

O! my lord,

When you went onward on this ended action,

I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye, 308

That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand

Than to drive liking to the name of love;

But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts

Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 312

Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.

D. Pedro.

Thou wilt be like a lover presently,

And tire the hearer with a book of words. 317

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,

And I will break with her, and with her father,

And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end

That thou began’st to twist so fine a story? 321

Claud.

How sweetly do you minister to love,

That know love’s grief by his complexion!

But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 324

I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise.

D. Pedro.

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?

The fairest grant is the necessity.

Look, what will serve is fit: ’tis once, thou lov’st,

And I will fit thee with the remedy. 329

I know we shall have revelling to-night:

I will assume thy part in some disguise,

And tell fair Hero I am Claudio; 332

And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart,

And take her hearing prisoner with the force

And strong encounter of my amorous tale:

Then, after to her father will I break; 336

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.

In practice let us put it presently.

D. John.

A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

Bora.

Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. 66

D. John.

Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?

Con.

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room. 89

Claud.

Thus answer I in name of Benedick,

But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.

’Tis certain so; the prince woos for himself.

Friendship is constant in all other things 184

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch 188

Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

This is an accident of hourly proof,

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

If it will not be, I’ll leave you.

[Exit.

Bene.

Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The prince’s fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it is the base though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may. 219

O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it, would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince’s jester; that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her. 271

Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato.

D. Pedro.

Look! here she comes.

Bene.

Will your Grace command me any service to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham’s beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me? 282

D. Pedro.

None, but to desire your good company.

Bene.

D. John.

What proof shall I make of that?

Bora.

Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato.

Look you for any other issue?

D. John.

Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing. 32

Bora.

Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret Hero; hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown. 51

D. John.

Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.

Bora.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. 57

D. John.

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Leonato’s Garden.

Enter Benedick.

Bene.

Boy!

Enter a Boy.

Boy.

Signior?

Bene.

In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard. 4

Boy.

I am here already, sir.

Bene.

I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known, when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthographer; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

Balth.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit 53

To her he thinks not worthy; yet he woos;

Yet will he swear he loves.

D. Pedro.

Nay, pray thee, come;

Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, 56

Do it in notes.

Balth.

Note this before my notes;

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

D. Pedro.

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!

[Music.

Bene.

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done. 64

Balthazar sings.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.  68

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe  72

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,  76

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,  80

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.

Bene.

[Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her. 266

Bene.

Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Leonato’s Garden.

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.

Hero.

Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour;

There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice

Proposing with the prince and Claudio:

Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 4

Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse

Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us,

And bid her steal into the pleached bower,

Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun, 8

Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites,

Made proud by princes, that advance their pride

Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her,

To listen our propose. This is thy office; 12

Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

Marg.

I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

[Exit.

Hero.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,

As we do trace this alley up and down, 16

Our talk must only be of Benedick:

When I do name him, let it be thy part

To praise him more than ever man did merit.

My talk to thee must be how Benedick 20

Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,

That only wounds by hearsay.

Enter Beatrice, behind.

Now begin;

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs 24

Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Urs.

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,

And greedily devour the treacherous bait: 28

So angle we for Beatrice; who even now

Is couched in the woodbine coverture.

Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

Hero.

Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing 32

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

[They advance to the bower.

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;

I know her spirits are as coy and wild

As haggerds of the rock.

Urs.

But are you sure 36

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

Hero.

So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.

Urs.

And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

Hero.

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; 40

But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick,

To wish him wrestle with affection,

And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Urs.

Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman

Deserve as full as fortunate a bed 45

As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

Hero.

O god of love! I know he doth deserve

As much as may be yielded to a man; 48

But nature never fram’d a woman’s heart

Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,

Misprising what they look on, and her wit 52

Values itself so highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,

Nor take no shape nor project of affection,

She is so self-endear’d.

Urs.

Sure, I think so; 56

And therefore certainly it were not good

She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

Hero.

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,

But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,

She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;

If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick,

Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; 64

If low, an agate very vilely cut;

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

If silent, why, a block moved with none.

So turns she every man the wrong side out, 68

And never gives to truth and virtue that

Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

Urs.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Hero.

No; not to be so odd and from all fashions 72

As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,

She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me

Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 76

Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire,

Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:

It were a better death than die with mocks,

Which is as bad as die with tickling. 80

Urs.

Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.

Hero.

No; rather I will go to Benedick,

And counsel him to fight against his passion.

And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders 84

To stain my cousin with. One doth not know

How much an ill word may empoison liking.

Urs.

O! do not do your cousin such a wrong.

She cannot be so much without true judgment,—

Having so swift and excellent a wit 89

As she is priz’d to have,—as to refuse

Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:

I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

Urs.

She’s lim’d, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam. 104

Hero.

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

[Exeunt Hero and Ursula.

Beat.

[Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? 107

Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: 112

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in a holy band;

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

Claud.

A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.

Hero.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

Urs.

I will, lady.

Hero.

And bid her come hither. 4

Urs.

Well.

[Exit.

Marg.

Marg.

Not a false gallop.

Re-enter Ursula.

Urs.

Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church. 97

Hero.

Leon.

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. 60

Leon.

Will you with free and unconstrained soul 24

Give me this maid, your daughter?

Leon.

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

Claud.

And what have I to give you back whose worth

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? 28

D. Pedro.

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Claud.

Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato, take her back again:

Give not this rotten orange to your friend; 32

She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour.

Behold! how like a maid she blushes here.

O! what authority and show of truth

Can cunning sin cover itself withal. 36

Comes not that blood as modest evidence

To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,

All you that see her, that she were a maid,

By these exterior shows? But she is none: 40

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

Leon.

What do you mean, my lord?

Claud.

Not to be married,

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 44

Leon.

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,

And made defeat of her virginity,—

Claud.

I know what you would say: if I have known her, 48

You’ll say she did embrace me as a husband,

And so extenuate the ’forehand sin:

No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large; 52

But, as a brother to his sister, show’d

Bashful sincerity and comely love.

Hero.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

Claud.

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: 56

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

But you are more intemperate in your blood

Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals 60

That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero.

Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

Leon.

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

D. Pedro.

What should I speak?

I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about 64

To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Leon.

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

D. John.

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. 68

Bene.

This looks not like a nuptial.

Hero.

True! O God!

Claud.

Leonato, stand I here?

Is this the prince? Is this the prince’s brother?

Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own? 72

Leon.

All this is so; but what of this, my lord?

Claud.

Let me but move one question to your daughter;

And by that fatherly and kindly power

That you have in her, bid her answer truly. 76

Leon.

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

Hero.

O, God defend me! how am I beset!

What kind of catechizing call you this?

Claud.

To make you answer truly to your name. 80

Hero.

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

With any just reproach?

Claud.

Marry, that can Hero:

Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.

What man was he talk’d with you yesternight 84

Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?

Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

Hero.

I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.

D. Pedra.

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, 88

I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,

Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,

Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,

Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window; 92

Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

Confess’d the vile encounters they have had

A thousand times in secret.

D. John.

Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, 96

Not to be spoke of;

There is not chastity enough in language

Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. 100

Claud.

O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,

If half thy outward graces had been plac’d

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,

Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! 105

For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love,

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, 108

And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon.

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

[Hero swoons.

Beat.

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

D. John.

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, 112

Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.

Bene.

How doth the lady?

Beat.

Dead, I think! help, uncle!

Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick!

Friar! 116

Leon.

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand:

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish’d for.

Beat.

How now, cousin Hero!

Friar.

Have comfort, lady. 120

Leon.

Dost thou look up?

Friar.

Yea; wherefore should she not?

Leon.

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood? 124

Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;

For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, 128

Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame?

O! one too much by thee. Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in mine eyes? 132

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,

Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy,

I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine; 136

This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’

But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d,

And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

That I myself was to myself not mine, 140

Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen

Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,

And salt too little which may season give 144

To her foul-tainted flesh.

Bene.

Sir, sir, be patient.

For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder,

I know not what to say.

Beat.

O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Bene.

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Beat.

No, truly, not; although, until last night,

I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon.

Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made, 152

Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron.

Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie,

Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness,

Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. 156

Friar.

Hear me a little;

For I have only been silent so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,

By noting of the lady: I have mark’d 160

A thousand blushing apparitions

To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames

In angel whiteness bear away those blushes;

And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, 164

To burn the errors that these princess hold

Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;

Trust not my reading nor my observations,

Which with experimental seal doth warrant 168

The tenour of my book; trust not my age,

My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here

Under some biting error.

Leon.

Friar, it cannot be. 172

Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left

Is, that she will not add to her damnation

A sin of perjury: she not denies it.

Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse 176

That which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar.

Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of?

Hero.

They know that do accuse me, I know none;

If I know more of any man alive 180

Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,

Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father!

Prove you that any man with me convers’d

At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 184

Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.

Friar.

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Bene.

Two of them have the very bent of honour; 188

And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

The practice of it lives in John the bastard,

Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leon.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her, 192

These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine.

Nor age so eat up my invention, 196

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind,

Both strength of limb and policy of mind, 200

Ability in means and choice of friends,

To quit me of them throughly.

Friar.

Pause awhile,

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the princes left for dead;

Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 205

And publish it that she is dead indeed:

Maintain a mourning ostentation;

And on your family’s old monument 208

Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites

That appertain unto a burial.

Leon.

What shall become of this? What will this do?

Friar.

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf 212

Change slander to remorse; that is some good:

But not for that dream I on this strange course,

But on this travail look for greater birth.

She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, 216

Upon the instant that she was accus’d,

Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d

Of every hearer; for it so falls out

That what we have we prize not to the worth

Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost,

Why, then we rack the value, then we find 222

The virtue that possession would not show us

Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:

When he shall hear she died upon his words,

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life 228

Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate, and full of life

Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— 232

If ever love had interest in his liver,—

And wish he had not so accused her,

No, though he thought his accusation true.

Let this be so, and doubt not but success 236

Will fashion the event in better shape

Than I can lay it down in likelihood.

But if all aim but this be levell’d false,

The supposition of the lady’s death 240

Will quench the wonder of her infamy:

And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,—

As best befits her wounded reputation,—

In some reclusive and religious life, 244

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene.

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:

And though you know my inwardness and love

Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, 248

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

As secretly and justly as your soul

Should with your body.

Leon.

Being that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me. 252

Friar.

’Tis well consented: presently away;

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day

Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure. 256

As strange as the thing I know not.

Scene II.— A Prison.

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.

Dogb.

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Verg.

O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton.

Which be the malefactors? 4

Dogb.

Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verg.

Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine.

Sexton.

But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master constable.

Dogb.

Yea, marry, let them come before me.

What is your name, friend? 12

Bora.

Sexton.

And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination.

Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! 93

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Before Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato and Antonio.

Ant.

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself;

And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief

Against yourself.

Leon.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,

Which falls into mine ears as profitless 4

As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;

Nor let no comforter delight mine ear

But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:

Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, 8

Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine,

And bid him speak of patience;

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,

And let it answer every strain for strain, 12

As thus for thus and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan, 16

Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk

With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men 20

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

Their counsel turns to passion, which before

Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 24

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience

To those that wring under the load of sorrow, 28

But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency

To be so moral when he shall endure

The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:

My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 32

Ant.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

Leon.

I pray thee, peace! I will be flesh and blood;

For there was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently, 36

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Ant.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;

Make those that do offend you suffer too. 40

Leon.

There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so.

My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;

And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince,

And all of them that thus dishonour her. 44

Ant.

Here come the prince and Claudio hastily.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.

D. Pedro.

Good den, good den.

Claud.

Good day to both of you.

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou.

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.

Claud.

Marry, beshrew my hand,

If it should give your age such cause of fear. 56

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Leon.

Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me:

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,

As, under privilege of age, to brag 60

What I have done being young, or what would do,

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,

Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me

That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by, 64

And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,

Do challenge thee to trial of a man.

I say thou hast belied mine innocent child:

Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, 68

And she lies buried with her ancestors;

O! in a tomb where never scandal slept,

Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villany!

Claud.

My villany?

Leon.

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. 72

D. Pedro.

You say not right, old man.

Leon.

My lord, my lord,

I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare,

Despite his nice fence and his active practice,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. 76

Claud.

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Leon.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child;

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

Ant.

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:

But that’s no matter; let him kill one first: 81

Win me and wear me; let him answer me.

Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me.

Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence;

Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 85

Leon.

Brother,—

Ant.

Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece;

And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed 89

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

Leon.

Brother Antony,—

Ant.

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, 92

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,

Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,

Go antickly, show outward hideousness, 96

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all!

Leon.

But, brother Antony,—

Ant.

Come, ’tis no matter: 100

Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.

D. Pedro.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death;

But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing 104

But what was true and very full of proof.

Leon.

My lord, my lord—

D. Pedro.

I will not hear you.

Leon.

No?

And fled he is upon this villany.

Claud.

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first. 264

Dogb.

Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. 269

Verg.

Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.

Re-enter Leonato, Antonio, and the Sexton.

Leon.

Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, 272

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him. Which of these is he?

Bora.

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Leon.

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d 276

Mine innocent child?

Bora.

Yea, even I alone.

Leon.

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:

Here stand a pair of honourable men;

A third is fled, that had a hand in it. 280

I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death

Record it with your high and worthy deeds.

’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

Claud.

I know not how to pray your patience; 284

Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;

Impose me to what penance your invention

Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not

But in mistaking.

D. Pedro.

By my soul, nor I: 288

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight

That he’ll enjoin me to.

Leon.

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; 292

That were impossible: but, I pray you both,

Possess the people in Messina here

How innocent she died; and if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention, 296

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones: sing it to-night.

To-morrow morning come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law, 300

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,

Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us:

Give her the right you should have given her cousin, 304

And so dies my revenge.

Claud.

O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio. 308

Leon.

To-morrow then I will expect your coming;

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,

Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong, 312

Hir’d to it by your brother.

Bora.

No, by my soul she was not;

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me;

But always hath been just and virtuous

Leon.

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Ant.

Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

D. Pedro.

We will not fail.

Claud.

To-night I’ll mourn with Hero.

[Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.

Leon.

[To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, 347

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

And therefore will come.

[Exit Margaret.

The god of love,

That sits above,

And knows me, and knows me, 28

How pitiful I deserve,—

Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. 100

Enter Ursula.

Urs.

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? 106

Beat.

Will you go hear this news, signior?

Bene.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Inside of a Church.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Attendants, with music and tapers.

Claud.

Is this the monument of Leonato?

A Lord.

It is, my lord.

Claud.

[Reads from a scroll.]

Done to death by slanderous tongues

Was the Hero that here lies: 4

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

Gives her fame which never dies.

So the life that died with shame

Lives in doath with glorious fame. 8

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

SONG.

Pardon, goddess of the night,  12

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;  16

Help us to sigh and groan,

Heavily, heavily:

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,

Till death be uttered,  20

Heavily, heavily.

Claud.

Now, unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow, masters: put your torches out. 24

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phœbus, round about

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well

Claud.

Good morrow, masters: each his several way. 29

D. Pedro.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;

And then to Leonato’s we will go.

Claud.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s, 32

Than this for whom we render’d up this woe!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Room in Leonato’s House.

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis, and Hero.

Friar.

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

Leon.

So are the prince and Claudio, who accus’d her

Upon the error that you heard debated:

But Margaret was in some fault for this, 4

Although against her will, as it appears

In the true course of all the question.

Ant.

Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

Bene.

And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. 9

Leon.

Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And when I send for you, come hither mask’d:

The prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour

To visit me.

[Exeunt ladies.

You know your office, brother;

You must be father to your brother’s daughter,

Bene.

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:

But, for my will, my will is your good will 28

Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready.

[Exit Antonio.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter, 40

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Claud.

I think he thinks upon the savage bull.

Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold,

And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, 45

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bene.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: 48

And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow,

And got a calf in that same noble feat,

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Claud.

For this I owe you: here come other reckonings. 52

Re-enter Antonio, with the ladies masked.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Ant.

This same is she, and I do give you her.

Claud.

Why, then she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

Leon.

No, that you shall not, till you take her hand 56

Before this friar, and swear to marry her.

Claud.

Give me your hand: before this holy friar,

I am your husband, if you like of me.

Hero.

And when I liv’d, I was your other wife:

[Unmasking.

And when you lov’d, you were my other husband. 61

Claud.

Another Hero!

Hero.

Nothing certainer:

One Hero died defil’d, but I do live,

And surely as I live, I am a maid. 64

D. Pedro.

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leon.

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.

Friar.

All this amazement can I qualify:

When after that the holy rites are ended, 68

I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death:

Meantime, let wonder seem familiar,

Beat.

Do not you love me?

Bene.

Troth, no; no more than reason.

Beat.

Why, then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,

Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.

Bene.

They swore that you were almost sick for me. 80

Beat.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene.

’Tis no such matter. Then, you do not love me?

Beat.

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Leon.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. 84

Claud.

And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her;

For here’s a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion’d to Beatrice.

Hero.

And here’s another, 88

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene.

A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. 93

Beat.

I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. 97

Bene.

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn. 127

Enter a Messenger.

Mes.

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Bene.

Think not on him till to-morrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!

[Dance. Exeunt.

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Ferdinand,	King of Navarre.
Berowne, }	Lords, attending on the King.
Longaville, }
Dumaine, }
Boyet, }	Lords, attending on the Princess of France.
Marcade, }	Lords, attending on the Princess of France.
Don Adriano de Armado,	a fantastical Spaniard.
Sir Nathaniel,	a Curate.
Holofernes,	a Schoolmaster.
Dull,	a Constable.
Costard,	a Clown.
Moth,	Page to Armado.
A Forester.
The Princess of France.
Rosaline, }	Ladies, attending on the Princess.
Maria, }
Katharine, }
Jaquenetta,	a country Wench.
Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

Scene.—Navarre.

ACT I.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine.

King.

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,

Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,

And then grace us in the disgrace of death;

When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, 4

The endeavour of this present breath may buy

That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,

And make us heirs of all eternity.

Therefore, brave conquerors,—for so you are, 8

That war against your own affections

And the huge army of the world’s desires,—

Our late edict shall strongly stand in force:

Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; 12

Our court shall be a little academe,

Still and contemplative in living art.

You three, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville,

Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me,

My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes

That are recorded in this schedule here: 18

Your oaths are pass’d; and now subscribe your names,

That his own hand may strike his honour down

That violates the smallest branch herein.

If you are arm’d to do, as sworn to do,

Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.

Long.

I am resolv’d; ’tis but a three years’ fast: 24

The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:

Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits

Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

Dum.

My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified:

The grosser manner of these world’s delights 29

He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves:

To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die;

With all these living in philosophy. 32

Ber.

I can but say their protestation over;

So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,

That is, to live and study here three years.

But there are other strict observances; 36

As, not to see a woman in that term,

Which I hope well is not enrolled there:

And one day in a week to touch no food,

And but one meal on every day beside; 40

The which I hope is not enrolled there:

And then, to sleep but three hours in the night,

And not be seen to wink of all the day,—

When I was wont to think no harm all night 44

And make a dark night too of half the day,—

Which I hope well is not enrolled there.

O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. 48

King.

Your oath is pass’d to pass away from these.

Ber.

Let me say no, my liege, an if you please.

I only swore to study with your Grace,

And stay here in your court for three years’ space.

Long.

You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. 53

Ber.

By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.

What is the end of study? let me know.

King.

Why, that to know which else we should not know. 56

Ber.

Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from common sense?

King.

Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense.

Ber.

Come on then; I will swear to study so,

To know the thing I am forbid to know; 60

As thus: to study where I well may dine,

When I to feast expressly am forbid;

Or study where to meet some mistress fine,

When mistresses from common sense are hid;

Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, 65

Study to break it, and not break my troth.

If study’s gain be thus, and this be so,

Study knows that which yet it doth not know.

Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no. 69

King.

These be the stops that hinder study quite,

And train our intellects to vain delight.

Ber.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain 72

Which, with pain purchas’d doth inherit pain:

As, painfully to pore upon a book,

To seek the light of truth; while truth the while

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look: 76

Light seeking light doth light of light beguile:

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,

Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.

Study me how to please the eye indeed, 80

By fixing it upon a fairer eye,

Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed,

And give him light that it was blinded by.

Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun, 84

That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks;

Small have continual plodders ever won,

Save base authority from others’ books.

These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights 88

That give a name to every fixed star,

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Something then, in rime.

King.

Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost 100

That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

Ber.

Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast

Before the birds have any cause to sing?

Why should I joy in an abortive birth? 104

At Christmas I no more desire a rose

Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;

But like of each thing that in season grows.

So you, to study now it is too late, 108

Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.

King.

Well, sit you out: go home, Berowne: adieu!

Ber.

No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you:

And though I have for barbarism spoke more

Than for that angel knowledge you can say, 113

Yet confident I’ll keep to what I swore,

And bide the penance of each three years’ day.

Give me the paper; let me read the same; 116

A dangerous law against gentility!

Item.

If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.

This article, my liege, yourself must break; 132

For well you know here comes in embassy

The French king’s daughter with yourself to speak—

A maid of grace and complete majesty—

About surrender up of Aquitaine 136

To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father:

Therefore this article is made in vain,

Or vainly comes th’ admired princess hither.

King.

What say you, lords? why, this was quite forgot. 140

Ber.

So study evermore is overshot:

While it doth study to have what it would,

It doth forget to do the thing it should;

And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,

’Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost. 145

King.

We must of force dispense with this decree;

She must lie here on mere necessity.

Ber.

Necessity will make us all forsworn 148

Three thousand times within this three years’ space;

For every man with his affects is born,

Not by might master’d, but by special grace.

If I break faith this word shall speak for me,

I am forsworn ‘on mere necessity.’ 153

So to the laws at large I write my name:

[Subscribes.

And he that breaks them in the least degree

Stands in attainder of eternal shame: 156

Suggestions are to others as to me;

But I believe, although I seem so loath,

I am the last that will last keep his oath.

But is there no quick recreation granted? 160

King.

Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted

With a refined traveller of Spain;

A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,

That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; 164

One whom the music of his own vain tongue

Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;

A man of complements, whom right and wrong

Have chose as umpire of their mutiny: 168

This child of fancy, that Armado hight,

For interim to our studies shall relate

In high-born words the worth of many a knight

From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate.

How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; 173

But, I protest, I love to hear him lie,

And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

Ber.

Armado is a most illustrious wight, 176

Me, an’t please you; I am Antony Dull.

King.

My Lord Berowne, see him deliver’d o’er:

And go we, lords, to put in practice that 304

Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

[Exeunt King, Longaville, and Dumaine.

Ber.

I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat,

These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.

Sirrah, come on. 308

Cost.

Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and pathetical! 104

Moth.

If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne’er be known,

For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,

And fears by pale white shown: 108

Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know,

For still her cheeks possess the same

Which native she doth owe. 112

Forbear till this company be past.

Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta.

Dull.

Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must let him take no delight nor no penance, but a’ must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the day-woman.

Moth.

What shall some see? 168

Cost.

Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words; and therefore I will say nothing: I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet.

[Exeunt Moth and Costard.

Arm.

I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn,—which is a great argument of falsehood,—if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second clause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not: his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is, to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park. A Pavilion and Tents at a distance.

Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants.

Boyet.

Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:

Consider whom the king your father sends,

To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy:

Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, 4

To parley with the sole inheritor

Of all perfections that a man may owe,

Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight

Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. 8

Be now as prodigal of all dear grace

As Nature was in making graces dear

When she did starve the general world beside,

And prodigally gave them all to you. 12

Prin.

Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:

Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,

Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth 17

Than you much willing to be counted wise

In spending your wit in the praise of mine.

But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, 20

You are not ignorant, all-telling fame

Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,

Till painful study shall out-wear three years,

No woman may approach his silent court: 24

Therefore to us seemth it a needful course,

Before we enter his forbidden gates,

To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,

Bold of your worthiness, we single you 28

As our best-moving fair solicitor.

Tell him, the daughter of the King of France,

On serious business, craving quick dispatch,

Importunes personal conference with his Grace.

Haste, signify so much; while we attend, 33

Like humble-visag’d suitors, his high will.

Boyet.

Proud of employment, willingly I go.

Prin.

All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.

[Exit Boyet.

Who are the votaries, my loving lords, 37

That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?

First Lord.

Lord Longaville is one.

Prin.

Know you the man?

Mar.

I know him, madam: at a marriage feast, 40

Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir

Of Jacques Falconbridge, solemnized

In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.

A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d; 44

Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms:

Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.

The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss,—

If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil,— 48

Is a sharp wit match’d with too blunt a will;

Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills

It should none spare that come within his power.

Prin.

Some merry mocking lord, belike; is’t so? 52

Mar.

They say so most that most his humours know.

Prin.

Such short-liv’d wits do wither as they grow.

Who are the rest?

Kath.

The young Dumaine, a well-accomplish’d youth, 56

Of all that virtue love for virtue lov’d:

Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,

For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,

And shape to win grace though he had no wit.

I saw him at the Duke Alençon’s once; 61

And much too little of that good I saw

Is my report to his great worthiness.

Ros.

Another of these students at that time

Was there with him, if I have heard a truth: 65

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour’s talk withal. 68

His eye begets occasion for his wit;

For every object that the one doth catch

The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,

Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, 72

Delivers in such apt and gracious words,

That aged ears play truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished;

So sweet and voluble is his discourse. 76

Prin.

God bless my ladies! are they all in love,

That every one her own hath garnished

With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

First Lord.

Here comes Boyet.

Re-enter Boyet.

Prin.

Now, what admittance, lord?

Boyet.

Navarre had notice of your fair approach; 81

And he and his competitors in oath

Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady,

Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;

He rather means to lodge you in the field, 85

Like one that comes here to besiege his court,

Than seek a dispensation for his oath,

To let you enter his unpeeled house. 88

Here comes Navarre.

[The Ladies mask.

Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,

Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.

I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:

’Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, 105

And sin to break it.

But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold:

Madam, your father here doth intimate

The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;

Being but the one half of an entire sum

Disbursed by my father in his wars.

But say that he, or we,—as neither have,— 132

Receiv’d that sum, yet there remains unpaid

A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which,

One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,

Although not valu’d to the money’s worth. 136

If then the king your father will restore

But that one half which is unsatisfied,

We will give up our right in Aquitaine,

And hold fair friendship with his majesty. 140

But that it seems, he little purposeth,

For here he doth demand to have repaid

A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,

On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, 144

To have his title live in Aquitaine;

Which we much rather had depart withal,

And have the money by our father lent,

Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is. 148

Dear princess, were not his requests so far

From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make

A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast,

And go well satisfied to France again. 152

Prin.

You do the king my father too much wrong

And wrong the reputation of your name,

In so unseeming to confess receipt

Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. 156

King.

I do protest I never heard of it;

And if you prove it, I’ll repay it back

Or yield up Aquitaine.

Prin.

We arrest your word.

Boyet, you can produce acquittances 160

For such a sum from special officers

Of Charles his father.

King.

Satisfy me so.

Boyet.

So please your Grace, the packet is not come

Where that and other specialties are bound: 164

To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

King.

It shall suffice me: at which interview

All liberal reason I will yield unto.

Meantime, receive such welcome at my hand 168

As honour, without breach of honour, may

Make tender of to thy true worthiness.

You may not come, fair princess, in my gates;

But here without you shall be so receiv’d, 172

As you shall deem yourself lodg’d in my heart,

Though so denied fair harbour in my house.

Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:

To-morrow shall we visit you again. 176

Prin.

Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!

King.

Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!

Dum.

Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? 192

Boyet.

The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name.

Dum.

A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.

Good sir, be not offended.

She is an heir of Falconbridge.

Long.

Nay, my choler is ended. 204

She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet.

Not unlike, sir; that may be.

Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit Berowne.—Ladies unmask.

Mar.

That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord: 213

Mar.

You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

Boyet.

So you grant pasture for me.

[Offering to kiss her.

Mar.

Not so, gentle beast. 220

My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet.

Belonging to whom?

Mar.

To my fortunes and me.

Prin.

Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree.

This civil war of wits were much better us’d 224

On Navarre and his book-men, for here ’tis abus’d.

Boyet.

If my observation,—which very seldom lies,—

By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. 228

Prin.

With what?

Boyet.

With that which we lovers entitle affected.

Prin.

Your reason.

Boyet.

Why, all his behaviours did make their retire 232

To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;

His heart, like an agate, with your print impress’d,

Proud with his form, in his eye pride express’d:

His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,

Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;

All senses to that sense did make their repair,

To feel only looking on fairest of fair,

Methought all his senses were lock’d in his eye,

As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; 241

Who, tend’ring their own worth from where they were glass’d,

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d.

His face’s own margent did quote such amazes,

Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth.

Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

Arm.

I say, lead is slow.

Moth.

You are too swift, sir, to say so:

Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun? 65

Arm.

Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he:

I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.

Thump then, and I flee.

[Exit.

Arm.

A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.

My herald is return’d. 72

No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. 88

I will example it:

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee

Were still at odds, being but three.

There’s the moral. Now the l’envoy. 92

Moth.

I will add the l’envoy. Say the moral again.

Arm.

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three. 96

Moth.

Until the goose came out of door,

And stay’d the odds by adding four.

Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l’envoy. 100

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

Arm.

Until the goose came out of door,

Staying the odds by adding four. 104

Moth.

A good l’envoy, ending in the goose.

Would you desire more?

Cost.

The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that’s flat.

Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat. 108

To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:

Let me see; a fat l’envoy; ay, that’s a fat goose.

Arm.

Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

Moth.

By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. 112

Then call’d you for the l’envoy.

Cost.

True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in;

Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you bought;

Moth.

Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. 141

Cost.

My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my incony Jew!

[Exit Moth.

Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that’s the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. ‘What’s the price of this inkle?’ ‘One penny.’ ‘No, I’ll give you a remuneration:’ why, it carries it Remuneration! why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word.

Enter Berowne.

Ber.

O! my good knave Costard, exceedingly well met. 152

Cost.

It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: 172

The princess comes to hunt here in the park,

And in her train there is a gentle lady:

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,

And Rosaline they call her: ask for her 176

And to her white hand see thou do commend

This seal’d-up counsel. [Gives him a shilling.] There’s thy guerdon: go.

Cost.

Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a ’leven-pence farthing better.

Most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print

Gardon! remuneration!

[Exit.

Ber.

And I,—

Forsooth, in love! I, that have been love’s whip;

A very beadle to a humorous sigh; 185

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable,

A domineering pedant o’er the boy,

Than whom no mortal so magnificent! 188

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;

Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 192

Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator and great general

Of trotting ’paritors: O my little heart! 196

And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop!

What I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!

A woman that is like a German clock, 200

Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,

And never going aright, being a watch,

But being watch’d that it may still go right!

Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all; 204

And, among three, to love the worst of all;

A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;

Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed 208

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:

And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!

To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect 212

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:

Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.

Prin.

Was that the king, that spurr’d his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

Boyet.

I know not; but I think it was not he.

Prin.

Whoe’er a’ was, a’ show’d a mounting mind. 4

Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;

On Saturday we will return to France.

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush

That we must stand and play the murderer in? 8

For.

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

For.

Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 20

Prin.

See, see! my beauty will be sav’d by merit.

O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.

But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, 24

And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t;

If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 28

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.

And out of question so it is sometimes,

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part, 32

We bend to that the working of the heart;

As I for praise alone now seek to spill

The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill.

Boyet.

Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty 36

Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be

Lords o’er their lords?

Prin.

Only for praise; and praise we may afford

To any lady that subdues a lord. 40

The thickest, and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth. 48

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,

One o’these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.

Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.

Prin.

What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?

Cost.

I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. 53

Prin.

O! thy letter, thy letter; he’s a good friend of mine.

Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;

Break up this capon.

Boyet.

I am bound to serve. 56

This letter is mistook; it importeth none here:

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin.

We will read it, I swear.

Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

Boyet.

By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar—O base and obscure vulgar!—videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Whom overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory: on whose side? the king’s; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king’s, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. 88

Thine, in the dearest design of Industry, Don Adriano de Armado.

Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar

’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey: 92

Submissive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?

Food for his rage, repasture for his den. 96

Prin.

What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?

What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?

Boyet.

I am much deceiv’d but I remember the style.

Prin.

Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile. 100

Boyet.

This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;

A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport

To the prince and his book-mates.

Prin.

Thou, fellow, a word.

Who gave thee this letter?

Cost.

I told you; my lord. 104

Prin.

To whom shouldst thou give it?

Cost.

From my lord to my lady.

Prin.

From which lord, to which lady?

Cost.

From my lord Berowne, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France, that he call’d Rosaline. 108

Prin.

Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.

[Exeunt Princess and Train.

Boyet.

Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

Ros.

Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet.

Ay, my continent of beauty.

Ros.

Why, she that bears the bow.

Finely put off! 113

Boyet.

My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on! 116

Ros.

Well then, I am the shooter.

Boyet.

And who is your deer?

Ros.

If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.

An I cannot, cannot, cannot,

An I cannot, another can. 132

[Exeunt Rosaline and Katharine.

Cost.

By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Mar.

A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.

Boyet.

A mark! O! mark but that mark; a mark, says my lady!

Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be. 136

Mar.

Wide o’ the bow hand! i’ faith your hand is out.

Cost.

Indeed a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.

Boyet.

An’ if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

Cost.

Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. 140

Mar.

Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

Cost.

She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.

Boyet.

I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.

[Exeunt Boyet and Maria.

Cost.

By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!

Lord, lord how the ladies and I have put him down!

O’ my troth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit! 146

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit,

Armado, o’ the one side, O! a most dainty man.

To see him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan!

To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’ will swear! 150

And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit!

I said the deer was not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Hol.

Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus!

O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! 24

Nath.

Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book;

he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:

And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be,

Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he;

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool:

So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school: 32

But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father’s mind,

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

Dull.

You two are book-men: can you tell by your wit,

Nath.

A rare talent! 64

Dull.

[Aside.] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

Hol.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. 74

Nath.

Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth. 79

Hol.

Mehercle! if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

Have with thee, my girl.

And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it.—[To Dull.] Sir, I do invite you too: you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Berowne, with a paper.

Ber.

The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch,—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word! Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep: it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o’ my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me; i’ faith, I will not. O! but her eye,—by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rime, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan! 21

[Gets up into a tree.

Enter the King, with a paper.

King.

Ah me!

Ber.

[Aside.] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

King.

So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,  28

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote

The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:

Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep,  32

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light,

Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep.

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.  36

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show

But do not love thyself, then thou wilt keep

My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.  40

O queen of queens! how far thou dost excel,

No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell

How shall she know my griefs? I’ll drop the paper:

Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?

[Steps aside.

What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear. 45

I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.

O sweet Maria, empress of my love! 56

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

Ber.

O! rimes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose:

Disfigure not his slop.

Long.

This same shall go.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,  60

’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,

Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,  64

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace, being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me.

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:  68

Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,

Exhal’st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then, it is no fault of mine:

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise  72

To lose an oath to win a paradise!

Ber.

This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity;

A green goose a goddess; pure, pure idolatry.

God amend us, God amend! we are much out o’ the way. 76

Long.

By whom shall I send this?—Company! stay.

[Steps aside.

Ber.

All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,

And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye. 80

More sacks to the mill! O heavens! I have my wish.

Enter Dumaine, with a paper.

Stoop, I say; 89

Her shoulder is with child.

Dum.

As fair as day.

Ber.

Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

Dum.

O! that I had my wish.

Long.

And I had mine! 92

King.

And I mine too, good Lord!

Ber.

Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word?

Dum.

I would forget her; but a fever she

Reigns in my blood, and will remember’d be. 96

Ber.

A fever in your blood! why, then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

Dum.

Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ.

Ber.

Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit. 100

Dum.

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:  104

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, ’gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.  108

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But alack! my hand is sworn

Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:  112

Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee;  116

Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.  120

This will I send, and something else more plain,

That shall express my true love’s fasting pain.

O! would the King, Berowne, and Longaville

Were lovers too. Ill, to example ill, 124

Would from my forehead wipe a perjur’d note;

For none offend where all alike do dote.

Long.

[Advancing.] Dumaine, thy love is far from charity,

That in love’s grief desir’st society: 128

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,

To be o’erheard and taken napping so.

King.

[Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush: as his your case is such;

You chide at him, offending twice as much: 132

You do not love Maria; Longaville

Did never sonnet for her sake compile,

Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart

His loving bosom to keep down his heart. 136

I have been closely shrouded in this bush,

And mark’d you both, and for you both did blush.

I heard your guilty rimes, observ’d your fashion,

Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:

Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries; 141

One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes:

[To Longaville.] You would for paradise break faith and troth;

[To Dumaine.] And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath. 144

What will Berowne say, when that he shall hear

A faith infringed, which such zeal did swear?

How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!

How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it! 148

For all the wealth that ever I did see,

I would not have him know so much by me.

Ber.

Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

[Descends from the tree.

Ah! good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me: 152

Good heart! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove

These worms for loving, that art most in love?

Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears

There is no certain princess that appears: 156

You’ll not be perjur’d, ’tis a hateful thing:

Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.

But are you not asham’d? nay, are you not,

All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot? 160

You found his mote; the king your mote did see;

But I a beam do find in each of three.

O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen; 164

O me! with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat;

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,

And profound Solomon to tune a jig, 168

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

Where lies thy grief? O! tell me, good Dumaine,

And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? 172

And where my liege’s? all about the breast:

A caudle, ho!

King.

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view?

Ber.

Not you to me, but I betray’d by you:

I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin 177

To break the vow I am engaged in;

I am betray’d, by keeping company

With men like men, men of inconstancy. 180

When shall you see me write a thing in rime?

Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute’s time

In pruning me? When shall you hear that I

Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, 184

A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, leg, a limb?—

King.

Soft! Whither away so fast? true man or a thief that gallops so?

Ber.

I post from love; good lover, let me go.

If it mar nothing neither,

The treason and you go in peace away together.

Jaq.

I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read: 193

Our parson misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.

King.

Berowne, read it over—

[Giving the letter to him.

There hadst thou it? 196

Jaq.

Of Costard.

King.

Where hadst thou it?

Cost.

Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

[Berowne tears the letter.

King.

How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it? 200

Ber.

A toy, my liege, a toy: your Grace needs not fear it.

Long.

It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.

Dum.

[Picking up the pieces.] It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name.

Ber.

[To Costard.] Ah, you whoreson logger-head, you were born to do me shame. 204

Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess.

King.

What?

Ber.

That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess;

He, he, and you, and you my liege, and I, 208

Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.

O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

Dum.

Now the number is even.

Ber.

True, true; we are four.

Will these turtles be gone?

King.

Hence, sirs; away! 212

Cost.

Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

[Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta.

Ber.

Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace.

As true we are as flesh and blood can be:

The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;

Young blood doth not obey an old decree: 217

We cannot cross the cause why we were born;

Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn.

King.

What! did these rent lines show some love of thine? 220

Ber.

‘Did they,’ quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous east,

Bows not his vassal head, and, strucken blind,

Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?

What peremptory eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty? 228

King.

What zeal, what fury hath inspir’d thee now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;

She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.

Ber.

My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne:

O! but for my love, day would turn to night.

Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;

Where several worthies make one dignity, 236

Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,—

Fie, painted rhetoric! O! she needs it not:

To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs; 240

She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.

A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn,

Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:

Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, 244

And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy.

O! ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine.

King.

By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

Ber.

Is ebony like her? O wood divine! 248

A wife of such wood were felicity.

O! who can give an oath? where is a book?

That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,

If that she learn not of her eye to look: 252

No face is fair that is not full so black.

King.

O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,

The hue of dungeons and the scowl of night;

And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. 256

Ber.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

O! if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,

It mourns that painting and usurping hair

Should ravish doters with a false aspect; 260

And therefore is she born to make black fair.

Her favour turns the fashion of the days,

For native blood is counted painting now:

And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,

Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. 265

Dum.

To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

Long.

And since her time are colliers counted bright.

King.

And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack. 268

Dum.

Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.

Ber.

Your mistresses dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash’d away.

King.

’Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, 272

I’ll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day.

Ber.

I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.

King.

No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

Dum.

I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

Long.

Look, here’s thy love: [Showing his shoe.] my foot and her face see. 277

Ber.

O! if the streets were paved with thine eyes,

Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.

Dum.

O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies 280

The street should see as she walk’d over head.

King.

But what of this? Are we not all in love?

Ber.

Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

King.

Then leave this chat; and good Berowne, now prove 284

Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

Dum.

Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

Long.

O! some authority how to proceed;

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

Dum.

Some salve for perjury.

Ber.

O, ’tis more than need. 289

Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms:

Consider what you first did swear unto,

To fast, to study, and to see no woman; 292

Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth.

Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young,

And abstinence engenders maladies.

And where that you have vow’d to study, lords,

In that each of you hath forsworn his book, 297

Can you still dream and pore and thereon look?

For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,

Have found the ground of study’s excellence 300

Without the beauty of a woman’s face?

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:

They are the ground, the books, the academes,

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. 304

Why, universal plodding poisons up

The nimble spirits in the arteries,

As motion and long-during action tires

The sinewy vigour of the traveller. 308

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face,

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes,

And study too, the causer of your vow;

For where is any author in the world 312

Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye?

Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,

And where we are our learning likewise is:

Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes, 316

Do we not likewise see our learning there?

O! we have made a vow to study, lords,

And in that vow we have forsworn our books:

For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,

In leaden contemplation have found out 321

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes

Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?

Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, 324

And therefore, finding barren practisers,

Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil;

But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,

Lives not alone immured in the brain, 328

But, with the motion of all elements,

Courses as swift as thought in every power,

And gives to every power a double power,

Above their functions and their offices. 332

It adds a precious seeing to the eye;

A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind;

A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound,

When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d: 336

Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible

Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:

Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.

For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 340

Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?

Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical

As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair;

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 345

Never durst poet touch a pen to write

Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs;

O! then his lines would ravish savage ears, 348

And plant in tyrants mild humility.

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:

They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;

They are the books, the arts, the academes, 352

That show, contain, and nourish all the world;

Else none at all in aught proves excellent.

Then fools you were these women to forswear,

Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.

For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love, 357

Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men,

Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women;

Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men, 360

Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,

Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.

It is religion to be thus forsworn;

For charity itself fulfils the law; 364

And who can sever love from charity?

King.

Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

Ber.

Advance your standards, and upon them, lords!

Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advis’d,

In conflict that you get the sun of them. 369

Long.

Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by;

Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

King.

And win them too: therefore let us devise 372

Some entertainment for them in their tents.

Ber.

First, from the park let us conduct them thither;

Then homeward every man attach the hand

Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon 376

We will with some strange pastime solace them,

Such as the shortness of the time can shape;

For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours,

Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.

King.

Away, away! no time shall be omitted,

That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

Ber.

Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no corn;

And justice always whirls in equal measure:

Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; 385

If so, our copper buys no better treasure.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The King of Navarre’s Park.

Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull.

Hol.

Satis quod sufficit.

Nath.

I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king’s, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. 9

Hol.

Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue field, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. 16

Nath.

A most singular and choice epithet.

[Draws out his table-book.

Hol.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say, doubt; det, when he should pronounce, debt,—d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,—it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? To make frantic, lunatic. 29

Nath.

Laus Deo bone intelligo.

Hol.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The same. Before the Princess’s Pavilion.

Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Maria.

Prin.

Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,

You’ll ne’er be friends with him: a’ kill’d your sister. 13

Kath.

He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;

And so she died: had she been light, like you,

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, 16

She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died;

And so may you, for a light heart lives long.

Ros.

What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

Kath.

A light condition in a beauty dark. 20

Ros.

We need more light to find your meaning out.

Kath.

You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff;

Therefore, I’ll darkly end the argument.

An if my face were but as fair as yours, 32

My favour were as great; be witness this.

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne:

The numbers true; and, were the numb’ring too,

Yes, madam; and moreover,

Some thousand verses of a faithful lover:

A huge translation of hypocrisy,

Vilely compil’d, profound simplicity. 52

Mar.

This, and these pearls to me sent Longaville:

The letter is too long by half a mile.

Prin.

I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart

The chain were longer and the letter short? 56

Mar.

Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Prin.

We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Ros.

They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go. 60

O that I knew he were but in by the week!

How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,

And wait the season, and observe the times,

And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rimes, 64

And shape his service wholly to my hests,

And make him proud to make me proud that jests!

So perttaunt-like would I o’ersway his state

That he should be my fool, and I his fate. 68

Prin.

None are so surely caught, when they are catch’d,

As wit turn’d fool: folly, in wisdom hatch’d,

Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school

And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. 72

Ros.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess

As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.

Mar.

Folly in fools bears not so strong a note

As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote; 76

Since all the power thereof it doth apply

To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

Enter Boyet.

Prin.

Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

Boyet.

O! I am stabb’d with laughter. Where’s her Grace? 80

Prin.

Thy news, Boyet?

Boyet.

Prepare, madam, prepare!—

Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are

Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis’d,

Armed in arguments; you’ll be surpris’d: 84

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

Prin.

Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they

That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say. 88

Boyet.

Under the cool shade of a sycamore

I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour,

When, lo! to interrupt my purpos’d rest,

Toward that shade I might behold addrest 92

The king and his companions: warily

I stole into a neighbour thicket by,

And overheard what you shall overhear;

That, by and by, disguis’d they will be here. 96

Their herald is a pretty knavish page,

That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage:

Action and accent did they teach him there;

‘Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body bear.’

And ever and anon they made a doubt 101

Presence majestical would put him out;

‘For,’ quoth the king, ‘an angel shalt thou see;

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.’ 104

The boy replied, ‘An angel is not evil;

I should have fear’d her had she been a devil.’

With that all laugh’d and clapp’d him on the shoulder,

Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. 108

One rubb’d his elbow thus, and fleer’d, and swore

A better speech was never spoke before;

Another, with his finger and his thumb,

Cry’d ‘Via! we will do’t, come what will come;’

The third he caper’d and cried, ‘All goes well;’

The fourth turn’d on the toe, and down he fell.

With that, they all did tumble on the ground,

With such a zealous laughter, so profound, 116

That in this spleen ridiculous appears,

To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears.

Prin.

But what, but what, come they to visit us?

Boyet.

They do, they do; and are apparell’d thus, 120

Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess.

Their purpose is to parle, to court and dance;

And every one his love-feat will advance

Unto his several mistress, which they’ll know

By favours several which they did bestow. 125

Prin.

And will they so? the gallants shall be task’d:

For, ladies, we will every one be mask’d,

And not a man of them shall have the grace, 128

Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face.

Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,

And then the king will court thee for his dear:

Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,

So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline, 133

And change you favours too; so shall your loves

Woo contrary, deceiv’d by these removes.

Ros.

Come on, then; wear the favours most in sight. 136

Kath.

But in this changing what is your intent?

Prin.

The effect of my intent is, to cross theirs:

They do it but in mocking merriment;

And mock for mock is only my intent. 140

Their several counsels they unbosom shall

To loves mistook and so be mock’d withal

Upon the next occasion that we meet,

With visages display’d, to talk and greet. 144

Ros.

But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t?

Prin.

No, to the death, we will not move a foot:

Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace;

But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face. 148

Boyet.

Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart,

And quite divorce his memory from his part.

Prin.

Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt,

The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. 152

There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown,

To make theirs ours and ours none but our own:

So shall we stay, mocking intended game,

And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.

[Trumpets sound within.

Boyet.

The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the maskers come.

[The Ladies mask.

That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views!

Out— 164

Boyet.

Ber.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.

What would they, say they? 181

Boyet.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.

Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.

Boyet.

She says, you have it, and you may be gone. 184

King.

Say to her, we have measur’d many miles,

To tread a measure with her on this grass.

Boyet.

Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water.

King.

Then, in our measure but vouchsafe one change. 210

Thou bid’st me beg; this begging is not strange.

Ros.

Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.

[Music plays.

Not yet! no dance! thus change I like the moon.

King.

Will you not dance? How come you thus estrang’d? 214

Ros.

You took the moon at full, but now she’s chang’d.

King.

Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.

The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.

Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu;

Twice to your visor, and half once to you! 228

King.

If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat.

Ros.

In private, then.

King.

I am best pleas’d with that.

[They converse apart.

Ber.

White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

Prin.

Honey, and milk, and sugar; there are three. 232

Ber.

Nay then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!

There’s half a dozen sweets.

Prin.

Seventh sweet, adieu:

Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.

Ber.

Kath.

O! for your reason; quickly, sir; I long. 245

Long.

You have a double tongue within your mask,

Long.

Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. 252

Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

Kath.

Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

Long.

One word in private with you, ere I die.

Kath.

Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry.

[They converse apart.

Boyet.

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen 257

As is the razor’s edge invisible,

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen,

Above the sense of sense; so sensible 260

Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings

Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

Ros.

Not one word more, my maids: break off, break off.

Ber.

By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! 264

King.

Farewell, mad wenches: you have simple wits.

Prin.

Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.

[Exeunt King, Lords, Music, and Attendants.

Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at?

Boyet.

Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff’d out. 268

Ros.

Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

Prin.

O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!

Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?

Or ever, but in visors, show their faces? 272

This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.

Ros.

O! they were all in lamentable cases.

The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Prin.

Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. 276

Mar.

Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:

‘No point,’ quoth I: my servant straight was mute.

Kath.

Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart;

And trow you what he call’d me?

Prin.

Qualm, perhaps. 280

Kath.

Yes, in good faith.

Prin.

Go, sickness as thou art!

Ros.

Well, better wits have worn plain statutecaps.

But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.

Prin.

Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,

Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

Prin.

Avaunt perplexity! What shall we do

If they return in their own shapes to woo? 300

Ros.

Good madam, if by me you’ll be advis’d,

Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguis’d.

Let us complain to them what fools were here,

Disguis’d like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; 304

And wonder what they were, and to what end

Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn’d,

And their rough carriage so ridiculous,

Should be presented at our tent to us. 308

Boyet.

Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

Prin.

Whip to your tents, as roes run over land.

[Exeunt Princess, Ros., Kath., and Maria.

Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine in their proper habits.

King.

Fair sir, God save you! Where is the princess?

Boyet.

Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty, 312

Command me any service to her thither?

King.

That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet.

I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.

[Exit.

Ber.

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease, 316

And utters it again when God doth please:

He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares

At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;

And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,

Have not the grace to grace it with such show.

This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve:

He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he 324

That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice

In honourable terms: nay, he can sing 328

A mean most meanly, and in ushering

Mend him who can: the ladies call him, sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

This is the flower that smiles on every one, 332

To show his teeth as white as whales-bone;

And consciences, that will not die in debt,

Pay him the due of honey-tongu’d Boyet.

King.

A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, 336

That put Armado’s page out of his part!

Re-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet; Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, and Attendants.

Ber.

See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou,

Prin.

This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men.

King.

Rebuke me not for that which you provoke: 348

The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

Prin.

You nick-name virtue; vice you should have spoke;

For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.

Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure 352

As the unsullied lily, I protest,

A world of torments though I should endure,

I would not yield to be your house’s guest;

So much I hate a breaking cause to be 356

Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity.

King.

O! you have liv’d in desolation here,

Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

Prin.

Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;

We have had pastime here and pleasant game.

A mess of Russians left us but of late.

King.

How, madam! Russians?

Prin.

Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. 364

Ros.

Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:

My lady, to the manner of the days,

In courtesy gives undeserving praise.

We four, indeed, confronted were with four 368

In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour,

And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord,

They did not bless us with one happy word.

I dare not call them fools; but this I think, 372

When they are thirsty, fools would fam have drink.

Ber.

This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,

Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet,

With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, 376

By light we lose light: your capacity

Is of that nature that to your huge store

Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.

Ros.

This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye— 380

Ber.

I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Ros.

But that you take what doth to you belong,

There, then, that visor; that superfluous case 388

That hid the worse, and show’d the better face.

King.

We are descried: they’ll mock us now downright.

Dum.

Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.

Prin.

Amaz’d, my lord? Why looks your highness sad? 392

Ros.

Help! hold his brows! he’ll swound.

Why look you pale?

Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

Ber.

Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.

Can any face of brass hold longer out?— 396

Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;

Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;

Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;

Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; 400

And I will wish thee never more to dance,

Nor never more in Russian habit wait.

O! never will I trust to speeches penn’d,

Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue,

Nor never come in visor to my friend, 405

Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper’s song,

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,

Three-pil’d hyperboles, spruce affectation, 408

Figures pedantical; these summer flies

Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:

I do forswear them; and I here protest,

By this white glove,—how white the hand,

God knows,— 412

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d

In russet yeas and honest kersey noes:

And, to begin, wench,—so God help me, la!—

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 416

Ros.

Sans ‘sans,’ I pray you.

Ber.

Yet I have a trick

Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;

I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see:

Write, ‘Lord have mercy on us’ on those three;

They are infected, in their hearts it lies; 421

They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:

These lords are visited; you are not free,

For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see. 424

Prin.

No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

Ber.

Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us.

Ros.

It is not so. For how can this be true,

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? 428

Ber.

Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

Ros.

Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

Ber.

Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end.

King.

Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression 432

Some fair excuse.

Prin.

The fairest is confession.

Were you not here, but even now, disguis’d?

King.

Madam, I was.

Ros.

Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear

As precious eyesight, and did value me

Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,

That he would wed me, or else die my lover. 448

Prin.

God give thee joy of him! the noble lord

Most honourably doth uphold his word.

King.

What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,

I never swore this lady such an oath. 452

Ros.

By heaven you did; and to confirm it plain,

You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

King.

My faith and this the princess I did give:

I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. 456

Prin.

Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;

And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.

What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

Ber.

Neither of either; I remit both twain.

I see the trick on’t: here was a consent, 461

Knowing aforehand of our merriment,

To dash it like a Christmas comedy.

Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, 464

Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,

That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick

To make my lady laugh when she’s dispos’d,

Told our intents before; which once disclos’d,

The ladies did change favours, and then we, 469

Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she.

Now, to our perjury to add more terror,

We are again forsworn, in will and error. 472

Much upon this it is: [To Boyet.] and might not you

Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?

Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squire,

And laugh upon the apple of her eye? 476

And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,

Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?

You put our page out: go, you are allow’d;

Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.

You leer upon me, do you? there’s an eye 481

Wounds like a leaden sword.

Boyet.

Full merrily

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

Ber.

Lo! he is tilting straight. Peace! I have done. 484

Enter Costard.

Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.

Cost.

O Lord, sir, they would know

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.

Ber.

What, are there but three?

Cost.

No, sir; but it is vara fine, 488

King.

Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach.

Ber.

We are shame-proof, my lord; and ’tis some policy 512

To have one show worse than the king’s and his company.

King.

I say they shall not come.

Prin.

Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.

That sport best pleases that doth least know how;

Where zeal strives to content, and the contents

Die in the zeal of those which it presents;

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,

When great things labouring perish in their birth.

Ber.

A right description of our sport, my lord.

Enter Armado.

Arm.

Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. 524

[Armado converses with the King, and delivers a paper to him.

Prin.

Doth this man serve God?

Ber.

Why ask you?

Prin.

He speaks not like a man of God’s making,

Arm.

That’s all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain; too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!

[Exit.

King.

Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabæus:

And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,

These four will change habits and present the other five. 540

Ber.

There is five in the first show.

King.

You are deceived, ’tis not so.

Ber.

The pedant, the braggart, the hedgepriest, the fool, and the boy:— 544

Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again

Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

King.

The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.

Enter Costard armed, for Pompey.

That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat:

And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. 556

If your ladyship would say, ‘Thanks, Pompey,’ I had done.

Prin.

Great thanks, great Pompey.

Cost.

’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in ‘Great.’

Ber.

My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Stand aside, good Pompey. 588

Enter Holofernes armed, for Judas; and Moth armed, for Hercules.

Hol.

Great Hercules is presented by this imp,

Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed canis;

And, when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,

Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.

Quoniam, he seemeth in minority, 593

Ergo, I come with this apology.

Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.—

[Moth retires.

Judas I am.— 596

Dum.

A Judas!

Hol.

Worthies, away! The scene begins to cloud. 729

Arm.

For my own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

[Exeunt Worthies.

King.

How fares your majesty?

Prin.

Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night.

King.

Madam, not so: I do beseech you, stay. 736

Prin.

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide 740

The liberal opposition of our spirits,

If over-boldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath; your gentleness

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! 744

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue,

Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

King.

The extreme part of time extremely forms 748

All causes to the purpose of his speed,

And often, at his very loose, decides

That which long process could not arbitrate:

And though the mourning brow of progeny 752

Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince;

Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot,

Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it 756

From what it purpos’d; since, to wail friends lost

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Prin.

I understand you not: my griefs are double. 760

Ber.

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;

And by these badges understand the king.

For your fair sakes have we neglected time,

Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, 764

Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours

Even to the opposed end of our intents;

And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous,—

As love is full of unbefitting strains; 768

All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;

Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,

Full of stray shapes, of habits and of forms,

Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll 772

To every varied object in his glance:

Which parti-coated presence of loose love

Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

Have misbecome our oaths and gravities, 776

Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,

Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,

Our love being yours, the error that love makes

Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,

By being once false for ever to be true 781

To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:

And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,

Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. 784

Prin.

We have receiv’d your letters full of love;

Your favours, the embassadors of love;

And, in our maiden council, rated them

At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 788

As bombast and as lining to the time.

But more devout than this in our respects

Have we not been; and therefore met your loves

In their own fashion, like a merriment. 792

Dum.

Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

Long.

So did our looks.

Ros.

We did not quote them so.

King.

Now, at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

Prin.

A time, methinks, too short

To make a world-without-end bargain in. 797

No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur’d much,

Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:

If for my love,—as there is no such cause,— 800

You will do aught, this shall you do for me:

Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed

To some forlorn and naked hermitage,

Remote from all the pleasures of the world; 804

There stay, until the twelve celestial signs

Have brought about their annual reckoning.

If this austere insociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood; 808

If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds,

Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,

But that it bear this trial and last love;

Then, at the expiration of the year, 812

Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,

And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,

I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut

My woful self up in a mourning house, 816

Raining the tears of lamentation

For the remembrance of my father’s death.

If this thou do deny, let our hands part;

Neither intitled in the other’s heart. 820

King.

If this, or more than this, I would deny,

To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,

The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. 824

Ber.

And what to me, my love? and what to me?

Ros.

You must be purged too, your sins are rack’d:

You are attaint with faults and perjury;

Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, 828

I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Kath.

Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again. 840

Long.

What says Maria?

Mar.

At the twelvemonth’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long.

I’ll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Mar.

The liker you; few taller are so young.

Ber.

Studies my lady? mistress, look on me.

Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

What humble suit attends thy answer there;

Impose some service on me for thy love. 848

Ros.

Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,

Before I saw you, and the world’s large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 852

Which you on all estates will execute

That lie within the mercy of your wit:

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,

And therewithal to win me, if you please,— 856

Without the which I am not to be won,—

You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day,

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit 861

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Ber.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be; it is impossible: 864

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros.

Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.

A jest’s prosperity lics in the ear 869

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,

Deaf’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue them, 873

And I will have you and that fault withal;

But if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault, 876

Right joyful of your reformation.

Ber.

A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in a hospital.

Prin.

[To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave. 880

King.

No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

Ber.

Our wooing doth not end like an old play;

Jack hath not Jill; these ladies’ courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy. 884

King.

Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,

And then ’twill end.

Ber.

That’s too long for a play.

Holla! approach.

Re-enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, Costard, and others.

This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. 901

SPRING.

I

When daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue  904

Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

Cuckoo,  908

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

II.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,  912

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he,  916

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

WINTER.

III.

When icicles hang by the wall,  920

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,  924

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.  928

IV

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,  932

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,  936

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Arm.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this way.

[Exeunt.

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Theseus,	Duke of Athens.
Egeus,	Father to Hermia.
Lysander, }	in love with Hermia.
Demetrius, }	in love with Hermia.
Philostrate,	Master of the Revels to Theseus.
Quince,	a Carpenter.
Snug,	a Joiner.
Bottom,	a Weaver.
Flute,	a Bellows-mender.
Snout,	a Tinker.
Starveling,	a Tailor.
Hippolyta,	Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus.
Hermia,	Daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.
Helena,	in love with Demetrius.
Oberon,	King of the Fairies.
Titania,	Queen of the Fairies.
Puck,	or Robin Goodfellow.
Pease-Blossom, }	Fairies.
Cobweb, }
Moth, }
Mustard-seed, }
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen. Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

Scene.—Athens, and a Wood near it.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Athens. The Palace of Theseus.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and Attendants.

The.

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour

Draws on apace: four happy days bring in

Another moon; but O! methinks how slow

This old moon wanes; she lingers my desires, 4

Like to a step dame, or a dowager

Long withering out a young man’s revenue.

Hip.

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time; 8

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night

Of our solemnities.

The.

Go, Philostrate,

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; 12

Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;

Turn melancholy forth to funerals;

The pale companion is not for our pomp.

[Exit Philostrate.

Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, 16

And won thy love doing thee injuries;

But I will wed thee in another key,

With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius.

Ege.

Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

The.

Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?

Ege.

Full of vexation come I, with complaint

Against my child, my daughter Hermia.

Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, 24

This man hath my consent to marry her.

Stand forth, Lysander: and, my gracious duke,

This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child:

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rimes,

And interchang’d love-tokens with my child; 29

Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,

With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;

And stol’n the impression of her fantasy 32

With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,

Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers

Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth;

With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart; 36

Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me,

To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious duke,

Be it so she will not here before your Grace

Consent to marry with Demetrius, 40

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,

As she is mine, I may dispose of her;

Which shall be either to this gentleman,

Or to her death, according to our law 44

Immediately provided in that case.

The.

What say you, Hermia? be advis’d, fair maid.

To you, your father should be as a god;

One that compos’d your beauties, yea, and one

To whom you are but as a form in wax 49

By him imprinted, and within his power

To leave the figure or disfigure it.

I do entreat your Grace to pardon me.

I know not by what power I am made bold,

Nor how it may concern my modesty 60

In such a presence here to plead my thoughts;

But I beseech your Grace, that I may know

The worst that may befall me in this case,

If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 64

The.

Either to die the death, or to abjure

For ever the society of men.

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;

Know of your youth, examine well your blood,

Whe’r, if you yield not to your father’s choice,

You can endure the livery of a nun,

For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d,

To live a barren sister all your life, 72

Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.

Thrice blessed they that master so their blood,

To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;

But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, 76

Than that which withering on the virgin thorn

Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

Her.

So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 80

Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

The.

Take time to pause; and, by the next new moon,—

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me 84

For everlasting bond of fellowship,—

Upon that day either prepare to die

For disobedience to your father’s will,

Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would; 88

Or on Diana’s altar to protest

For aye austerity and single life.

Dem.

Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield

Thy crazed title to my certain right. 92

Lys.

You have her father’s love, Demetrius;

Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

Ege.

Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,

And what is mine my love shall render him; 96

And she is mine, and all my right of her

I do estate unto Demetrius.

Lys.

I am, my lord, as well deriv’d as he,

As well possess’d; my love is more than his; 100

My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d

If not with vantage, as Demetrius’;

And, which is more than all these boasts can be,

I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia. 104

Why should not I then prosecute my right?

Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head,

Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena,

And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,

Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, 109

Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

The.

I must confess that I have heard so much,

And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; 112

But, being over-full of self-affairs,

My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;

And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,

I have some private schooling for you both. 116

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself

To fit your fancies to your father’s will,

Or else the law of Athens yields you up,

Which by no means we may extenuate, 120

To death, or to a vow of single life.

Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?

Demetrius and Egeus, go along:

I must employ you in some business 124

Against our nuptial, and confer with you

Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

Ege.

With duty and desire we follow you.

[Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, Demetrius, and Train.

Lys.

How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale? 128

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Her.

Belike for want of rain, which I could well

Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.

Lys.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, 132

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth;

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

Making it momentany as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, 144

Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,

And ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’

The jaws of darkness do devour it up: 148

So quick bright things come to confusion.

Her.

If then true lovers have been ever cross’d,

It stands as an edict in destiny:

Then let us teach our trial patience, 152

Because it is a customary cross,

As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,

Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers.

Lys.

A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia. 156

I have a widow aunt, a dowager

Of great revenue, and she hath no child:

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;

And she respects me as her only son. 160

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,

And to that place the sharp Athenian law

Cannot pursue us. If thou lov’st me then,

Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night,

And in the wood, a league without the town, 165

Where I did meet thee once with Helena,

To do observance to a morn of May,

There will I stay for thee.

Her.

My good Lysander! 168

I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow,

By his best arrow with the golden head,

By the simplicity of Venus’ doves,

By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,

And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen, 173

When the false Troyan under sail was seen,

By all the vows that ever men have broke,—

In number more than ever women spoke,— 176

In that same place thou hast appointed me,

To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lys.

Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

Enter Helena.

Her.

God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

Hel.

Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.

Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!

Your eyes are lode-stars! and your tongue’s sweet air

More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, 184

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

Sickness is catching: O! were favour so,

Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;

My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,

My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. 189

Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,

The rest I’d give to be to you translated.

O! teach me how you look, and with what art

Before the time I did Lysander see, 204

Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me:

O! then, what graces in my love do dwell,

That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell.

Lys.

Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.

To-morrow night, when Phœbe doth behold 209

Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,—

A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal,—

Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal.

Her.

And in the wood, where often you and I

Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,

Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 216

There my Lysander and myself shall meet;

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,

To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us;

And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! 221

Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight

From lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight.

Lys.

I will, my Hermia.—[Exit Hermia.] Helena, adieu: 224

As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

[Exit.

Hel.

How happy some o’er other some can be!

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she;

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;

He will not know what all but he do know; 229

And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, 232

Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: 237

And therefore is Love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjur’d every where; 241

For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne,

He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine;

And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight: 246

Then to the wood will he to-morrow night

Pursue her; and for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Wood near Athens.

Enter a Fairy on one side, and Puck on the other.

Puck.

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fai.

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,  4

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander every where,

Swifter than the moone’s sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,  8

To dew her orbs upon the green:

The cowslips tall her pensioners be;

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favours,  12

In their freckles live their savours:

I must go seek some dew-drops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone; 16

Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

Puck.

The king doth keep his revels here to-night.

Take heed the queen come not within his sight;

For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 20

Because that she as her attendant hath

A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king;

She never had so sweet a changeling;

And jealous Oberon would have the child 24

Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;

But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy,

Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy.

And now they never meet in grove, or green, 28

By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,

But they do square; that all their elves, for fear,

Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

Fai.

Either I mistake your shape and making quite, 32

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are you not he

That frights the maidens of the villagery;

Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,

And bootless make the breathless housewife churn; 37

And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;

Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?

Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,

You do their work, and they shall have good luck: 41

Are you not he?

Puck.

Fairy, thou speak’st aright;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Oberon, and make him smile 44

When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,

Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:

And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,

In very likeness of a roasted crab; 48

And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob

And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale.

The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,

Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; 52

Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,

And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough;

And then the whole quire hold their hips and loff;

And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 56

A merrier hour was never wasted there.

But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fai.

And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

Enter Oberon from one side, with his Train; and Titania from the other, with hers.

Obe.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 60

Tita.

What! jealous Oberon. Fairies, skip hence:

I have forsworn his bed and company.

Obe.

Tarry, rash wanton! am not I thy lord?

Tita.

Then, I must be thy lady; but I know

When thou hast stol’n away from fairy land, 65

And in the shape of Corin sat all day,

Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love

To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, 68

Come from the furthest steppe of India?

But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,

Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love,

To Theseus must be wedded, and you come 72

To give their bed joy and prosperity.

Obe.

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,

Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,

Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? 76

Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night

From Perigouna, whom he ravished?

And make him with fair Ægle break his faith,

With Ariadne, and Antiopa? 80

Tita.

These are the forgeries of jealousy:

And never, since the middle summer’s spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 84

Or in the beached margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 88

As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea

Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,

Have every pelting river made so proud

That they have overborne their continents: 92

The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard:

The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 96

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud,

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green

For lack of tread are undistinguishable: 100

The human mortals want their winter here:

No night is now with hymn or carol blest:

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 104

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, 108

And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter, change 112

Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which.

And this same progeny of evil comes

From our debate, from our dissension: 116

We are their parents and original.

Obe.

Do you amend it then; it lies in you.

Why should Titania cross her Oberon?

I do but beg a little changeling boy, 120

To be my henchman.

Tita.

Set your heart at rest;

The fairy land buys not the child of me.

His mother was a votaress of my order:

And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 124

Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,

And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,

Marking the embarked traders on the flood;

When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive

And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;

Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait

Following,—her womb then rich with my young squire,—

Would imitate, and sail upon the land, 132

To fetch me trifles, and return again,

As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;

And for her sake I do rear up her boy, 136

And for her sake I will not part with him.

Obe.

How long within this wood intend you stay?

Tita.

Perchance, till after Theseus’ weddingday.

If you will patiently dance in our round, 140

And see our moonlight revels, go with us;

If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Obe.

Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

Tita.

Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away! 144

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

[Exit Titania with her Train.

Obe.

Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove

Till I torment thee for this injury.

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember’st

Since once I sat upon a promontory, 149

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her song, 152

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Puck.

I remember.

Obe.

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 156

Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal throned by the west,

And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 161

Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon,

And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 164

Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,

And maidens call it, Love-in-idleness. 168

Fetch me that flower; the herb I show’d thee once:

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid

Will make or man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees. 172

Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again

Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck.

I’ll put a girdle round about the earth

In forty minutes.

[Exit.

Obe.

Having once this juice 176

I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep,

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:

The next thing then she waking looks upon,

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 180

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

She shall pursue it with the soul of love:

And ere I take this charm off from her sight,

As I can take it with another herb, 184

I’ll make her render up her page to me.

But who comes here? I am invisible,

And I will overhear their conference.

Enter Demetrius, Helena following him.

Dem.

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. 188

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me.

Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood;

And here am I, and wood within this wood, 192

Because I cannot meet my Hermia.

Hence! get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Hel.

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant:

But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 196

Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw,

And I shall have no power to follow you.

Dem.

Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 200

Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?

Hel.

And even for that do I love you the more.

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you: 204

Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,

Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,

Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love, 208

And yet a place of high respect with me,

Than to be used as you use your dog?

Dem.

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,

For I am sick when I do look on you. 212

Hel.

And I am sick when I look not on you.

Dem.

You do impeach your modesty too much,

To leave the city, and commit yourself

Into the hands of one that loves you not; 216

To trust the opportunity of night

And the ill counsel of a desert place

With the rich worth of your virginity.

Hel.

Your virtue is my privilege: for that 220

It is not night when I do see your face,

Therefore I think I am not in the night;

Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,

For you in my respect are all the world: 224

Then how can it be said I am alone,

When all the world is here to look on me?

Dem.

I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,

And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 228

Hel.

The wildest hath not such a heart as you.

Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d;

Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind 232

Makes speed to catch the tiger: bootless speed,

When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

Dem.

I will not stay thy questions: let me go;

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 236

But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Hel.

Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,

You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. 240

We cannot fight for love, as men may do;

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo.

[Exit Demetrius.

I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,

To die upon the hand I love so well.

[Exit.

Obe.

Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove, 245

Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.

Re-enter Puck.

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

Puck.

Ay, there it is.

Obe.

I pray thee, give it me. 248

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine: 252

There sleeps Titania some time of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: 256

And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.

Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:

A sweet Athenian lady is in love 260

With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;

But do it when the next thing he espies

May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man

By the Athenian garments he hath on. 264

Effect it with some care, that he may prove

More fond on her than she upon her love.

And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

Puck.

Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Wood.

Enter Titania, with her Train.

Tita.

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;

Then, for the third of a minute, hence;

Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,

Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, 4

To make my small elves coats, and some keep back

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders

At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;

Then to your offices, and let me rest. 8

The Fairies sing.

I.

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen;

Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;

Come not near our fairy queen.  12

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby:

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:

Never harm,  16

Nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So, good night, with lullaby.

II.

Weaving spiders come not here;  20

Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, &c.  24

Fai.

Hence, away! now all is well.

One aloof stand sentinel.

[Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps.

Enter Oberon, and squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids.

Obe.

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love take; 28

Love and languish for his sake:

Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,

Pard, or boar with bristled hair,

In thy eye that shall appear 32

When thou wak’st, it is thy dear.

Wake when some vile thing is near.

[Exit.

Enter Lysander and Hermia.

Lys.

Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;

And to speak troth, I have forgot our way: 36

We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,

And tarry for the comfort of the day.

Her.

Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,

For I upon this bank will rest my head. 40

Lys.

One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;

One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.

Her.

Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,

Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. 44

Lys.

O! take the sense, sweet, of my innocence,

Love takes the meaning in love’s conference.

I mean that my heart unto yours is knit,

So that but one heart we can make of it; 48

Two bosoms interchained with an oath;

So then two bosoms and a single troth.

Then by your side no bed-room me deny,

For, lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 52

Her.

Lysander riddles very prettily:

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,

If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.

But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 56

Lie further off; in human modesty,

Such separation as may well be said

Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,

So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend.

Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! 61

Lys.

Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;

And then end life when I end loyalty!

[Retires a little distance.

Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!

Her.

With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be press’d!

[They sleep.

Enter Puck.

Puck.

Through the forest have I gone,

But Athenian found I none,

On whose eyes I might approve  68

This flower’s force in stirring love.

Night and silence! who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear:

This is he, my master said,  72

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul! she durst not lie  76

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

[Squeezes the flower on Lysander’s eyelids.]

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the power this charm doth owe.

When thou wak’st, let love forbid  80

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:

So awake when I am gone;

For I must now to Oberon.

[Exit.

Enter Demetrius and Helena, running.

Hel.

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. 84

Dem.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Hel.

O! wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

Dem.

Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.

[Exit Demetrius.

Hel.

O! I am out of breath in this fond chase.

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 89

Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies;

For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.

How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:

If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. 93

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;

For beasts that meet me run away for fear;

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius 96

Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine

Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?

But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! 100

Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.

Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

Lys.

[Awaking.] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.

Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, 104

That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.

Where is Demetrius? O! how fit a word

Is that vile name to perish on my sword.

Hel.

Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. 108

What though he love your Hermia? Lord! what though?

Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

Lys.

Content with Hermia! No: I do repent

The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 112

Not Hermia, but Helena I love:

Who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason sway’d,

And reason says you are the worthier maid. 116

Things growing are not ripe until their season;

So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;

And touching now the point of human skill,

Reason becomes the marshal to my will, 120

And leads me to your eyes; where I o’erlook

Love’s stories written in love’s richest book.

Hel.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?

When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?

Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man,

That I did never, no, nor never can,

Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye,

But you must flout my insufficiency? 128

Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,

In such disdainful manner me to woo.

But fare you well: perforce I must confess

I thought you lord of more true gentleness. 132

O! that a lady of one man refus’d,

Should of another therefore be abus’d.

[Exit.

Lys.

She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there;

And never mayst thou come Lysander near. 136

For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things

The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;

Or, as the heresies that men do leave

Are hated most of those they did deceive: 140

So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,

Of all be hated, but the most of me!

And, all my powers, address your love and might

To honour Helen, and to be her knight.

[Exit.

Her.

[Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best 145

To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.

Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!

Lysander, look how I do quake with fear: 148

Methought a serpent eat my heart away,

And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.

Lysander! what! remov’d?—Lysander! lord!

What! out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word? 152

Alack! where are you? speak, an if you hear;

Speak, of all loves! I swound almost with fear.

No! then I well perceive you are not nigh:

Either death or you I’ll find immediately.

[Exit.

If that may be, than all is well. Come, sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so every one according to his cue. 81

Enter Puck, behind.

Puck.

What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,

So near the cradle of the fairy queen?

What! a play toward; I’ll be an auditor; 84

An actor too perhaps, if I see cause.

Quin.

Speak, Pyramus.—Thisby, stand forth.

Bot.

Thisby, the flowers have odious savours sweet,—

Quin.

Odorous, odorous. 88

Bot.

—odours savours sweet:

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,

And by and by I will to thee appear.

[Exit.

Puck.

A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d here!

[Exit.

Flu.

Must I speak now?

Quin.

Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand, he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. 97

Flu.

Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,

Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,

As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, 101

I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

Quin.

‘Ninus’ tomb,’ man. Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus: you speak all your part at once, cues and all. Pyramus, enter: your cue is past; it is ‘never tire.’

Flu.

O!—As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. 108

Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass’s head.

Bot.

If I were, fair Thisby, I were only thine.

Quin.

O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted.

Pray, masters! fly, masters!—Help!

[Exeunt Clowns.

Puck.

I’ll follow you, I’ll lead you about a round, 112

Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:

Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound,

A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, 116

Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

[Exit.

Bot.

Why do they run away? this is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

Re-enter Snout.

Snout.

O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee? 121

Bot.

What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?

[Exit Snout.

Re-enter Quince.

Quin.

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.

[Exit.

Bot.

I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can: I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

The ousel-cock, so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill, 132

The throstle with his note so true,

The wren with little quill.

Tita.

[Awaking.] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? 136

Bot.

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

The plain-song cuckoo gray,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

And dares not answer, nay; 140

for indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so?

Tita.

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:

Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note; 145

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;

And thy fair virtue’s force, perforce, doth move me,

On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

Bot.

Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the pity, that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. 154

Tita.

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Bot.

Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

Tita.

Out of this wood do not desire to go:

Thou shalt remain here, whe’r thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate; 161

The summer still doth tend upon my state;

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;

I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee, 164

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,

And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep:

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. 168

Pease-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes; 172

Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,

And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,

And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes,

To have my love to bed, and to arise;

Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well: that same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustard-seed.

Tita.

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. 206

The moon methinks, looks with a watery eye;

And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,

Lamenting some enforced chastity.

Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. 210

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Wood.

Enter Oberon.

Obe.

I wonder if Titania be awak’d;

Then, what it was that next came in her eye,

Which she must dote on in extremity.

Here comes my messenger.

Enter Puck.

How now, mad spirit! 4

What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

Puck.

My mistress with a monster is in love.

Near to her close and consecrated bower,

While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 8

A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,

Were met together to rehearse a play

Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial day. 12

The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,

Who Pyramus presented in their sport

Forsook his scene, and enter’d in a brake,

When I did him at this advantage take; 16

An ass’s nowl I fixed on his head:

Anon his Thisbe must be answered,

And forth my mimick comes. When they him spy,

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 20

Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,

Rising and cawing at the gun’s report,

Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky;

So, at his sight, away his fellows fly, 24

And, at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls;

He murder cries, and help from Athens calls.

Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, 27

Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;

For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;

Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch.

I led them on in this distracted fear,

And left sweet Pyramus translated there; 32

When in that moment, so it came to pass,

Titania wak’d and straightway lov’d an ass.

Obe.

This falls out better than I could devise.

But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes 36

With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

Puck.

I took him sleeping,—that is finish’d too,—

And the Athenian woman by his side;

That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d.

Enter Demetrius and Hermia.

Obe.

Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

Puck.

This is the woman; but not this the man.

Dem.

O! why rebuke you him that loves you so?

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 44

Her.

Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in knee deep,

And kill me too. 49

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me. Would he have stol’n away

From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon 52

This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon

May through the centre creep, and so displease

Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him; 56

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

Dem.

So should the murder’d look, and so should I,

Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty;

Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. 61

Her.

What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?

Ah! good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Dem.

I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. 64

Her.

Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds

Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?

Henceforth be never number’d among men!

O! once tell true, tell true, e’en for my sake; 68

Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake,

And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch!

Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?

An adder did it; for with doubler tongue 72

Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

Dem.

You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood:

I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood,

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. 76

Her.

I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

Dem.

An if I could, what should I get therefore?

Her.

A privilege never to see me more.

And from thy hated presence part I so; 80

See me no more, whe’r he be dead or no.

[Exit.

Dem.

There is no following her in this fierce vein:

Here therefore for awhile I will remain.

So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow 84

For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;

Which now in some slight measure it will pay,

If for his tender here I make some stay.

[Lies down and sleeps.

Obe.

What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite, 88

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand,

And the youth, mistook by me, 112

Pleading for a lover’s fee.

Shall we their fond pageant see?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Obe.

Stand aside: the noise they make 116

Will cause Demetrius to awake.

Puck.

Then will two at once woo one;

That must needs be sport alone;

And those things do best please me 120

That befall preposterously.

Enter Lysander and Helena.

Lys.

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?

Scorn and derision never come in tears:

Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,

In their nativity all truth appears. 125

How can these things in me seem scorn to you,

Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true?

Hel.

You do advance your cunning more and more. 128

When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!

These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er?

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:

Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales, 132

Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

Lys.

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Hel.

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er.

Lys.

Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. 136

Dem.

[Awaking.] O Helen! goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy. O! how ripe in show

Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow,

This pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow,

Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow

When thou hold’st up thy hand. O! let me kiss

That princess of pure white, this seal of bliss. 144

Hel.

O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent

To set against me for your merriment:

If you were civil and knew courtesy,

You would not do me thus much injury. 148

Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

But you must join in souls to mock me too?

If you were men, as men you are in show,

You would not use a gentle lady so; 152

To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,

When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.

You both are rivals, and love Hermia,

And now both rivals, to mock Helena: 156

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,

To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes

With your derision! none of noble sort

Would so offend a virgin, and extort 160

A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport.

Lys.

You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;

For you love Hermia; this you know I know:

And here, with all good will, with all my heart,

In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; 165

And yours of Helena to me bequeath,

Whom I do love, and will do to my death.

Hel.

Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Dem.

Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:

If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone.

My heart with her but as guest wise sojourn’d,

And now to Helen it is home return’d, 172

There to remain.

Lys.

Helen, it is not so.

Dem.

Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,

Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear.

Look! where thy love comes: yonder is thy dear.

When we have chid the hasty-footed time 200

For parting us, O! is it all forgot?

All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,

Have with our neelds created both one flower,

Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,

Both warbling of one song, both in one key,

As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,

Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 208

Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,

But yet an union in partition;

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; 212

Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,

Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.

And will you rent our ancient love asunder,

To join with men in scorning your poor friend?

It is not friendly, ’tis not maidenly: 217

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,

Though I alone do feel the injury.

Her.

I am amazed at your passionate words.

I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me.

Hel.

Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,

To follow me and praise my eyes and face,

And made your other love, Demetrius,— 224

Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,—

To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,

Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this

To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander

Deny your love, so rich within his soul, 229

And tender me, forsooth, affection,

But by your setting on, by your consent?

What though I be not so in grace as you, 232

So hung upon with love, so fortunate,

But miserable most to love unlov’d?

This you should pity rather than despise.

Her.

I understand not what you mean by this. 236

Hel.

Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,

Make mouths upon me when I turn my back;

Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 240

If you have any pity, grace, or manners,

You would not make me such an argument.

But, fare ye well: ’tis partly mine own fault,

Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 244

Lys.

Stay, gentle Helena! hear my excuse:

My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!

Hel.

O excellent!

Her.

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

Dem.

If she cannot entreat, I can compel. 248

Lys.

Thou canst compel no more than she entreat:

Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.

Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do:

I swear by that which I will lose for thee, 252

To prove him false that says I love thee not.

Dem.

I say I love thee more than he can do.

Lys.

If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.

Dem.

Quick, come!

Her.

Lysander, whereto tends all this?

Lys.

Away, you Ethiop!

Dem.

No, no, he’ll . . . 257

Seem to break loose; take on, as you would follow,

But yet come not: you are a tame man, go!

Lys.

[To Hermia.] Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose, 260

Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.

Her.

Why are you grown so rude? what change is this,

Sweet love,—

Lys.

Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!

Out, loathed medicine! hated poison, hence!

Her.

Do you not jest?

Hel.

Yes, sooth; and so do you.

Lys.

Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

Dem.

I would I had your bond, for I perceive

A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word.

Lys.

What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? 269

Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so.

Her.

What! can you do me greater harm than hate?

Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love? 272

Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?

I am as fair now as I was erewhile.

Since night you lov’d me; yet, since night you left me:

Why, then you left me,—O, the gods forbid!—

In earnest, shall I say?

Lys.

Ay, by my life; 277

And never did desire to see thee more.

Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt;

Be certain, nothing truer: ’tis no jest, 280

That I do hate thee and love Helena.

Her.

O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!

You thief of love! what! have you come by night

And stol’n my love’s heart from him?

Hel.

Fine, i’ faith!

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, 285

No touch of bashfulness? What! will you tear

Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?

Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet you! 288

Her.

Puppet! why, so: ay, that way goes the game.

Now I perceive that she hath made compare

Between our statures: she hath urg’d her height;

And with her personage, her tall personage, 292

Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him.

And are you grown so high in his esteem,

Because I am so dwarfish and so low?

How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;

How low am I? I am not yet so low 297

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Hel.

I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,

Let her not hurt me: I was never curst; 300

I have no gift at all in shrewishness;

I am a right maid for my cowardice:

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,

Because she is something lower than myself, 304

That I can match her.

Her.

Lower! hark, again.

Hel.

Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.

I evermore did love you, Hermia,

Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you;

Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 309

I told him of your stealth unto this wood.

He follow’d you; for love I follow’d him;

But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me

To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: 313

And now, so you will let me quiet go,

To Athens will I bear my folly back,

And follow you no further: let me go: 316

‘Little’ again! nothing but ‘low’ and ‘little!’

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

Let me come to her.

Lys.

Get you gone, you dwarf; 328

You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made;

You bead, you acorn!

Dem.

You are too officious

In her behalf that scorns your services.

Let her alone; speak not of Helena; 332

Take not her part, for, if thou dost intend

Never so little show of love to her,

Thou shalt aby it.

Lys.

Now she holds me not;

Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right,

Or thine or mine, is most in Helena. 337

Dem.

Follow! nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole.

[Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius.

Her.

You, mistress, all this coil is ’long of you:

Nay, go not back.

Hel.

I will not trust you, I, 340

Nor longer stay in your curst company.

Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,

My legs are longer though, to run away.

[Exit.

Her.

I am amaz’d, and know not what to say.

[Exit.

Obe.

This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st, 345

Or else commit’st thy knaveries wilfully.

Puck.

Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.

Did not you tell me I should know the man 348

By the Athenian garments he had on?

And so far blameless proves my enterprise,

That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes;

And so far am I glad it so did sort, 352

As this their jangling I esteem a sport.

Obe.

Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to fight:

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;

The starry welking cover thou anon 356

With drooping fog as black as Acheron;

And lead these testy rivals so astray,

As one come not within another’s way.

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,

Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; 361

And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;

And from each other look thou lead them thus,

Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep

With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:

Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye;

Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,

To take from thence all error with his might, 368

And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.

When they next wake, all this derision

Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision;

And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 372

With league whose date till death shall never end.

Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,

I’ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy;

And then I will her charmed eye release 376

From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace.

Puck.

My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,

For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,

And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger; 380

At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,

Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,

That in cross-ways and floods have burial,

Already to their wormy beds are gone; 384

For fear lest day should look their shames upon,

They wilfully themselves exile from light,

And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.

Obe.

But we are spirits of another sort. 388

I with the morning’s love have oft made sport;

And, like a forester, the groves may tread,

Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,

Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 392

Turns into yellow gold his salt green-streams.

But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:

We may effect this business yet ere day.

[Exit Oberon.

Puck.

Up and down, up and down; 396

I will lead them up and down:

I am fear’d in field and town;

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one. 400

Re-enter Lysander.

Lys.

Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

Puck.

Here, villain! drawn and ready. Where art thou?

Lys.

I will be with thee straight.

Puck.

Follow me, then,

To plainer ground.

[Exit Lysander as following the voice.

Re-enter Demetrius.

Dem.

Lysander! speak again. 404

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?

Puck.

Thou coward! art thou bragging to the stars,

Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars,

And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child; 409

I’ll whip thee with a rod: he is defil’d

That draws a sword on thee.

Dem.

Yea, art thou there?

Puck.

Follow my voice: we’ll try no manhood here.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Lysander.

Lys.

He goes before me and still dares me on:

When I come where he calls, then he is gone.

The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I:

I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly; 416

That fallen am I in dark uneven way,

And here will rest me. [Lies down.] Come, thou gentle day!

For if but once thou show me thy grey light,

I’ll find Demetrius and revenge this spite. 420

[Sleeps.

Re-enter Puck and Demetrius.

Puck.

Ho! ho! ho! Coward, why com’st thou not?

Dem.

Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot

Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place,

And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face.

Where art thou now?

Puck.

Come hither: I am here.

Dem.

Nay then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,

If ever I thy face by daylight see:

Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me 428

To measure out my length on this cold bed:

By day’s approach look to be visited.

[Lies down and sleeps.

Re-enter Helena.

Hel.

O weary night! O long and tedious night,

Abate thy hours! shine, comforts, from the east! 432

That I may back to Athens by daylight,

From these that my poor company detest:

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,

Steal me awhile from mine own company. 436

[Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.

Yet but three? Come one more;

Two of both kinds make up four.

Here she comes, curst and sad:

Cupid is a knavish lad, 440

Thus to make poor females mad.

Re-enter Hermia.

Her.

Never so weary, never so in woe,

Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,

I can no further crawl, no further go; 444

My legs can keep no pace with my desires.

Here will I rest me till the break of day.

Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

[Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.

On the ground  448

Sleep sound:

I’ll apply

To your eye,

Gentle lover, remedy  452

[Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eyes.

When thou wak’st,

Thou tak’st

True delight

In the sight  456

Of thy former lady’s eye:

And the country proverb known,

That every man should take his own,

In your waking shall be shown:  460

Jack shall have Jill;

Nought shall go ill;

The man shall have his mare again,

And all shall be well.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Wood. Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia lying asleep.

Enter Titania and Bottom, Fairies attending; Oberon behind unseen.

Tita.

Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,

I have a venturous fairy that shall seek

The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee thence new nuts.

Bot.

I had rather have a handful or two of dried pease. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. 45

Tita.

Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.

Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.

[Exeunt Fairies.

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 48

Gently entwist; the female ivy so

Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.

O! how I love thee; how I dote on thee!

[They sleep.

Enter Puck.

Obe.

[Advancing.] Welcome, good Robin. See’st thou this sweet sight? 52

Her dotage now I do begin to pity:

For, meeting her of late behind the wood,

Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,

I did upbraid her and fall out with her; 56

For she his hairy temples then had rounded

With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;

And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, 60

Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes

Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.

When I had at my pleasure taunted her,

And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, 64

I then did ask of her her changeling child;

Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent

To bear him to my bower in fairy land.

And now I have the boy, I will undo 68

This hateful imperfection of her eyes:

And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp

From off the head of this Athenian swain,

That he, awaking when the other do, 72

May all to Athens back again repair,

And think no more of this night’s accidents

But as the fierce vexation of a dream.

But first I will release the fairy queen. 76

[Touching her eyes with an herb.

Be as thou wast wont to be;

See as thou wast wont to see:

Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower

Hath such force and blessed power. 80

Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

Tita.

My Oberon! what visions have I seen!

Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.

Obe.

There lies your love.

Tita.

How came these things to pass?

O! how mine eyes do loathe his visage now. 85

Obe.

Silence, awhile. Robin, take off this head.

Titania, music call; and strike more dead

Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Tita.

Music, ho! music! such as charmeth sleep.

[Music.

Puck.

When thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep.

Obe.

Sound, music! [Still, music.] Come, my queen, take hands with me,

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity, 93

And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly,

And bless it to all fair prosperity. 96

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be

Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.

Puck.

Fairy king, attend, and mark:

I do hear the morning lark. 100

Obe.

Then, my queen, in silence sad,

Trip we after the night’s shade;

We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wandering moon. 104

Tita.

Come, my lord; and in our flight

Tell me how it came this night

That I sleeping here was found

With these mortals on the ground. 108

[Exeunt. Horns winded within.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train.

The.

Go, one of you, find out the forester;

For now our observation is perform’d;

And since we have the vaward of the day,

My love shall hear the music of my hounds. 112

Uncouple in the western valley; let them go:

Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,

And mark the musical confusion 116

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hip.

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear

With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear 120

Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,

The skies, the fountains, every region near

Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 124

The.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew;

Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian bulls; 128

Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tuneable

Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly: 132

Judge, when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

Ege.

My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;

And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: 136

I wonder of their being here together.

The.

No doubt they rose up early to observe

The rite of May, and, hearing our intent,

Came here in grace of our solemnity. 140

But speak, Egeus, is not this the day

That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

Ege.

It is, my lord.

The.

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. 144

[Horns and shout within. Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena, wake and start up.

Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

Lys.

Pardon, my lord.

[He and the rest kneel.

The.

I pray you all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies: 148

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

That hatred is so far from jealousy,

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

Lys.

My lord, I shall reply amazedly, 152

Half sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,

I cannot truly say how I came here;

But, as I think,—for truly would I speak,

And now I do bethink me, so it is,— 156

I came with Hermia hither: our intent

Was to be gone from Athens, where we might,

Without the peril of the Athenian law—

Ege.

Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough: 160

I beg the law, the law, upon his head.

They would have stol’n away; they would, Demetrius,

Thereby to have defeated you and me;

You of your wife, and me of my consent, 164

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

Dem.

My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,

Of this their purpose hither, to this wood;

And I in fury hither follow’d them, 168

Fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,—

But by some power it is,—my love to Hermia,

Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now 172

As the remembrance of an idle gaud

Which in my childhood I did dote upon;

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

The object and the pleasure of mine eye, 176

Is only Helena. To her, my lord,

Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia:

But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food;

But, as in health, come to my natural taste,

Now do I wish it, love it, long for it, 181

And will for evermore be true to it.

The.

Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:

Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 184

Egeus, I will overbear your will,

For in the temple, by and by, with us,

These couples shall eternally be knit:

And, for the morning now is something worn,

Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside. 189

Away with us, to Athens: three and three,

We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.

Come, Hippolyta. 192

[Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train.

Dem.

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

Her.

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

When everything seems double.

Hel.

So methinks:

And I have found Demetrius, like a jewel, 197

Mine own, and not mine own.

Dem.

Are you sure

That we are awake? It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do you not think

The duke was here, and bid us follow him? 201

Her.

Yea; and my father.

Hel.

And Hippolyta.

Lys.

And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Dem.

Why then, we are awake. Let’s follow him; 204

And by the way let us recount our dreams.

[Exeunt.

Bot.

Enter Snug.

Snug.

Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. 19

Flu.

The.

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 5

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,

Are of imagination all compact: 8

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,

That is, the madman; the lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 12

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name. 17

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That, if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy; 20

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!

Hip.

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigur’d so together, 24

More witnesseth than fancy’s images,

And grows to something of great constancy,

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

The.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. 28

Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.

Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

Lys.

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

The.

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, 32

To wear away this long age of three hours

Between our after-supper and bed-time?

Where is our usual manager of mirth?

What revels are in hand? Is there no play, 36

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Philost.

Here, mighty Theseus.

The.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque? what music? How shall we beguile 40

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost.

There is a brief how many sports are ripe;

Make choice of which your highness will see first.

[Gives a paper.

The.

The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung 44

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.

We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,

In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 48

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.

That is an old device; and it was play’d

When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

The thrice three Muses mourning for the death

Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary. 53

That is some satire keen and critical,

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus 56

And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.

Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!

That is, hot ice and wonderous strange snow.

How shall we find the concord of this discord?

Philost.

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, 61

Which is as brief as I have known a play;

But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,

Which makes it tedious; for in all the play 64

There is not one word apt, one player fitted.

And tragical, my noble lord, it is;

I will hear that play; 81

For never anything can be amiss,

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

[Exit Philostrate.

Hip.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharg’d, 85

And duty in his service perishing.

The.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hip.

He says they can do nothing in this kind. 88

The.

The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:

And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect

Takes it in might, not merit. 92

Where I have come, great clerks have purposed

To greet me with premeditated welcomes;

Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,

Make periods in the midst of sentences, 96

Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears,

And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,

Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,

Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; 100

And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much as from the rattling tongue

Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next? 128

Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion, as in dumb show.

Prol.

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;

But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.

This man is Pyramus, if you would know;

This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain. 132

This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present

Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;

And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content 135

To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.

This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,

Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,

By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn

To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. 140

This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,

The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,

Did scare away, or rather did affright;

And, as she fied, her mantle she did fall, 144

Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.

Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,

And finds his trusty Thisby’s mantle slain:

Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 148

He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast;

And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,

Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,

At large discourse, while here they do remain.

[Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine.

The.

I wonder, if the lion be to speak.

Dem.

No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do. 156

Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall

That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;

And such a wall, as I would have you think,

That had in it a crannied hole or chink, 160

Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,

Did whisper often very secretly.

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth show

That I am that same wall; the truth is so; 164

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

The.

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? 168

Dem.

It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

The.

Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!

Re-enter Pyramus.

Pyr.

O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black! 172

O night, which ever art when day is not!

O night! O night! alack, alack, alack!

I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot.

And thou, O wall! O sweet, O lovely wall! 176

That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine;

Thou wall, O wall! O sweet, and lovely wall!

Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne.

[Wall holds up his fingers.

Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! 180

But what see I? No Thisby do I see.

O wicked wall! through whom I see no bliss;

Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

The.

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. 185

Pyr.

No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me,’ is Thisby’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.

Re-enter Thisbe.

This.

O wall! full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me: 192

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones,

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

Pyr.

I see a voice: now will I to the chink,

To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face. 196

Thisby.

This.

My love! thou art my love, I think.

Pyr.

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace;

Wall.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; 208

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.

Re-enter Lion and Moonshine.

Lion.

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear 224

The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,

May now perchance both quake and tremble here,

When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 228

He should have worn the horns on his head.

The.

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. 249

Moon.

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.

The.

This is the greatest error of all the rest.

The man should be put into the lanthorn: how is it else the man i’ the moon?

Dem.

He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff. 256

Hip.

I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

The.

It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. 261

Lys.

Proceed, Moon.

Moon.

All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

Dem.

Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe. 269

Re-enter Thisbe.

This.

This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?

Lion.

[Roaring.] Oh—.

[Thisbe runs off.

Dem.

Well roared, Lion. 272

The.

Well run, Thisbe.

Hip.

Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

[The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit.

The.

Well moused, Lion. 276

Dem.

And then came Pyramus.

Lys.

And so the lion vanished.

Re-enter Pyramus.

Pyr.

Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;

I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright,

For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams,

I trust to taste of truest Thisby’s sight.

But stay, O spite!

But mark, poor knight,  284

What dreadful dole is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!  288

Thy mantle good,

What! stain’d with blood!

Approach, ye Furies fell!

O Fates, come, come,  292

Cut thread and thrum;

Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!

The.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Hip.

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyr.

O! wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?

Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear?

Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame

That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. 301

Come tears, confound;

Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus:  304

Ay, that left pap,

Where heart doth hop:

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

[Stabs himself.

Now am I dead,  308

Now am I fled;

My soul is in the sky:

Tongue, lose thy light!

Moon, take thy flight!  312

[Exit Moonshine.

Now die, die, die, die, die.

[Dies.

Dem.

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Lys.

Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing. 317

The.

With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and prove an ass.

Hip.

How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? 321

The.

She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly, and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone.

[A dance.

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve;

Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. 373

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,

As much as we this night have overwatch’d.

This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d 376

The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.

A fortnight hold we this solemnity,

In nightly revels, and new jollity.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

Enter Puck.

Puck.

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.  4

Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.  8

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide:  12

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate’s team,

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,  16

Now are frolic; not a mouse

Shall disturb this hallow’d house:

I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.  20

Enter Oberon and Titania, with their Train.

Obe.

Through the house give glimmering light

By the dead and drowsy fire;

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier; 24

And this ditty after me

Sing and dance it trippingly.

Tita.

First, rehearse your song by rote,

To each word a warbling note: 28

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

[Song and dance.

Obe.

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.  32

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.  36

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature’s hand

Shall not in their issue stand:  40

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.  44

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait,

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace;  48

Ever shall in safety rest,

And the owner of it blest.

Trip away;

Make no stay;  52

Meet me all by break of day.

[Exeunt Oberon, Titania, and Train.

Puck.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here  56

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:  60

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I’m an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,  64

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call:

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,  68

And Robin shall restore amends.

[Exit.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke of Venice.
Prince of Morocco, }	Suitors to Portia.
Prince of Arragon, }	Suitors to Portia.
Antonio,	a Merchant of Venice.
Bassanio,	his Friend.
Gratiano, }	Friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
Salanio, }
Salarino, }
Lorenzo,	in love with Jessica.
Shylock,	a rich Jew.
Tubal,	a Jew, his Friend.
Launcelot Gobbo,	a Clown, Servant to Shylock.
Old Gobbo,	Father to Launcelot.
Leonardo,	Servant to Bassanio.
Balthazar, }	Servants to Portia.
Stephano, }	Servants to Portia.
Portia,	a rich Heiress.
Nerissa,	her Waiting-maid.
Jessica,	Daughter to Shylock.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio.

Ant.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:

It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, 4

I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean; 8

There, where your argosies with portly sail,—

Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,

Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,—

Do overpeer the petty traffickers, 12

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Salan.

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

The better part of my affections would 16

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind;

Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;

And every object that might make me fear 20

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

Would make me sad.

Salar.

My wind, cooling my broth,

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 24

I should not see the sandy hour-glass run

But I should think of shallows and of flats,

And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand

Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 28

To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side 32

Would scatter all her spices on the stream,

Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;

And, in a word, but even now worth this,

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought 36

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad?

But tell not me: I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 40

Ant.

Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

Upon the fortune of this present year: 44

Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad.

Salar.

Why, then you are in love.

Ant.

Fie, fie!

Salar.

Not in love neither? Then let’s say you are sad,

Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy

For you to laugh and leap, and say you are merry, 49

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time:

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes

And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper, 53

And other of such vinegar aspect

That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 56

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.

Salan.

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

We leave you now with better company.

Salar.

I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, 60

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant.

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business calls on you,

And you embrace the occasion to depart. 64

Salar.

Good morrow, my good lords.

Bass.

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

Salar.

We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.

Lor.

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, 69

We too will leave you; but, at dinner-time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

Bass.

I will not fail you. 72

Gra.

You look not well, Signior Antonio;

You have too much respect upon the world:

They lose it that do buy it with much care:

Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d. 76

Ant.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

Gra.

Let me play the fool:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,

And let my liver rather heat with wine 81

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 84

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio—

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks—

There are a sort of men whose visages 88

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 92

As who should say, ‘I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!’

O, my Antonio, I do know of these,

That therefore only are reputed wise 96

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

I’ll tell thee more of this another time: 100

But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion.

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:

I’ll end my exhortation after dinner. 104

Lor.

Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.

I must be one of these same dumb-wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra.

Well, keep me company but two years moe, 108

By something showing a more swelling port

Than my faint means would grant continuance:

Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d

From such a noble rate; but my chief care 128

Is, to come fairly off from the great debts

Wherein my time, something too prodigal,

Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio,

I owe the most, in money and in love; 132

And from your love I have a warranty

To unburthen all my plots and purposes

How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Ant.

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; 136

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

Within the eye of honour, be assur’d,

My purse, my person, my extremest means,

Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. 140

Bass.

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

The self-same way with more advised watch,

To find the other forth, and by adventuring both,

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,

Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,

That which I owe is lost; but if you please 148

To shoot another arrow that self way

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,

As I will watch the aim, or to find both,

Or bring your latter hazard back again, 152

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant.

You know me well, and herein spend but time

To wind about my love with circumstance;

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

In making question of my uttermost 157

Than if you had made waste of all I have:

Then do but say to me what I should do

That in your knowledge may by me be done, 160

And I am prest unto it: therefore speak.

Bass.

In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages: 165

Her name is Portia; nothing undervalu’d

To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia:

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, 168

For the four winds blow in from every coast

Renowned suitors; and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strond, 172

And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio! had I but the means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift, 176

That I should questionless be fortunate.

Ant.

Thou knowest that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money, nor commodity

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth; 180

Try what my credit can in Venice do:

That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost,

To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.

Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 184

Yes, to smell pork: to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? 40

Enter Antonio.

Bass.

This is Signior Antonio.

Shy.

[Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian;

But more for that in low simplicity 44

He lends out money gratis, and brings down

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 48

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,

Even there where merchants most do congregate,

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 52

If I forgive him!

Bass.

Shylock, do you hear?

Shy.

I am debating of my present store,

And, by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantly raise up the gross 56

Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

Will furnish me. But soft! how many months

Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair, good signior; 60

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Ant.

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 64

No; not take interest; not, as you would say, 77

Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himself were compromis’d,

That all the eanlings that were streak’d and pied 80

Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank,

In end of autumn turned to the rams;

And, when the work of generation was

Between these woolly breeders in the act, 84

The skilful shepherd peel’d me certain wands,

And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time 88

Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s.

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:

And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

Ant.

This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for; 92

A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven.

Was this inserted to make interest good?

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 96

Shy.

I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast: But note me, signior.

Ant.

Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

An evil soul, producing holy witness, 100

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

A goodly apple rotten at the heart.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Shy.

Three thousand ducats; ’tis a good round sum. 104

Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.

Ant.

Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

Shy.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me 108

About my moneys and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 112

And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to then; you come to me, and you say, 116

‘Shylock, we would have moneys:’ you say so;

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. 120

What should I say to you? Should I not say,

‘Hath a dog money? Is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ or

Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key, 124

With bated breath, and whispering humbleness,

Say this:—

‘Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn’d me such a day; another time 128

You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies

I’ll lend you thus much moneys?’

Ant.

I am as like to call thee so again,

To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. 132

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not

As to thy friends,—for when did friendship take

A breed for barren metal of his friend?—

But lend it rather to thine enemy; 136

Who if he break, thou mayst with better face

Exact the penalty.

Shy.

Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you, and have your love,

Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, 140

Supply your present wants, and take no doit

Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me:

This is kind I offer.

Ant.

This were kindness.

Shy.

This kindness will I show.

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 145

Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

If you repay me not on such a day,

In such a place, such sum or sums as are 148

Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit

Be nominated for an equal pound

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

In what part of your body pleaseth me. 152

Ant.

Content, i’ faith: I’ll seal to such a bond,

And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

Bass.

You shall not seal to such a bond for me:

I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. 156

Ant.

Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:

Within these two months, that’s a month before

This bond expires, I do expect return

Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 160

Shy.

O father Abram! what these Christians are,

Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect

The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this;

If he should break his day, what should I gain

By the exaction of the forfeiture? 165

A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man,

Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 168

To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:

If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

Ant.

Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

Shy.

Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s;

Give him direction for this merry bond,

And I will go and purse the ducats straight,

See to my house, left in the fearful guard 176

Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

I will be with you.

Ant.

Hie thee, gentle Jew.

[Exit Shylock.

This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

Bass.

I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. 180

Ant.

Come on: in this there can be no dismay;

My ships come home a month before the day.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, and his Followers; Portia, Nerissa, and Others of her Train.

Mor.

Mislike me not for my complexion,

The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun,

To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.

Bring me the fairest creature northward born, 4

Where Phœbus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,

And let us make incision for your love,

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 8

Hath fear’d the valiant: by my love, I swear

The best regarded virgins of our clime

Have lov’d it too: I would not change this hue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

Por.

In terms of choice I am not solely led

By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;

Besides, the lottery of my destiny

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing: 16

But if my father had not scanted me

And hedg’d me by his wit, to yield myself

His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 20

As any comer I have look’d on yet

For my affection.

Mor.

Even for that I thank you:

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

To try my fortune. By this scimitar,— 24

That slew the Sophy, and a Persian prince

That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,—

I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,

Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 28

Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,

To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!

If Hercules and Lichas play at dice 32

Which is the better man, the greater throw

May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

So is Alcides beaten by his page;

And so may I, blind fortune leading me, 36

Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

And die with grieving.

Por.

You must take your chance;

And either not attempt to choose at all,

Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,

Never to speak to lady afterward 41

In way of marriage: therefore be advis’d.

Mor.

Nor will not: come, bring me unto my chance.

Por.

First, forward to the temple: after dinner 44

Your hazard shall be made.

Mor.

Good fortune then!

To make me blest or cursed’st among men!

[Cornets, and exeunt.

Scene II.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Launcelot Gobbo.

Laun.

Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and other Followers.

Bass.

Take leave of thy old master, and inquire 168

My lodging out. [To his followers.] Give him a livery

More guarded than his fellows’: see it done.

Laun.

Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have ne’er a tongue in my head. Well, [Looking on his palm.] if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here’s a simple line of life: here’s a small trifle of wives: alas! fifteen wives is nothing: a ’leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man; and then to ’scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple ’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. 184

[Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo.

Bass.

I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:

These things being bought, and orderly bestow’d,

Return in haste, for I do feast to-night

My best-esteem’d acquaintance: hie thee, go. 188

Leon.

My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter Gratiano.

Gra.

Where is your master?

Leon.

Yonder, sir, he walks.

Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;

Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;

Parts that become thee happily enough, 197

And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;

But where thou art not known, why, there they show

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 200

To allay with some cold drops of modesty

Thy skipping spirit, lest, through thy wild behaviour,

I be misconstru’d in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes.

Gra.

Signior Bassanio, hear me: 204

If I do not put on a sober habit,

Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say ‘amen;’

Use all the observance of civility,

Like one well studied in a sad ostent

To please his grandam, never trust me more. 212

Bass.

Well, we shall see your bearing.

Gra.

Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me

By what we do to-night.

Bass.

No, that were pity:

I would entreat you rather to put on 216

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

That purpose merriment. But fare you well:

I have some business.

Gra.

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; 220

But we will visit you at supper-time.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in Shylock’s House.

Enter Jessica and Launcelot.

Jes.

I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:

Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,

Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee: 4

And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see

Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest:

Give him this letter; do it secretly;

And so farewell: I would not have my father 8

See me in talk with thee.

Laun.

Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian did not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit: adieu!

Jes.

Farewell, good Launcelot.

[Exit Launcelot.

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me 16

To be asham’d to be my father’s child!

But though I am a daughter to his blood,

I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo!

If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 20

Become a Christian, and thy loving wife.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio.

Lor.

Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,

Disguise us at my lodging, and return

All in an hour.

Gra.

We have not made good preparation. 4

Salar.

We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.

Salan.

’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,

And better, in my mind, not undertook.

Lor.

’Tis now but four o’clock: we have two hours 8

Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica

I will not fail her; speak it privately. 21

Go, gentlemen,

[Exit Launcelot.

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?

I am provided of a torch-bearer. 24

Salar.

Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.

Salan.

And so will I.

Lor.

Meet me and Gratiano

At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

Salar.

’Tis good we do so. 28

[Exeunt Salarino and Salanio.

Gra.

Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

Lor.

I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed

How I shall take her from her father’s house;

What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with; 32

What page’s suit she hath in readiness.

If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven,

It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake;

And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 36

Unless she do it under this excuse,

That she is issue to a faithless Jew.

Come, go with me: peruse this as thou goest.

Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Before Shylock’s House.

Enter Shylock and Launcelot.

Shy.

Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—

What, Jessical—thou shalt not gormandize,

As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessical—

And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out— 5

Why, Jessica, I say!

Laun.

Why, Jessica!

Shy.

Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

Laun.

Your worship was wont to tell me that

I could do nothing without bidding. 9

Enter Jessica.

Jes.

Call you? What is your will?

Shy.

I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:

There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?

I am not bid for love; they flatter me: 13

But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon

The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,

Look to my house. I am right loath to go: 16

There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,

For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

Laun.

I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach. 20

Shy.

So do I his.

Laun.

And they have conspired together: I will not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last, at six o’clock i’ the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon.

Shy.

What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: 28

Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,

And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,

Clamber not you up to the casements then,

Nor thrust your head into the public street 32

To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces,

But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements;

Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter

My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear 36

I have no mind of feasting forth to-night;

But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;

Say I will come.

Laun.

I will go before, air. Mistress, look out at window, for all this; 41

There will come a Christian by,

Will be worth a Jewess’ eye.

[Exit Launcelot.

Shy.

What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha? 44

Jes.

His words were, ‘Farewell, mistress;’ nothing else.

Shy.

The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;

Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day

More than the wild cat: drones hive not with me; 48

Therefore I part with him, and part with him

To one that I would have him help to waste

His borrow’d purse. Well, Jessica, go in:

Perhaps I will return immediately: 52

Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:

‘Fast bind, fast find,’

A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[Exit.

Jes.

Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,

I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same.

Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued.

Gra.

This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo

Desir’d us to make stand.

Salar.

His hour is almost past.

Gra.

And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,

For lovers ever run before the clock. 4

Salar.

O! ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly

To seal love’s bonds new-made, than they are wont

To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

Gra.

That ever holds: who riseth from a feast

With that keen appetite that he sits down? 9

Where is the horse that doth untread again

His tedious measures with the unbated fire

That he did pace them first? All things that are,

Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. 13

How like a younker or a prodigal

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! 16

How like the prodigal doth she return,

With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails,

Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Salar.

Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter. 20

Enter Lorenzo.

Lor.

Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;

Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:

When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,

I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach; 24

Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes.

Jes.

Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.

Lor.

Lorenzo, and thy love. 28

Jes.

Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,

For whom love I so much? And now who knows

But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

Lor.

Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. 32

Jes.

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,

For I am much asham’d of my exchange;

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 36

The pretty follies that themselves commit;

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformed to a boy.

Lor.

Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. 40

Jes.

What! must I hold a candle to my shames?

They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light.

Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love,

And I should be obscur’d.

Lor.

So are you, sweet, 44

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

But come at once;

For the close night doth play the runaway,

And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. 48

Jes.

I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

[Exit above.

Gra.

Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.

Lor.

Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; 52

For she is wise, if I can judge of her,

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself;

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,

Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 57

Enter Jessica.

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!

Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

[Exit with Jessica and Salarino.

Enter Antonio.

Ant.

Who’s there? 60

Gra.

Signior Antonio!

Ant.

Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?

’Tis nine o’clock; our friends all stay for you.

No masque to-night: the wind is come about; 64

Bassanio presently will go aboard:

I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

Gra.

I am glad on’t: I desire no more delight

Than to be under sail and gone to-night. 68

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and their Trains.

Por.

Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover

The several caskets to this noble prince.

Now make your choice.

Mor.

The first, of gold, which this inscription bears: 4

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

The second, silver, which this promise carries:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt:

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. 9

How shall I know if I do choose the right?

Por.

The one of them contains my picture, prince:

If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 12

Mor.

Some god direct my judgment! Let me see:

I will survey the inscriptions back again:

What says this leaden casket?

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. 16

Must give: For what? for lead? hazard for lead?

This casket threatens. Men that hazard all

Do it in hope of fair advantages:

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; 20

I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.

What says the silver with her virgin hue?

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,

And weigh thy value with an even hand. 25

If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough

May not extend so far as to the lady: 28

And yet to be afeard of my deserving

Were but a weak disabling of myself.

As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady:

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 32

In graces, and in qualities of breeding;

But more than these, in love I do deserve.

What if I stray’d no further, but chose here?

Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: 36

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.

Why, that’s the lady: all the world desires her;

From the four corners of the earth they come,

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:

The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds 41

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now

For princes to come view fair Portia:

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 44

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come,

As o’er a brook, to see fair Portia.

One of these three contains her heavenly picture.

Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation 49

To think so base a thought: it were too gross

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d, 52

Being ten times undervalu’d to tried gold?

O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England

A coin that bears the figure of an angel 56

Stamped in gold, but that’s insculp’d upon;

But here an angel in a golden bed

Lies all within. Deliver me the key:

Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! 60

Por.

There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,

Then I am yours.

[He unlocks the golden casket.

Mor.

O hell! what have we here?

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.

All that glisters is not gold;  65

Often have you heard that told:

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold:  68

Gilded tombs do worms infold.

Had you been as wise as bold,

Young in limbs, in judgment old,

Your answer had not been inscroll’d:  72

Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Cold, indeed; and labour lost:

Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!

Portia, adieu. I have too griev’d a heart 76

To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

[Exit with his Train. Flourish of Cornets.

Por.

A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go.

Let all of his complexion choose me so.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— Venice. A Street.

Enter Salarino and Salanio.

Salar.

Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:

With him is Gratiano gone along;

And in their ship I’m sure Lorenzo is not.

Salan.

The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the duke, 4

Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

Salar.

He came too late, the ship was under sail:

But there the duke was given to understand

That in a gondola were seen together 8

Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.

Besides, Antonio certified the duke

They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

Salan.

I never heard a passion so confus’d, 12

So strange, outrageous, and so variable,

As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:

‘My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!

Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!

A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter!

And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones, 20

Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.’

Salar.

Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,

Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

Salan.

Let good Antonio look he keep his day, 25

Or he shall pay for this.

Salar.

Marry, well remember’d.

I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday,

Who told me,—in the narrow seas that part 28

The French and English,—there miscarried

A vessel of our country richly fraught.

I thought upon Antonio when he told me,

And wish’d in silence that it were not his. 32

Salan.

You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

Salar.

A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: 36

Bassanio told him he would make some speed

Of his return: he answer’d ‘Do not so;

Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,

But stay the very riping of the time; 40

And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me,

Let it not enter in your mind of love:

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts

To courtship and such fair ostents of love 44

As shall conveniently become you there:’

And even there, his eye being big with tears,

Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

And with affection wondrous sensible 48

He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted.

Salan.

I think he only loves the world for him.

I pray thee, let us go and find him out,

And quicken his embraced heaviness 52

With some delight or other.

Salar.

Do we so.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Nerissa, with a Servitor.

Ner.

Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:

The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath,

And comes to his election presently.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains.

Por.

Behold, there stands the caskets, noble prince: 4

If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,

Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d;

But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

You must be gone from hence immediately. 8

Ar.

I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:

First, never to unfold to any one

Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail

Of the right casket, never in my life 12

To woo a maid in way of marriage;

Lastly,

If I do fail in fortune of my choice,

Immediately to leave you and be gone. 16

Por.

To these injunctions every one doth swear

That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

Ar.

And so have I address’d me. Fortune now

To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead.

Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath: 21

You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.

What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:

Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. 24

What many men desire! that ‘many’ may be meant

By the fool multitude, that choose by show,

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;

Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet, 28

Builds in the weather on the outward wall,

Even in the force and road of casualty.

I will not choose what many men desire,

Because I will not jump with common spirits 32

And rank me with the barbarous multitude.

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. 36

And well said too; for who shall go about

To cozen fortune and be honourable

Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume

To wear an undeserved dignity. 40

O! that estates, degrees, and offices

Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour

Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer.

How many then should cover that stand bare;

How many be commanded that command; 45

How much low peasantry would then be glean’d

From the true seed of honour; and how much honour

Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times 48

To be new varnish’d! Well, but to my choice:

Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,

And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 52

[He opens the silver casket.

Por.

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

Ar.

What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,

Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.

How much unlike art thou to Portia! 56

How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!

Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.

Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?

Is that my prize? are my deserts no better? 60

Por.

To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,

And of opposed natures.

Ar.

What is here?

The fire seven times tried this:

Seven times tried that judgment is  64

That did never choose amiss.

Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow’s bliss:

There be fools alive, I wis,  68

Silver’d o’er; and so was this.

Take what wife you will to bed,

I will ever be your head:

So be gone, sir: you are sped.  72

Still more fool I shall appear

By the time I linger here:

With one fool’s head I came to woo,

But I go away with two. 76

Sweet, adieu. I’ll keep my oath,

Patiently to bear my wroth.

[Exit Arragon with his Train.

Por.

Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth.

O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 81

Ner.

The ancient saying is no heresy:

‘Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.’

Por.

Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 84

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Where is my lady?

Por.

Here; what would my lord?

Ser.

Madam, there is alighted at your gate

A young Venetian, one that comes before

To signify the approaching of his lord; 88

From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,

To wit, — besides commends and courteous breath,—

Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen

So likely an embassador of love. 92

A day in April never came so sweet,

To show how costly summer was at hand,

As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

Por.

No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard

Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, 97

Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him.

Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see

Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly. 100

Ner.

Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.

Salar.

We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter Tubal.

Salan.

Scene II.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants.

Por.

I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong.

I lose your company: therefore, forbear awhile.

There’s something tells me, but it is not love,

I would not lose you; and you know yourself, 5

Hate counsels not in such a quality.

But lest you should not understand me well,—

And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,—

I would detain you here some month or two 9

Before you venture for me. I could teach you

How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;

So will I never be: so may you miss me; 12

But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin,

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

They have o’erlook’d me and divided me:

One half of me is yours, the other half yours, 16

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

And so all yours. O! these naughty times

Put bars between the owners and their rights;

And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, 20

Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

I speak too long; but ’tis to peise the time,

To eke it and to draw it out in length,

To stay you from election.

Bass.

Let me choose; 24

For as I am, I live upon the rack.

Por.

Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess

What treason there is mingled with your love.

Bass.

None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love:

There may as well be amity and life 30

’Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

Por.

Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

Where men enforced do speak anything. 33

Bass.

Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth.

Por.

Well then, confess, and live.

Bass.

‘Confess’ and ‘love’

Had been the very sum of my confession: 36

O happy torment, when my torturer

Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

Por.

Away then! I am lock’d in one of them:

If you do love me, you will find me out. 41

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.

Let music sound while he doth make his choice;

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, 44

Fading in music: that the comparison

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream

And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

And what is music then? then music is 48

Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

To a new-crowned monarch: such it is

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear,

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, 53

With no less presence, but with much more love,

Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy 56

To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice;

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

With bleared visages, come forth to view

The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! 60

Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay

I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray.

[A Song, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself.

Tell me where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head? 64

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engender’d in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and fancy dies 68

In the cradle where it lies

Let us all ring fancy’s knell;

I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.

All.

Ding, dong, bell. 72

Bass.

So may the outward shows be least themselves:

The world is still deceiv’d with ornament.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt

But, being season’d with a gracious voice, 76

Obscures the show of evil? In religion,

What damned error, but some sober brow

Will bless it and approve it with a text,

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? 80

There is no vice so simple but assumes

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins 84

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,

Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk;

And these assume but valour’s excrement

To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, 88

And you shall see ’tis purchas’d by the weight;

Which therein works a miracle in nature,

Making them lightest that wear most of it:

So are those crisped snaky golden locks 92

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,

Upon supposed fairness, often known

To be the dowry of a second head,

The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre. 96

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,

The seeming truth which cunning times put on

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, 104

Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught,

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,

And here choose I: joy be the consequence!

Por.

[Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air, 108

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair,

And shuddering fear, and green-ey’d jealousy.

O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy;

In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess; 112

I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,

For fear I surfeit!

Bass.

What find I here?

[Opening the leaden casket.

Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god

Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?

Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 117

Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,

Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar

Should sunder such sweet friends. Here, in her hairs 120

The painter plays the spider, and hath woven

A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men

Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes!—

How could he see to do them? having made one,

Methinks it should have power to steal both his

And leave itself unfurnish’d: yet look, how far

The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow

In underprizing it, so far this shadow 128

Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll,

The continent and summary of my fortune.

You that choose not by the view,

Chance as fair and choose as true! 132

Since this fortune falls to you,

Be content and seek no new.

If you be well pleas’d with this

And hold your fortune for your bliss, 136

Turn you where your lady is

And claim her with a loving kiss.

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;

[Kissing her.

I come by note, to give and to receive. 140

Like one of two contending in a prize,

That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes,

Hearing applause and universal shout,

Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt 144

Whether those peals of praise be his or no;

So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so,

As doubtful whether what I see be true,

Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. 148

Por.

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am: though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet, for you 152

I would be trebled twenty times myself;

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high in your account, 156

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account: but the full sum of me

Is sum of nothing; which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 161

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 164

Commits itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Myself and what is mine to you and yours

Is now converted: but now I was the lord 168

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,

This house, these servants, and this same myself

Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring;

Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

Let it presage the ruin of your love,

And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

Bass.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words,

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; 177

And there is such confusion in my powers,

As, after some oration fairly spoke

By a beloved prince, there doth appear 180

Among the buzzing pleased multitude;

Where every something, being blent together,

Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,

Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring

Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence: 185

O! then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead.

Ner.

My lord and lady, it is now our time,

That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,

To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady!

Gra.

My Lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,

I wish you all the joy that you can wish;

For I am sure you can wish none from me: 192

And when your honours mean to solemnize

The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,

Even at that time I may be married too.

Bass.

With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. 196

Gra.

I thank your lordship, you have got me one.

My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:

You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;

You lov’d, I lov’d for intermission. 200

No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.

Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,

And so did mine too, as the matter falls;

For wooing here until I sweat again, 204

And swearing till my very roof was dry

With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,

No; we shall ne’er win at that sport, and stake down.

But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel?

What! and my old Venetian friend, Salanio? 220

Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salanio.

Bass.

Lorenzo, and Salanio, welcome hither,

If that the youth of my new interest here

Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,

I bid my very friends and countrymen, 224

Sweet Portia, welcome.

Por.

So do I, my lord:

They are entirely welcome.

Lor.

I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,

My purpose was not to have seen you here; 228

But meeting with Salanio by the way,

He did entreat me, past all saying nay,

To come with him along.

Salan.

I did, my lord,

And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio 232

Commends him to you.

[Gives Bassanio a letter.

Bass

Ere I ope his letter,

I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.

Salan.

Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;

Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there 236

Will show you his estate.

Gra.

Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.

Your hand, Salanio. What’s the news from Venice?

How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?

I know he will be glad of our success; 241

We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

Salan.

I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

Por.

There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper, 244

That steal the colour from Bassanio’s cheek:

Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world

Could turn so much the constitution

Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!

With leave, Bassanio; I am half yourself, 249

And I must freely have the half of anything

That this same paper brings you.

Bass.

O sweet Portia!

Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words 252

That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

I freely told you all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman: 256

And then I told you true; and yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much I was a braggart. When I told you

My state was nothing, I should then have told you

That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed, 261

I have engag’d myself to a dear friend,

Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy,

To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady; 264

The paper as the body of my friend,

And every word in it a gaping wound,

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio?

Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit?

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, 269

From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?

And not one vessel ’scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks?

Salan.

Not one, my lord. 272

Besides, it should appear, that if he had

The present money to discharge the Jew,

He would not take it. Never did I know

A creature, that did bear the shape of man, 276

So keen and greedy to confound a man.

He plies the duke at morning and at night,

And doth impeach the freedom of the state,

If they deny him justice: twenty merchants, 280

The duke himself, and the magnificoes

Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;

But none can drive him from the envious plea

Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler.

Shy.

Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;

This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

Gaoler, look to him.

Ant.

Hear me yet, good Shylock.

Shy.

I’ll have my bond; speak not against my bond: 4

I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:

The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,

Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 9

To come abroad with him at his request.

Ant.

I pray thee, hear me speak.

Shy.

I’ll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak: 12

I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more.

I’ll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield

To Christian intercessors. Follow not; 16

I’ll have no speaking; I will have my bond.

[Exit.

Salar.

It is the most impenetrable cur

That ever kept with men.

Ant.

Let him alone:

I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

He seeks my life; his reason well I know. 21

I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures

Many that have at times made moan to me;

Therefore he hates me.

Salar.

I am sure the duke 24

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

Ant.

The duke cannot deny the course of law:

For the commodity that strangers have

With us in Venice, if it be denied, 28

’Twill much impeach the justice of the state;

Since that the trade and profit of the city

Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:

These griefs and losses have so bated me, 32

That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh

To-morrow to my bloody creditor.

Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come

To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! 36

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Belmont. A Room in Portia’s House.

Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthazar.

Lor.

Madam, although I speak it in your presence,

You have a noble and a true conceit

Of god-like amity; which appears most strongly

In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 4

But if you knew to whom you show this honour,

How true a gentleman you send relief,

How dear a lover of my lord your husband,

I know you would be prouder of the work 8

Than customary bounty can enforce you.

Por.

I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now: for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 13

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit;

Which makes me think that this Antonio, 16

Being the bosom lover of my lord,

Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,

How little is the cost I have bestow’d

In purchasing the semblance of my soul 20

From out the state of hellish cruelty!

This comes too near the praising of myself;

Therefore, no more of it: hear other things.

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 24

The husbandry and manage of my house

Until my lord’s return: for mine own part,

I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow

To live in prayer and contemplation, 28

Only attended by Nerissa here,

Until her husband and my lord’s return.

There is a monastery two miles off,

And there will we abide. I do desire you 32

Not to deny this imposition,

The which my love and some necessity

Now lays upon you.

Lor.

Madam, with all my heart:

I shall obey you in all fair commands. 36

Por.

My people do already know my mind,

And will acknowledge you and Jessica

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

So fare you well till we shall meet again. 40

Lor.

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

Jes.

I wish your ladyship all heart’s content.

Por.

I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas’d

To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica.

[Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo.

Now, Balthazar, 45

As I have ever found thee honest-true,

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,

And use thou all the endeavour of a man 48

In speed to Padua: see thou render this

Into my cousin’s hand, Doctor Bellario;

And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed 52

Unto the traject, to the common ferry

Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,

But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.

Balth.

Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

[Exit.

Por.

Come on, Nerissa: I have work in hand

That you yet know not of: we’ll see our husbands

Before they think of us.

Ner.

Shall they see us?

Por.

They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit

That they shall think we are accomplished 61

With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager,

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 64

And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

And speak between the change of man and boy

With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride, and speak of frays 68

Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,

How honourable ladies sought my love,

Which I denying, they fell sick and died:

I could not do withal; then I’ll repent, 72

And wish, for all that, that I had not kill’d them:

And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell,

That men shall swear I have discontinu’d school

Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,

Which I will practise.

Ner.

Why, shall we turn to men?

Por.

Fie, what a question’s that,

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! 80

But come: I’ll tell thee all my whole device

When I am in my coach, which stays for us

Truly the more to blame he: we were Christians enow before; e’en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. 27

Jes.

I’ll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.

Enter Lorenzo.

[Exit.

Lor.

O dear discretion, how his words are suited!

The fool hath planted in his memory 72

An army of good words: and I do know

A many fools, that stand in better place,

Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word

Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion; 77

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife?

Jes.

Past all expressing. It is very meet,

The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, 80

For, having such a blessing in his lady,

He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;

And if on earth he do not mean it, then

In reason he should never come to heaven. 84

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,

And on the wager lay two earthly women,

And Portia one, there must be something else

Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world

Hath not her fellow.

Lor.

Ant.

Ready, so please your Grace.

Duke.

I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 4

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Ant.

I have heard

Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, 8

And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury, and am arm’d

To suffer with a quietness of spirit 12

The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke.

Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

Salar.

He’s ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

Enter Shylock.

Duke.

Make room, and let him stand before our face. 16

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy malice

To the last hour of act; and then ’tis thought

Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange 20

Than is thy strange-apparent cruelty;

And where thou now exact’st the penalty,—

Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh,—

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 24

But, touch’d with human gentleness and love,

Forgive a moiety of the principal;

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

That have of late so huddled on his back, 28

Enow to press a royal merchant down,

And pluck commiseration of his state

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d

To offices of tender courtesy. 33

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shy.

I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose;

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn 36

To have the due and forfeit of my bond:

If you deny it, let the danger light

Upon your charter and your city’s freedom.

You’ll ask me, why I rather choose to have 40

A weight of carrion flesh than to receive

Three thousand ducats: I’ll not answer that:

But say it is my humour: is it answer’d?

What if my house be troubled with a rat, 44

And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats

To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet?

Some men there are love not a gaping pig;

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat; 48

And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose,

Cannot contain their urine: for affection,

Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood

Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer: 52

As there is no firm reason to be render’d,

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;

Why he, a harmless necessary cat;

Why he, a wauling bagpipe; but of force 56

Must yield to such inevitable shame

As to offend, himself being offended;

So can I give no reason, nor I will not,

More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 61

A losing suit against him. Are you answer’d?

Bass.

This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

I pray you, think you question with the Jew:

You may as well go stand upon the beach,

And bid the main flood bate his usual height; 72

You may as well use question with the wolf,

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

You may as well forbid the mountain pines

To wag their high tops, and to make no noise 76

When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;

You may as well do anything most hard,

As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?—

His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,

Make no more offers, use no further means; 81

But with all brief and plain conveniency,

Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.

Bass.

For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 84

Shy.

If every ducat in six thousand ducats

Were in six parts and every part a ducat,

I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

Duke.

How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none? 88

Shy.

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchas’d slave,

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts, 92

Because you bought them: shall I say to you,

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season’d with such viands? You will answer: 97

‘The slaves are ours:’ so do I answer you:

The pound of flesh which I demand of him,

Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it.

If you deny me, fie upon your law! 101

There is no force in the decrees of Venice.

I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

Duke.

Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 104

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day.

Salar.

My lord, here stays without

A messenger with letters from the doctor, 108

New come from Padua.

Duke.

Bring us the letters: call the messenger.

Bass.

Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 112

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

Ant.

I am a tainted wether of the flock,

Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit

Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me: 116

You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio,

Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer’s clerk.

Duke.

Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

Ner.

From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.

[Presents a letter.

Bass.

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? 121

Shy.

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

Gra.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou mak’st thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness 125

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

Shy.

No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

Gra.

O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! 128

And for thy life let justice be accus’d.

Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith

To hold opinion with Pythagoras,

That souls of animals infuse themselves 132

Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit

Govern’d a wolf, who, hang’d for human slaughter,

Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,

And whilst thou lay’st in thy unhallow’d dam,

Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires 137

Are wolfish, bloody, starv’d, and ravenous.

Shy.

Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,

Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud:

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 141

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

Duke.

This letter from Bellario doth commend

A young and learned doctor to our court. 144

Where is he?

Ner.

He attendeth here hard by,

To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him.

Duke.

With all my heart: some three or four of you

Go give him courteous conduct to this place. 148

Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter.

Clerk.

Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o’er many books together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with his own learning,—the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,—comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation. 166

Duke.

You hear the learn’d Bellario, what he writes:

And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.

Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario?

Por.

I did, my lord.

Duke.

You are welcome: take your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference 171

That holds this present question in the court?

Por.

I am informed throughly of the cause.

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

Duke.

Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Por.

Is your name Shylock?

Shy.

Shylock is my name. 176

Por.

Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

The quality of mercy is not strain’d, 184

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 188

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 193

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself,

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 198

That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy, 200

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea,

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. 205

Shy.

My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Por.

Is he not able to discharge the money?

Bass.

Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 209

Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,

I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er,

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. 212

If this will not suffice, it must appear

That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you,

Wrest once the law to your authority:

To do a great right, do a little wrong, 216

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Por.

It must not be. There is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established:

’Twill be recorded for a precedent, 220

And many an error by the same example

Will rush into the state. It cannot be.

Shy.

A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

Why, this bond is forfeit;

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 232

Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful:

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

Shy.

When it is paid according to the tenour.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge; 236

You know the law, your exposition

Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear 240

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me. I stay here on my bond.

I cannot find it: ’tis not in the bond.

Por.

You, merchant, have you anything to say? 264

Ant.

But little: I am arm’d and well prepar’d.

Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!

Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;

For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 268

Than is her custom: it is still her use

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow

An age of poverty; from which lingering penance 272

Of such a misery doth she cut me off.

Commend me to your honourable wife:

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end;

Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death; 276

And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge

Whether Bassanio had not once a love.

Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,

And he repents not that he pays your debt; 280

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,

I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart.

Bass.

Antonio, I am married to a wife

Which is as dear to me as life itself; 284

But life itself, my wife, and all the world,

Are not with me esteem’d above thy life:

I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all,

Here to this devil, to deliver you. 288

Por.

Your wife would give you little thanks for that,

If she were by to hear you make the offer.

Gra.

I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:

I would she were in heaven, so she could 292

Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

Ner.

’Tis well you offer it behind her back;

The wish would make else an unquiet house.

Shy.

These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter; 296

Would any of the stock of Barabbas

Had been her husband rather than a Christian!

Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 312

Unto the state of Venice.

Gra.

O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

Shy.

Is that the law?

Por.

Thyself shalt see the act;

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d 316

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.

Gra.

O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!

Shy.

I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,

And let the Christian go.

Bass.

Here is the money. 320

Por.

Soft!

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:—

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gra.

O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! 324

Por.

Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.

Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more,

But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak’st more,

Or less, than a just pound, be it but so much 328

As makes it light or heavy in the substance,

Or the division of the twentieth part

Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn

But in the estimation of a hair, 332

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.

Gra.

A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

Por.

Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture. 336

Shy.

Give me my principal, and let me go.

Bass.

I have it ready for thee; here it is.

Por.

He hath refus’d it in the open court:

He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 340

Gra.

A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shy.

Shall I not have barely my principal?

Por.

Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 344

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

Shy.

Why, then the devil give him good of it!

I’ll stay no longer question.

Por.

Tarry, Jew:

The law hath yet another hold on you. 348

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be prov’d against an alien

That by direct or indirect attempts

He seek the life of any citizen, 352

The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive

Shall seize one half his goods; the other half

Comes to the privy coffer of the state;

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy 356

Of the duke only, ’gainst all other voice.

In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st;

For it appears by manifest proceeding,

That indirectly and directly too 360

Thou hast contriv’d against the very life

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d

The danger formerly by me rehears’d.

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke. 364

Gra.

Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,

Thou hast not left the value of a cord;

Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. 368

Duke.

That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s;

The other half comes to the general state, 372

Which humbleness may drive into a fine.

Por.

Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.

Shy.

Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:

You take my house when you do take the prop

That doth sustain my house; you take my life

When you do take the means whereby I live.

Por.

What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

Gra.

A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s sake! 380

Ant.

So please my lord the duke, and all the court,

To quit the fine for one half of his goods,

I am content; so he will let me have

The other half in use, to render it, 384

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

That lately stole his daughter:

Two things provided more, that, for this favour,

He presently become a Christian; 388

The other, that he do record a gift,

Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d,

Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter.

Duke.

He shall do this, or else I do recant

The pardon that I late pronounced here. 393

Por.

Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

Shy.

I am content.

Por.

Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shy.

I pray you give me leave to go from hence:

I am not well. Send the deed after me, 397

And I will sign it.

Duke.

Get thee gone, but do it.

Gra.

In christening thou shalt have two godfathers;

Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 400

To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.

[Exit Shylock.

Duke.

Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

Por.

I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon:

I must away this night toward Padua, 404

And it is meet I presently set forth.

Duke.

I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.

Antonio, gratify this gentleman,

For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.

[Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train.

Bass.

Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend

Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted

Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,

Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 412

We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

Ant.

And stand indebted, over and above,

In love and service to you evermore.

Por.

He is well paid that is well satisfied; 416

And I, delivering you, am satisfied,

And therein do account myself well paid:

My mind was never yet more mercenary.

I pray you, know me when we meet again: 420

I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

Bass.

Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:

Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,

Not as a fee. Grant me two things, I pray you,

Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 425

Por.

You press me far, and therefore I will yield.

[To Ant.] Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for your sake;

[To Bass.] And, for your love, I’ll take this ring from you. 428

Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more;

And you in love shall not deny me this.

Bass.

This ring, good sir? alas! it is a trifle;

I will not shame myself to give you this. 432

Por.

I will have nothing else but only this;

And now methinks I have a mind to it.

Bass.

There’s more depends on this than on the value.

The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 436

And find it out by proclamation:

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

Por.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers:

You taught me first to beg, and now methinks

You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d.

Bass.

Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;

And, when she put it on, she made me vow

That I should never sell nor give nor lose it. 444

Por.

That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts.

An if your wife be not a mad-woman,

And know how well I have deserv’d the ring,

She would not hold out enemy for ever, 448

For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you.

[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa.

Ant.

My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:

Let his deservings and my love withal

Be valu’d ’gainst your wife’s commandment. 452

Bass.

Go, Gratiano; run and overtake him;

Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,

Unto Antonio’s house. Away! make haste.

[Exit Gratiano.

Come, you and I will thither presently, 456

And in the morning early will we both

Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Portia and Nerissa.

Por.

Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed,

And let him sign it. We’ll away to-night,

And be a day before our husbands home:

This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 4

Enter Gratiano.

Gra.

Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en.

My Lord Bassanio upon more advice

Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat

Your company at dinner.

Por.

That cannot be: 8

His ring I do accept most thankfully;

And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,

I pray you, show my youth old Shylock’s house.

Gra.

That will I do.

Ner.

Sir, I would speak with you. 12

[Aside to Portia.] I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring,

Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

Por.

Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing

That they did give the rings away to men; 16

But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too.

Away! make haste: thou know’st where I will tarry.

Ner.

Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Belmont. The Avenue to Portia’s House.

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica.

Lor.

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees

And they did make no noise, in such a night

Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, 4

And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night.

Jes.

In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew,

And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, 8

And ran dismay’d away.

Lor.

Who comes with her? 32

Steph.

None, but a holy hermit and her maid.

I pray you, is my master yet return’d?

Lor.

He is not, nor we have not heard from him.

But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 36

And ceremoniously let us prepare

Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

Enter Launcelot.

Laun.

Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

Lor.

Who calls? 40

Laun.

Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?

Master Lorenzo! sola, sola!

Lor.

Leave hollaing, man; here.

Laun.

Sola! where? where? 44

Lor.

Here.

Laun.

Tell him there’s a post come from my master, with his horn full of good news: my master will be here ere morning.

[Exit.

Lor.

Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming. 49

And yet no matter; why should we go in?

My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,

Within the house, your mistress is at hand; 52

And bring your music forth into the air.

[Exit Stephano.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night 56

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st

But in his motion like an angel sings, 61

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 64

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter Musicians.

Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear,

And draw her home with music.

[Music.

Jes.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 69

Lor.

The reason is, your spirits are attentive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 72

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood;

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,

Or any air of music touch their ears, 76

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,

Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze

By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; 80

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,

But music for the time doth change his nature.

The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; 85

The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.

Por.

That light we see is burning in my hall.

How far that little candle throws his beams!

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

Ner.

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. 92

Por.

So doth the greater glory dim the less:

A substitute shines brightly as a king

Until a king be by, and then his state

Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 96

Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

Ner.

It is your music, madam, of the house.

Por.

Nothing is good, I see, without respect:

Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Ner.

Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

Por.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark

When neither is attended, and I think

The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 104

When every goose is cackling, would be thought

No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season’d are

To their right praise and true perfection! 108

Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion,

And would not be awak’d!

[Music ceases.

Lor.

That is the voice,

Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia.

Por.

He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 112

By the bad voice.

Lor.

Dear lady, welcome home.

Por.

We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare,

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.

Are they return’d?

Lor.

Madam, they are not yet; 116

But there is come a messenger before,

To signify their coming.

Por.

Go in, Nerissa:

Give order to my servants that they take

No note at all of our being absent hence; 120

Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.

[A tucket sounds.

Lor.

Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:

We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

Por.

This night methinks is but the daylight sick; 124

It looks a little paler: ’tis a day,

Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their Followers.

Bass.

Gra.

About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring

That she did give me, whose poesy was 148

For all the world like cutlers’ poetry

Upon a knife, ‘Love me, and leave me not.’

Ner.

What talk you of the posy, or the value?

You swore to me, when I did give it you, 152

That you would wear it till your hour of death,

And that it should lie with you in your grave:

Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,

You should have been respective and have kept it.

Gave it a judge’s clerk! no, God’s my judge,

The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it.

Gra.

He will, an if he live to be a man.

Ner.

Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 160

Gra.

Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,

A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,

No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk.

A prating boy, that begg’d it as a fee: 164

I could not for my heart deny it him.

Por.

You were to blame,—I must be plain with you,—

To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift;

A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,

And riveted so with faith unto your flesh. 169

I gave my love a ring and made him swear

Never to part with it; and here he stands,

I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it

Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth 173

That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,

You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:

An ’twere to me, I should be mad at it. 176

Bass.

[Aside.] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,

And swear I lost the ring defending it.

Gra.

My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away

Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed 180

Deserv’d it too; and then the boy, his clerk,

That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine;

And neither man nor master would take aught

But the two rings.

Por.

What ring gave you, my lord? 184

Not that, I hope, that you receiv’d of me.

Bass.

If I could add a lie unto a fault,

I would deny it; but you see my finger

Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. 188

Por.

Even so void is your false heart of truth.

By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed

Until I see the ring.

Ner.

Nor I in yours,

Till I again see mine.

Bass.

Sweet Portia, 192

If you did know to whom I gave the ring,

If you did know for whom I gave the ring,

And would conceive for what I gave the ring,

And how unwillingly I left the ring, 196

When naught would be accepted but the ring,

You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

Por.

If you had known the virtue of the ring,

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 200

Or your own honour to contain the ring,

You would not then have parted with the ring.

What man is there so much unreasonable,

If you had pleas’d to have defended it 204

With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty

To urge the thing held as a ceremony?

Nerissa teaches me what to believe:

I’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring. 208

Bass.

No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,

No woman had it; but a civil doctor,

Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,

And begg’d the ring, the which I did deny him,

And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away; 213

Even he that did uphold the very life

Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?

I was enforc’d to send it after him; 216

I was beset with shame and courtesy;

My honour would not let ingratitude

So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady,

For, by these blessed candles of the night, 220

Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d

The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Por.

Let not that doctor e’er come near my house.

Since he hath got the jewel that I lov’d, 224

And that which you did swear to keep for me,

I will become as liberal as you;

I’ll not deny him anything I have;

No, not my body, nor my husband’s bed. 228

Know him I shall, I am well sure of it:

Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus:

If you do not, if I be left alone,

Now by mine honour, which is yet mine own, 232

I’ll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

Ner.

And I his clerk; therefore be well advis’d

How you do leave me to mine own protection.

Gra.

Well, do you so: let me not take him, then;

For if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen. 237

Ant.

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Por.

Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

Bass.

Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;

And in the hearing of these many friends, 241

I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,

Wherein I see myself,—

Por.

Mark you but that!

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself; 244

In each eye, one: swear by your double self,

And there’s an oath of credit.

Bass.

Nay, but hear me:

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear

I never more will break an oath with thee. 248

Ant.

I once did lend my body for his wealth,

Which, but for him that had your husband’s ring,

Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,

My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 252

Will never more break faith advisedly.

Por.

Then you shall be his surety. Give him this,

And bid him keep it better than the other.

Ant.

Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring. 256

Bass.

By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor!

Por.

I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,

For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. 259

Ner.

And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;

For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk,

In lieu of this last night did lie with me.

Gra.

Why, this is like the mending of highways

In summer, where the ways are fair enough. 264

What! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d it?

Por.

Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz’d:

Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;

It comes from Padus, from Bellario: 268

There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,

Nerissa, there, her clerk: Lorenzo here

Shall witness I set forth as soon as you

And even but now return’d; I have not yet 272

Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome;

And I have better news in store for you

Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;

There you shall find three of your argosies 276

Are richly come to harbour suddenly.

You shall not know by what strange accident

I chanced on this letter.

Ant.

I am dumb.

Bass.

Were you the doctor and I knew you not? 280

Gra.

Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

Ner.

Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it,

Unless he live until he be a man.

Bass.

Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:

When I am absent, then, lie with my wife. 285

Ant.

Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;

For here I read for certain that my ships

Are safely come to road.

Por.

How now, Lorenzo! 288

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

Ner.

Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee.

There do I give to you and Jessica,

From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, 292

After his death, of all he dies possess’d of.

Lor.

Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way

Of starved people.

Por.

It is almost morning,

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied 296

Of these events at full. Let us go in;

And charge us there upon inter’gatories,

And we will answer all things faithfully.

Gra.

Let it be so: the first inter’gatory 300

That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,

Whe’r till the next night she had rather stay,

Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:

But were the day come, I should wish it dark,

That I were couching with the doctor’s clerk.

Well, while I live I’ll fear no other thing 306

So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.

[Exeunt.

AS YOU LIKE IT

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Duke,	living in exile.
Frederick,	his Brother, Usurper of his Dominions.
Amiens, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Jaques, }	Lords attending upon the banished Duke.
Le Beau,	a Courtier, attending upon Frederick.
Charles,	a Wrestler.
Oliver, }	Sons of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Jaques, }
Orlando, }
Adam, }	Servants to Oliver.
Dennis, }	Servants to Oliver.
Touchstone,	a Clown.
Sir Oliver Martext,	a Vicar.
Corin, }	Shepherds.
Silvius, }	Shepherds.
William,	a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.
A person representing Hymen.
Rosalind,	Daughter to the banished Duke.
Celia,	Daughter to Frederick.
Phebe,	a Shepherdess.
Audrey,	a Country Wench.
Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants.

Scene.—First, Oliver’s Orchard near his House; afterwards, in the Usurper’s Court, and in the Forest of Arden.

ACT I.

Scene I.— An Orchard near Oliver’s House. Enter Orlando and Adam.

Orl.

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired: but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth, for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems to take from me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it. 27

Adam.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Orl.

Adam.

Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! he would not have spoke such a word.

[Exeunt Orlando and Adam.

Oli.

Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

Enter Dennis.

Den.

Calls your worship? 95

Oli.

Was not Charles the duke’s wrestler here to speak with me?

Den.

So please you, he is here at the door, and importunes access to you.

Oli.

Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] ’Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Sport! Of what colour? 108

Le Beau.

Cel.

Duke F.

Cel.

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. 228

[Charles and Orlando wrestle.

Ros.

O excellent young man!

Cel.

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

Orl.

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 240

Duke F.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else:

The world esteem’d thy father honourable,

But I did find him still mine enemy:

Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this deed, 244

Hadst thou descended from another house.

But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth:

I would thou hadst told me of another father.

[Exeunt Duke Frederick, Train, and Le Beau.

Cel.

Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

Orl.

I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son, 249

His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

Ros.

My father lov’d Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father’s mind: 253

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

Ere he should thus have ventur’d.

Cel.

Gentle cousin, 256

Let us go thank him and encourage him:

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv’d:

If you do keep your promises in love 260

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

Ros.

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.

Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. 264

Shall we go, coz?

Cel.

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

Orl.

Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts

Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. 268

Ros.

He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes;

I’ll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

Cel.

Will you go, coz? 272

Ros.

Have with you. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Orl.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown! 276

Or Charles or something weaker masters thee.

Re-enter Le Beau.

Le Beau.

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv’d

High commendation, true applause and love,

Yet such is now the duke’s condition 281

That he misconstrues all that you have done.

The duke is humorous: what he is indeed,

More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

Orl.

I thank you, sir; and pray you, tell me this; 285

Which of the two was daughter of the duke,

That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beau.

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners: 288

But yet, indeed the smaller is his daughter:

The other is daughter to the banish’d duke,

And here detain’d by her usurping uncle,

To keep his daughter company; whose loves 292

Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

But I can tell you that of late this duke

Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece,

Grounded upon no other argument 296

But that the people praise her for her virtues,

And pity her for her good father’s sake;

And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady

Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well:

Hereafter, in a better world than this, 301

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

Orl.

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well.

[Exit Le Beau.

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother. 305

But heavenly Rosalind!

[Exit.

Scene III.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Celia and Rosalind.

Cel.

Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! Not a word?

Ros.

Not one to throw at a dog. 3

Cel.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Ros.

Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. 9

Cel.

But is all this for your father?

Ros.

No, some of it is for my child’s father:

Duke F.

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, 44

And get you from our court.

Ros.

Me, uncle?

Duke F.

You, cousin:

Within these ten days if that thou be’st found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

Ros.

I do beseech your Grace, 48

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me.

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,

If that I do not dream or be not frantic,— 52

As I do trust I am not,—then, dear uncle,

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

Duke F.

Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words, 56

They are as innocent as grace itself:

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Ros.

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. 60

Duke F.

Thou art thy father’s daughter; there’s enough.

Ros.

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish’d him.

Treason is not inherited, my lord; 64

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

What’s that to me? my father was no traitor:

Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

To think my poverty is treacherous. 68

Cel.

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke F.

Ay, Celia; we stay’d her for your sake;

Else had she with her father rang’d along.

Cel.

I did not then entreat to have her stay:

It was your pleasure and your own remorse. 73

I was too young that time to value her;

But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

Why so am I; we still have slept together, 76

Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together;

And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke F.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness, 80

Her very silence and her patience,

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous 84

When she is gone. Then open not thy lips:

Firm and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass’d upon her; she is banish’d.

Cel.

Pronounce that sentence then, on me, my liege: 88

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke F

You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself:

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

And in the greatness of my word, you die. 92

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us: 104

And do not seek to take your change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself and leave me out;

For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

Say what thou canst, I’ll go along with thee. 108

Ros.

Why, whither shall we go?

Cel.

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Ros.

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far! 112

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel.

I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,

And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

The like do you: so shall we pass along 116

And never stir assailants.

Ros.

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 120

A boar-spear in my hand; and,—in my heart

Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,—

We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,

As many other mannish cowards have 124

That do outface it with their semblances.

Cel.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

Ros.

I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,

And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 128

But what will you be call’d?

Cel.

Something that hath a reference to my state:

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros.

But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal

The clownish fool out of your father’s court? 133

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Cel.

He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me;

Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, 136

And get our jewels and our wealth together,

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

After my flight. Now go we in content 140

To liberty and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, like Foresters.

Duke S.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods

More free from peril than the envious court? 4

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

The seasons’ difference; as, the icy fang

And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 9

‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 12

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 16

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

I would not change it.

Ami.

Happy is your Grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 20

Duke S.

Come, shall we go and kill us venison?

And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,

Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should in their own confines with forked heads

Have their round haunches gor’d.

First Lord.

Indeed, my lord, 25

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you.

To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself 29

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood; 32

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunters’ aim had ta’en a hurt,

Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,

The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 37

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Cours’d one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool, 40

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

Duke S.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle? 44

First Lord.

O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 48

To that which had too much:’ then, being there alone,

Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends;

‘’Tis right,’ quoth he; ‘thus misery doth part

The flux of company:’ anon, a careless herd, 52

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

And never stays to greet him; ‘Ay,’ quoth Jaques,

‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

’Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look 56

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’

Thus most invectively he pierceth through

The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we 60

Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what’s worse,

To fright the animals and to kill them up

In their assign’d and native dwelling-place.

Duke S.

And did you leave him in this contemplation? 64

Sec. Lord.

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S.

Show me the place.

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he’s full of matter. 68

Sec. Lord.

I’ll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

First Lord.

I cannot hear of any that did see her. 4

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early

They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

Sec. Lord.

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft 8

Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hisperia, the princess’ gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o’erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler 13

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company. 16

Duke F.

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me;

I’ll make him find him. Do this suddenly,

And let not search and inquisition quail 20

To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Before Oliver’s House.

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.

Orl.

Who’s there?

Adam.

What! my young master? O my gentle master!

O my sweet master! O you memory

Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here?

Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

Why would you be so fond to overcome

The bony priser of the humorous duke? 8

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies?

No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 13

O, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl.

Why, what’s the matter?

Adam.

O unhappy youth!

Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives.

Your brother,—no, no brother; yet the son,—

Yet not the son, I will not call him son 20

Of him I was about to call his father,—

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means

To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it: if he fail of that, 24

He will have other means to cut you off.

I overheard him and his practices.

This is no place; this house is but a butchery:

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 28

Orl.

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Adam.

No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orl.

What! wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce 32

A thievish living on the common road?

This I must do, or know not what to do:

Yet this I will not do, do how I can;

I rather will subject me to the malice 36

Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

Adam.

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I sav’d under your father,

Which I did store to be my foster-nurse 40

When service should in my old limbs lie lame,

And unregarded age in corners thrown.

Take that; and He that doth the ravens feed,

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 44

Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

All this I give you. Let me be your servant:

Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;

For in my youth I never did apply 48

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

The means of weakness and debility;

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 52

Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you;

I’ll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

Orl.

O good old man! how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world, 57

When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat but for promotion, 60

And having that, do choke their service up

Even with the having: it is not so with thee.

But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 64

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.

But come thy ways, we’ll go along together,

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,

We’ll light upon some settled low content. 68

Adam.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee

To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.

From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more. 72

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I: when I was at home, I was in a better place: but travellers must be content.

Ros.

Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk. 21

Enter Corin and Silvius.

Cor.

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

Sil.

O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!

Cor.

I partly guess, for I have lov’d ere now.

Sil.

No, Corin; being old, thou canst not guess,

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow:

But if thy love were ever like to mine,— 28

As sure I think did never man love so,—

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Cor.

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

Sil.

O! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily.

If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not lov’d: 36

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearing thy hearer with thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not broke from company 40

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not lov’d. O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit.

Ros.

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own. 44

Touch.

And I mine. I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, ‘Wear these for my sake.’ We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. 56

Ros.

Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

Touch.

Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it. 60

Ros.

Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touch.

And mine; but it grows something stale with me. 64

Cel.

I pray you, one of you question yond man,

If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Touch.

Holla, you clown!

Ros.

Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

Cor.

Who calls? 68

Touch.

Your betters, sir.

Cor.

Else are they very wretched.

Ros.

Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

Cor.

And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

Ros.

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 73

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,

And faints for succour.

Cor.

Fair sir, I pity her, 76

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her;

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze: 80

My master is of churlish disposition

And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality.

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed

Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now, 85

By reason of his absence, there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be. 88

Ros.

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

Cor.

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

Ros.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 92

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel.

And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it. 96

Cor.

Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

Go with me: if you like upon report

The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,

I will your very faithful feeder be, 100

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and Others.

SONG.

Ami.

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 4

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather. 8

Who doth ambition shun,

[All together here.

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Secking the food he eats, 40

And pleas’d with what he gets.

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy 44

But winter and rough weather.

Jaq.

I’ll give you a verse to this note, that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

Ami.

And I’ll sing it. 48

Jaq.

Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease, 52

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he, 56

An if he will come to me.

Ami.

What’s that ‘ducdame?’

Jaq.

’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools into a circle. I’ll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I’ll rail against all the first-born of Egypt. 61

Ami.

And I’ll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Orlando and Adam.

Adam.

Dear master, I can go no further: O! I die for food. Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 3

Orl.

Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my sake be comfortable, hold death awhile at the arm’s end, I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou lookest cheerly, and I’ll be with thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Forest.

A table set out. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Lords like Outlaws.

Duke S.

I think he be transform’d into a beast,

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

First Lord.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 4

Duke S.

If he, compact of jars, grow musical,

We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.

Go, seek him: tell him I would speak with him.

First Lord.

He saves my labour by his own approach. 8

Enter Jaques.

Duke S.

Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily!

Jaq.

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,

A motley fool; a miserable world! 13

As I do live by food, I met a fool;

Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms, 16

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘No, sir,’ quoth he,

‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.’

And then he drew a dial from his poke, 20

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, ‘It is ten o’clock;

Thus may we see,’ quoth he, ‘how the world wags:

’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, 24

And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;

And so, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,

And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,

And thereby hangs a tale.’ When I did hear 28

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

And I did laugh sans intermission 32

An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

Duke S.

What fool is this?

Jaq.

O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier, 36

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,—

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm’d

With observation, the which he vents 41

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S.

Thou shalt have one.

Jaq.

It is my only suit; 44

Provided that you weed your better judgments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them

That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 48

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:

And they that are most galled with my folly,

They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so?

The ‘why’ is plain as way to parish church: 52

He that a fool doth very wisely hit

Doth very foolishly, although he smart,

Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

The wise man’s folly is anatomiz’d 56

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of th’ infected world, 60

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S.

Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Jaq.

What, for a counter, would I do, but good?

Duke S.

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin: 64

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossed sores and headed evils,

That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

Jaq.

Why, who cries out on pride,

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 72

Till that the weary very means do ebb?

What woman in the city do I name,

When that I say the city-woman bears

The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? 76

Who can come in and say that I mean her,

When such a one as she such is her neighbour?

Or what is he of basest function,

That says his bravery is not on my cost,— 80

Thinking that I mean him,—but therein suits

His folly to the mettle of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right,

Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free, 85

Of smooth civility; yet I am inland bred 96

And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq.

An you will not be answered with reason,

I must die. 101

Duke S.

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl.

I almost die for food; and let me have it.

Duke S.

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. 105

Orl.

Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:

I thought that all things had been savage here,

And therefore put I on the countenance 108

Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are

That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; 112

If ever you have look’d on better days,

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church,

If ever sat at any good man’s feast,

If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear, 116

And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied,

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

Duke S.

True is it that we have seen better days, 120

And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church,

And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d;

And therefore sit you down in gentleness 124

And take upon command what help we have

That to your wanting may be minister’d.

Orl.

Then but forbear your food a little while,

Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn 128

And give it food. There is an old poor man,

Who after me hath many a weary step

Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic’d,

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Duke S.

Go find him out, 133

And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orl.

I thank ye; and be bless’d for your good comfort!

[Exit.

Duke S.

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: 136

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaq.

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances; 141

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. 144

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 148

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation 152

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances; 156

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide 160

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history, 164

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam.

Duke S.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

Orl.

I thank you most for him. 168

Adam.

So had you need:

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S.

Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes. 172

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

SONG.

Ami.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

    As man’s ingratitude;  176

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

    Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh-ho! the holly!

    This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,  184

That dost not bite so nigh

    As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp  188

    As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

    Then heigh-ho! the holly!  192

      This life is most jolly.

Duke S.

If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s son,

As you have whisper’d faithfully you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 196

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

That lov’d your father: the residue of your fortune,

Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man, 200

Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F.

Not seen him since! Sir, sir, that cannot be:

But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it: 4

Find out thy brother, wheresoe’er he is;

Seek him with candle; bring him, dead or living,

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

To seek a living in our territory. 8

Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine

Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth

Of what we think against thee. 12

Oli.

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov’d my brother in my life.

Duke F.

More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;

And let my officers of such a nature 16

Make an extent upon his house and lands.

Do this expediently and turn him going.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Forest of Arden.

Enter Orlando, with a paper.

Orl.

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:

And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

Thy huntress’ name, that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, 5

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character,

That every eye, which in this forest looks,

Shall see thy virtue witness’d everywhere. 8

Run, run, Orlando: carve on every tree

Ros.

From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind

Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 96

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin’d

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind, 100

But the fair of Rosalind.

Enter Celia, reading a paper.

Ros.

Peace! 132

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

Cel.

Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree,  136

That shall civil sayings show.

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the stretching of a span  140

Buckles in his sum of age;

Some, of violated vows

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend:

But upon the fairest boughs,  144

Or at every sentence’ end,

Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite  148

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore Heaven Nature charg’d

That one body should be fill’d

With all graces wide enlarg’d:  152

Nature presently distill’d

Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra’s majesty,

Atalanta’s better part,  156

Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis’d

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,  160

To have the touches dearest priz’d.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Ros.

O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried, ‘Have patience, good people!’

Cel.

How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little: go with him, sirrah. 169

Touch.

Come, sweet Audrey:

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not 104

O sweet Oliver!

O brave Oliver!

Leave me not behind thee:

but,— 108

Wind away,

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.

[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey.

Sir Oli.

Cor.

Mistress and master, you have oft inquir’d 48

After the shepherd that complain’d of love,

Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

That was his mistress.

Cel.

Well, and what of him? 52

Cor.

If you will see a pageant truly play’d,

Between the pale complexion of true love

And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, 56

If you will mark it.

Ros.

O! come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

Sil.

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:

Say that you love me not, but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes hard, 4

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

But first begs pardon: will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, behind.

Phe.

I would not be thy executioner: 8

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye:

’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, 12

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,

Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; 16

Now counterfeit to swound; why now fall down;

Or, if thou canst not, O! for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee; 20

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes, 24

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Sil.

O dear Phebe,

If ever,—as that ever may be near,— 28

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love’s keen arrows make.

Phe.

But, till that time

Come not thou near me; and, when that time comes, 32

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As, till that time I shall not pity thee.

Ros.

[Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once, 36

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—

As by my faith, I see no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed,—

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 40

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

I see no more in you than in the ordinary

Of nature’s sale-work. Od’s my little life!

I think she means to tangle my eyes too. 44

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:

’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship. 48

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man

Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you 52

That make the world full of ill-favour’d children:

’Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper

Than any of her lineaments can show her. 56

But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love:

For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer: 61

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.

Phe.

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together: 64

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Ros.

He’s fallen in love with her foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

Phe.

For no ill will I bear you.

Ros.

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine: 73

Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,

’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.

Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. 76

Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud: though all the world could see,

None could be so abus’d in sight as he.

Come, to our flock. 80

[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

Phe.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:

By giving love your sorrow and my grief 88

Were both extermin’d.

Phe.

’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;

But what care I for words? yet words do well,

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 112

It is a pretty youth: not very pretty:

But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

He’ll make a proper man: the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence his eye did heal it up. 117

He is not very tall; yet for his years he’s tall:

His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well:

There was a pretty redness in his lip, 120

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him 124

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him; but, for my part,

I love him not nor hate him not; and yet

Have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me? 129

He said mine eyes were black and my hair black;

And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me.

I marvel why I answer’d not again: 132

But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.

I’ll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

Sil.

Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.

I’ll write it straight;

The matter’s in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short.

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 26

Jaq.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

Ros.

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad: and to travel for it too! 31

Enter Orlando.

Orl.

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq.

I warrant you, with pure love and a troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter Silvius.

Sil.

My errand is to you, fair youth.

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: 8

[Giving a letter.

I know not the contents; but, as I guess

By the stern brow and waspish action

Which she did use as she was writing of it,

It bears an angry tenour: pardon me; 12

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros.

Patience herself would startle at this letter,

And play the swaggerer: bear this, bear all:

She says I am not fair; that I lack manners; 16

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me

Were man as rare as phœnix. ’Od’s my will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:

Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,

This is a letter of your own device. 21

Sil.

No, I protest, I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.

Ros.

Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn’d into the extremity of love. 24

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-colour’d hand; I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands:

She has a housewife’s hand; but that’s no matter:

I say she never did invent this letter; 29

This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

Sil.

Sure, it is hers.

Ros.

Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style,

A style for challengers; why, she defies me, 33

Like Turk to Christian: woman’s gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect 36

Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

Sil.

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

Ros.

She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads.] 40

Art thou god to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?

Can a woman rail thus?

Sil.

Call you this railing? 44

Ros.

[reads.]

Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?

Did you ever hear such railing?

Whiles the eye of man did woo me, 48

That could do no vengeance to me.

Meaning me a beast.

If the scorn of your bright eyne

Have power to raise such love in mine,  52

Alack! in me what strange effect

Would they work in mild aspect.

Whiles you chid me, I did love,

How then might your prayers move!  56

He that brings this love to thee

Little knows this love in me;

And by him seal up thy mind;

Whether that thy youth and kind  60

Will the faithful offer take

Of me and all that I can make;

Or else by him my love deny,

And then I’ll study how to die.  64

Sil.

Call you this chiding?

Cel.

Alas, poor shepherd!

Ros.

Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee! not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more company.

[Exit Silvius.

Enter Oliver.

Oli.

Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you if you know, 77

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheepcote fenc’d about with olive-trees?

Cel.

West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom: 80

The rank of osiers by the murmuring stream

Left on your right hand brings you to the place.

But at this hour the house doth keep itself;

There’s none within. 84

Oli.

If that an eye may profit by a tongue,

Then should I know you by description;

Such garments, and such years: ‘The boy is fair,

Of female favour, and bestows himself 88

When last the young Orlando parted from you 100

He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside, 104

And mark what object did present itself:

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, 108

Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreath’d itself,

Who with her head nimble in threats approach’d

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, 112

Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself,

And with indented glides did slip away

Into a bush; under which bush’s shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 116

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir; for ’tis

The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead: 120

This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Cel.

O! I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural 124

That liv’d ’mongst men.

Oli.

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros.

But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness? 128

Oli.

Twice did he turn his back and purpos’d so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

Made him give battle to the lioness, 132

Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling

From miserable slumber I awak’d.

Cel.

Are you his brother?

Ros.

Was it you he rescu’d?

Cel.

Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him? 136

Oli.

’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame

To tell you what I was, since my conversion

So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

Ros.

But, for the bloody napkin?

Oli.

By and by.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 141

Tears our recountments had most kindly bath’d,

As how I came into that desert place:—

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 144

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,

Committing me unto my brother’s love;

Who led me instantly unto his cave,

There stripp’d himself; and here, upon his arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away, 149

Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound; 152

And, after some small space, being strong at heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying. 4

Touch.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey; a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

Aud.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Orlando and Oliver.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman.

Sil.

It is to be all made of faith and service;

And so am I for Phebe. 97

Phe.

And I for Ganymede.

Orl.

And I for Rosalind.

Ros.

And I for no woman. 100

Sil.

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

All adoration, duty, and observance;

Nor I.

Orl.

Nor I.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

Touch.

To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

Aud.

I do desire it with all my heart, and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished duke’s pages. 6

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia.

Duke S.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

Orl.

I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;

As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. 4

Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe.

Ros.

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg’d.

[To the Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

Duke S.

Phe.

So is the bargain.

Ros.

[To Silvius.] You say, that you’ll have Phebe, if she will? 16

Sil.

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

Ros.

I have promis’d to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter; 20

Keep your word, Phebe, that you’ll marry me,

Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd;

Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her,

If she refuse me: and from hence I go, 24

To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.

Duke S.

I do remember in this shepherd boy

Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

Orl.

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 28

Methought he was a brother to your daughter;

But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,

And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments

Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 32

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in woman’s clothes, and Celia.

Still Music.

Hym.

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even 116

Atone together.

Good duke, receive thy daughter;

Hymen from heaven brought her;

Yea, brought her hither, 120

That thou mightst join her hand with his,

Whose heart within her bosom is.

Ros.

[To Duke S.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 124

Duke S.

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

Orl.

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phe.

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love adieu! 128

Ros.

[To Duke S.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he.

[To Orlando.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he:

[To Phebe.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

Hym.

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:  132

’Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here’s eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen’s bands,  136

If truth holds true contents.

[To Orlando and Rosalind.] You and you no cross shall part:

[To Oliver and Celia.] You and you are heart in heart:

[To Phebe.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:  141

[To Touchstone and Audrey.] You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,  144

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG.

Wedding is great Juno’s crown: 148

O blessed bond of board and bed!

’Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured.

Honour, high honour, and renown, 152

To Hymen, god of every town!

Duke S.

O my dear niece! welcome thou art to me:

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

Phe.

[To Silvius.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; 156

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

Enter Jaques de Boys.

Jaq. de B.

Let me have audience for a word or two:

I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,

That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.

Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 161

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address’d a mighty power, which were on foot

In his own conduct, purposely to take 164

His brother here and put him to the sword:

And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,

Where, meeting with an old religious man,

After some question with him, was converted 168

Both from his enterprise and from the world;

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,

And all their lands restor’d to them again

That were with him exil’d. This to be true, 172

I do engage my life.

Duke S.

Welcome, young man;

Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding:

To one, his lands withheld; and to the other

A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 176

First, in this forest, let us do those ends

That here were well begun and well begot;

And after, every of this happy number

That have endur’d shrewd days and nights with us,

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 181

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry. 184

Play, music! and you, brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

Jaq.

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life, 188

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

Jaq. de B.

He hath.

Jaq.

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn’d.

[To Duke S.] You to your former honour I bequeath; 193

Your patience and your virtue well deserve it:

[To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:

[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great allies: 196

[To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed:

[To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victual’d. So, to your pleasures:

I am for other than for dancing measures. 200

Duke S.

Stay, Jaques, stay.

Jaq.

To see no pastime, I: what you would have

I’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave.

[Exit.

Duke S.

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites, 204

As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

[A dance. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Rosalind.

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me: my way is, to conjure you; and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women! for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men! for the love you bear to women,—as I perceive by your simpering none of you hate them,—that between you and the women, the play may please. If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.

[Exeunt.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

A Lord. }	Persons in the Induction.
Christopher Sly, a Tinker. }
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants. }
Baptista,	a rich Gentleman of Padua.
Vincentio,	an old Gentleman of Pisa.
Lucentio,	son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca.
Petruchio,	a Gentleman of Verona; Suitor to Katharina.
Gremio, }	Suitors to Bianca.
Hortensio, }	Suitors to Bianca.
Tranio, }	Servants to Lucentio
Biondello, }	Servants to Lucentio
Grumio, }	Servants to Petruchio
Curtis, }	Servants to Petruchio
Pedant,	set up to personate Vincentio.
Katharina, the Shrew, }	Daughters to Baptista.
Bianca, }	Daughters to Baptista.
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.

Scene.—Sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in Petruchio’s House in the Country.

INDUCTION.

Host.

I know my remedy: I must go fetch the third-borough.

[Exit.

Sly.

Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.

Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsman and Servants.

Lord.

Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: 16

Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d,

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach.

Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good

At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? 20

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Hunt.

Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;

He cried upon it at the merest loss,

And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent:

Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 25

Lord.

Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen such.

But sup them well, and look unto them all: 28

To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

First Hunt.

I will, my lord.

Lord.

[Sees Sly.] What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

Sec. Hunt.

He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, 32

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord.

O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!

Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. 36

What think you, if he were convey’d to bed,

Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,

A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes,

Would not the beggar then forget himself? 41

First Hunt.

Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

Sec. Hunt.

It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d.

Lord.

Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy. 44

Then take him up and manage well the jest.

Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, 48

And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet.

Procure me music ready when he wakes,

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, 52

And with a low submissive reverence

Say, ‘What is it your honour will command?’

Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rose-water, and bestrew’d with flowers;

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 57

And say, ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands?’

Some one be ready with a costly suit,

And ask him what apparel he will wear; 60

Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease.

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;

And, when he says he is—say that he dreams, 64

For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs:

It will be pastime passing excellent,

If it be husbanded with modesty. 68

First Hunt.

My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,

As he shall think, by our true diligence,

He is no less than what we say he is.

Lord.

Take him up gently, and to bed with him,

And each one to his office when he wakes. 73

[Sly is borne out. A trumpet sounds.

Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:

[Exit Servant.

Belike, some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here. 76

Re-enter Servant.

How now! who is it?

Serv.

An it please your honour,

There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

But I am doubtful of your modesties,

Lest, over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,—

For yet his honour never heard a play,— 96

You break into some merry passion

And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

If you should smile he grows impatient.

A Player.

Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves 100

Were he the veriest antick in the world.

Lord.

Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

And give them friendly welcome every one:

Let them want nothing that my house affords.

[Exeunt one with the Players.

Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, 105

And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady:

That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber;

And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. 108

Tell him from me,—as he will win my love,—

He bear himself with honourable action,

Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished: 112

Such duty to the drunkard let him do

With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy;

And say, ‘What is’t your honour will command,

Wherein your lady and your humble wife 116

May show her duty, and make known her love?’

And then, with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

And with declining head into his bosom,

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d 120

To see her noble lord restor’d to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

And if the boy have not a woman’s gift 124

To rain a shower of commanded tears,

An onion will do well for such a shift,

Which in a napkin being close convey’d,

Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 128

See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst:

Anon I’ll give thee more instructions.

[Exit Servant.

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman: 132

I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter

When they do homage to this simple peasant.

I’ll in to counsel them: haply, my presence 136

May well abate the over merry spleen

Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Bedchamber in the Lord’s House.

Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant.

Sly.

For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.

First Serv.

Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Sec. Serv.

Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Serv.

What raiment will your honour wear to-day? 4

Sly.

I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour, nor lordship: I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. 13

Lord.

Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!

O, that a mighty man, of such descent,

Of such possessions, and so high esteem, 16

Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

Sly.

What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son, of Burtonheath; by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught: here’s—

First Serv.

O! this it is that makes your lady mourn. 28

Sec. Serv.

O! this it is that makes your servants droop.

Lord.

Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, 32

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.

Look how thy servants do attend on thee,

Each in his office ready at thy beck: 36

Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,

[Music.

And twenty caged nightingales do sing:

Or wilt thou sleep? we’ll have thee to a couch

Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed 40

On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis.

Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground:

Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp’d,

Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. 44

Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar

Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?

Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,

And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 48

First Serv.

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Sec. Serv.

Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook, 52

And Cytherea all in sedges hid,

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,

Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

Lord.

We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid,

And how she was beguiled and surpris’d, 57

As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Serv.

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds; 60

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Lord.

Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord:

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful 64

Than any woman in this waning age.

First Serv.

And till the tears that she hath shed for thee

Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world; 68

And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly.

Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?

Or do I dream? or have I dream’d till now?

I do not sleep; I see, I hear, I speak; 72

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;

And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.

Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?

My men should call me lord: I am your goodman.

Page.

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; 108

Page.

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. 117

Sly.

’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

Page.

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two, 121

Or, if not so, until the sun be set:

For your physicians have expressly charg’d,

In peril to incur your former malady, 124

That I should yet absent me from your bed:

I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Sly.

Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry, in spite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy; 132

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

[Flourish.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Padua. A public Place.

Enter Lucentio and Tranio.

Luc.

Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy; 4

And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d

With his good will and thy good company,

My trusty servant well approv’d in all,

Here let us breathe, and haply institute 8

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my being and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 13

Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,

It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d,

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: 16

And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,

Virtue and that part of philosophy

Will I apply that treats of happiness

By virtue specially to be achiev’d. 20

Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left

And am to Padua come, as he that leaves

A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. 24

Tra.

Mi perdonate, gentle master mine,

I am in all affected as yourself,

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 28

Only, good master, while we do admire

This virtue and this moral discipline,

Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;

Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks 32

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d.

The Taming of the Shrew, by I.I. Ibbetson.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practise rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you; 36

The mathematics and the metaphysics,

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you;

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;

In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 40

Luc.

Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness,

And take a lodging fit to entertain 44

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay awhile: what company is this?

Tra.

Master, some show to welcome us to town.

Enter Baptista, Katharina, Blanca, Gremio, and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand aside.

Bap.

Gentlemen, importune me no further,

For how I firmly am resolv’d you know; 49

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder.

If either of you both love Katharina, 52

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

Gre.

To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? 56

Kath.

[To Baptista.] I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Hor.

Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. 60

Kath.

I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:

I wis it is not half way to her heart;

But if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool,

And paint your face, and use you like a fool. 65

Hor.

From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

Gre.

And me too, good Lord!

Tra.

Hush, master! here is some good pastime toward: 68

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

Luc.

But in the other’s silence do I see

Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio! 72

Tra.

Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

Bap.

Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said,—Bianca, get you in:

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, 76

For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.

Kath.

A pretty peat! it is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

Bian.

Sister, content you in my discontent.

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: 81

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to look and practise by myself.

Luc.

Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak. 84

Hor.

Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our good will effects

Bianca’s grief.

Gre.

Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 88

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

Bap.

Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d.

Go in, Bianca.

[Exit Bianca.

And for I know she taketh most delight 92

In music, instruments, and poetry,

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,

Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, 96

Prefer them hither; for to cunning men

I will be very kind, and liberal

To mine own children in good bringing up;

And so, farewell. Katharina, you may stay; 100

For I have more to commune with Bianca.

[Exit.

Kath.

Why, and I trust I may go too; may I not?

What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,

I knew not what to take, and what to leave? Ha!

Tra.

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

Luc.

O Tranio! till I found it to be true, 152

I never thought it possible or likely;

But see, while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love in idleness;

And now in plainness do confess to thee, 156

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,

Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl. 160

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

Tra.

Master, it is no time to chide you now;

Affection is not rated from the heart: 164

If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so,

Redime te captum, quam queas minimo.

Luc.

Gramercies, lad; go forward: this contents:

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound.

Tra.

Master, you look’d so longly on the maid,

Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.

Luc.

O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had, 172

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,

When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand.

Tra.

Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm 176

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

Luc.

Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air;

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. 180

Tra.

Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance.

I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, 184

That till the father rid his hands of her,

Master, your love must live a maid at home;

And therefore has he closely mew’d her up,

Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. 188

Luc.

Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he!

But art thou not advis’d he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

Tra.

Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’tis plotted. 192

Luc.

I have it, Tranio.

Tra.

Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

Luc.

Tell me thine first.

Tra.

You will be schoolmaster,

And undertake the teaching of the maid: 196

That’s your device.

Luc.

It is: may it be done?

Tra.

Not possible; for who shall bear your part,

And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son?

Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends; 200

Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?

Luc.

Basta; content thee; for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces 204

For man, or master: then, it follows thus:

Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,

Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should:

I will some other be; some Florentine, 208

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.

’Tis hatch’d and shall be so: Tranio, at once

Uncase thee, take my colour’d hat and cloak:

When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; 212

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

[They exchange habits.

Tra.

So had you need.

In brief then, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient; 216

For so your father charg’d me at our parting,

‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,

Although I think ’twas in another sense:

I am content to be Lucentio, 220

Because so well I love Lucentio.

Luc.

Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;

And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid

Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. 224

Here comes the rogue.

Enter Biondello.

Sirrah, where have you been?

Bion.

Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes,

Or you stol’n his? or both? pray, what’s the news? 228

Luc.

Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.

Your fellow Tranio, here, to save my life,

Puts my apparel and my countenance on, 232

And I for my escape have put on his;

For in a quarrel since I came ashore

I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried.

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, 236

While I make way from hence to save my life:

You understand me?

Bion.

I, sir! ne’er a whit.

Luc.

And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:

Tranio is changed to Lucentio. 240

Bion.

The better for him: would I were so too!

Tra.

So would I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter.

But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I advise 244

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;

But in all places else your master, Lucentio.

Luc.

Tranio, let’s go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute, to make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why, sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty.

[Exeunt.

The Presenters above speak.

First Serv.

My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. 252

Sly.

Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?

Page.

My lord, ’tis but begun.

Sly.

And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate. 12

Gru.

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

Pet.

Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, an you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it;

I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. 17

[He wrings Grumio by the ears.

Gru.

Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

Pet.

Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter Hortensio.

Hor.

How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

Pet.

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say. 24

Hor.

Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signior mio Petruchio.

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

Gru.

Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out? 33

Whom would to God, I had well knock’d at first,

Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

Pet.

A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, 36

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Gru.

Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain, ‘Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly?’ And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate?’ 43

Pet.

Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Hor.

Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge. 45

Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona? 49

Pet.

Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes further than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few, 52

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may. 56

Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

Hor.

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee,

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife? 60

Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel;

And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich: but thou’rt too much my friend,

And I’ll not wish thee to her. 64

Pet.

Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we,

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife,

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, 68

Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse,

She moves me not, or not removes, at least, 72

Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas:

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua. 76

Gru.

Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

Hor.

Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, 84

I will continue that I broach’d in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous,

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: 88

Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,—

Is, that she is intolerable curst

And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,

That, were my state far worser than it is, 92

I would not wed her for a mine of gold:

Pet.

Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect:

Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough;

For I will board her, though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

Hor.

Her father is Baptista Minola, 98

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katharina Minola, 100

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

Pet.

I know her father, though I know not her;

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; 104

And therefore let me be thus bold with you,

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

Gru.

I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves or so: why, that’s nothing: an he begin once, he’ll rail in his ropetricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.

Hor.

Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: 120

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love; 124

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehears’d,

That ever Katharina will be woo’d:

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, 128

That none shall have access unto Bianca,

Till Katharine the curst have got a husband.

Gru.

Katharine the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst. 132

Hor.

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me, disguis’d in sober robes,

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca; 136

That so I may, by this device, at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her,

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Gru.

Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm.

Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha? 144

Hor.

Peace, Grumio! ’tis the rival of my love.

Petruchio, stand by awhile.

Gru.

A proper stripling, and an amorous!

Gre.

O! very well; I have perus’d the note.

Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:

All books of love, see that at any hand,

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me. Over and beside 152

Signior Baptista’s liberality,

I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,

And let me have them very well perfum’d;

For she is sweeter than perfume itself 156

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

Luc.

Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you,

As for my patron, stand you so assur’d,

As firmly as yourself were still in place; 160

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

Gre.

O! this learning, what a thing it is.

Gru.

O! this woodcock, what an ass it is. 164

Pet.

Peace, sirrah!

Hor.

Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

Gre.

And you’re well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. 168

I promis’d to inquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;

And, by good fortune, I have lighted well

On this young man; for learning and behaviour

Fit for her turn; well read in poetry 173

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

Hor.

’Tis well: and I have met a gentleman

Hath promis’d me to help me to another, 176

A fine musician to instruct our mistress:

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me.

Gre.

Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove. 180

Gru.

[Aside.] And that his bags shall prove.

Hor.

Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love:

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,

I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. 184

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katharine;

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 188

Gre.

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

Pet.

I know she is an irksome, brawling scold:

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. 192

Gre.

No, sayst me so, friend? What countryman?

Pet.

Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son:

My father dead, my fortune lives for me;

And I do hope good days and long to see. 196

Gre.

O, sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange!

But if you have a stomach, to’t i’ God’s name:

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wild-cat?

Pet.

Will I live? 200

Gru.

Will he woo her? ay, or I’ll hang her.

Pet.

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 204

Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? 208

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear 212

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?

Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

Gru.

[Aside.] For he fears none.

Gre.

Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arriv’d, 216

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

Hor.

I promis’d we would be contributors,

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

Gre.

And so we will, provided that he win her.

Gru.

[Aside.] I would I were as sure of a good dinner. 221

Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen,

Do me this right; hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman,

To whom my father is not all unknown; 244

And were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers;

Then well one more may fair Bianca have, 248

And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

Gre.

What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.

Luc.

Sir, give him head: I know he’ll prove a jade. 252

Pet.

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Hor.

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

Tra.

No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue 257

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Pet.

Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.

Gre.

Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. 261

Pet.

Sir, understand you this of me in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors, 264

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed;

The younger then is free, and not before.

Tra.

If it be so, sir, that you are the man 268

Must stead us all, and me among the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. 273

Hor.

Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, 276

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Tra.

Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health, 280

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Gru.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Bion.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Hor.

The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:—

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Padua. A Room in Baptista’s House.

Enter Katharina and Bianca.

Bian.

Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;

That I disdain: but for these other gawds,

Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself, 4

Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;

Or what you will command me will I do,

So well I know my duty to my elders. 7

Kath.

Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell

Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not.

Bian.

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other. 12

Kath.

Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio?

Bian.

If you affect him, sister, here I swear

I’ll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.

Kath.

O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:

You will have Gremio to keep you fair. 17

Bian.

Is it for him you do envy me so?

Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive

You have but jested with me all this while: 20

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

Kath.

If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

[Strikes her.

Enter Baptista.

Bap.

Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?

Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. 24

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word? 28

Kath.

Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d.

[Flies after Bianca.

Bap.

What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

[Exit Bianca.

Kath.

What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see

She is your treasure, she must have a husband;

I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, 33

And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.

Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep

Till I can find occasion of revenge.

[Exit.

Bap.

Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I?

But who comes here?

Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a Musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books.

Gre.

Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

Bap.

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen! 41

Pet.

And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter

Call’d Katharina, fair and virtuous?

Bap.

I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katharina.

Gre.

You are too blunt: go to it orderly. 45

Pet.

You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, 48

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,

Am bold to show myself a forward guest

Within your house, to make mine eye the witness

Of that report which I so oft have heard. 53

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

[Presenting Hortensio.

Cunning in music and the mathematics, 56

To instruct her fully in those sciences,

Whereof I know she is not ignorant.

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:

His name is Licio, born in Mantua. 60

Bap.

You’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.

But for my daughter Katharine, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

Pet.

I see you do not mean to part with her,

Or else you like not of my company. 65

Bap.

Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

Pet.

Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son;

A man well known throughout all Italy. 69

Bap.

I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

Gre.

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,

Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. 72

Backare! you are marvellous forward.

Pet.

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

Gre.

I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing.

Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar, [Presenting Lucentio.] that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service. 84

Bap.

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio.—[To Tranio.] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming? 88

Tra.

Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,

That, being a stranger in this city here,

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,

Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. 92

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,

In the preferment of the eldest sister.

This liberty is all that I request,

That, upon knowledge of my parentage, 96

I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo,

And free access and favour as the rest:

And, toward the education of your daughters,

I here bestow a simple instrument, 100

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

Bap.

Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray?

Tra.

Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. 104

Bap.

A mighty man of Pisa; by report

I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.

[To Hortensio.] Take you the lute, [To Lucentio.] and you the set of books;

You shall go see your pupils presently. 108

Holla, within!

Enter a Servant.

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my two daughters, and then tell them both

These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

[Exit Servant, with Hortensio, Lucentio, and Biondello.

We will go walk a little in the orchard, 112

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

Pet.

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo. 116

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!

But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. 140

Pet.

Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,

That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke.

Bap.

How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

Hor.

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Bap.

What, will my daughter prove a good musician? 145

Hor.

I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Bap.

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? 148

Hor.

Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, 152

‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she; ‘I’ll fume with them;’

And, with that word, she struck me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way;

And there I stood amazed for a while, 156

As on a pillory, looking through the lute;

While she did call me rascal fiddler,

And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms

As she had studied to misuse me so. 160

Pet.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!

I love her ten times more than e’er I did:

O! how I long to have some chat with her!

Bap.

[To Hortensio.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited: 164

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;

She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? 168

Pet.

I pray you do; I will attend her here,

[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, and Hortensio.

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: 172

Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:

Say she be mute and will not speak a word;

Then I’ll commend her volubility, 176

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:

If she do bid me pack; I’ll give her thanks,

As though she bid me stay by her a week:

If she deny to wed; I’ll crave the day 180

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter Katharina.

Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.

Kath.

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: 184

They call me Katharine that do talk of me.

Pet.

You lie, in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom;

Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 189

For dainties are all cates: and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;

Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town, 192

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—

Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.

Kath.

Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither 196

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,

Kath.

Too light for such a swain as you to catch,

Kath.

In his tongue.

Pet.

Whose tongue?

Kath.

Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell. 216

Pet.

What! with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again.

Good Kate, I am a gentleman.

Kath.

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers:

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will;

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk; 244

But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers,

With gentle conference, soft and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O slanderous world! Kate, like the hazel-twig,

Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue 249

As hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

Kath.

Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command. 252

Pet.

Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy bed:

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife; your dowry ’greed on; 264

And will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,—

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,—

Thou must be married to no man but me: 269

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate;

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Conformable as other household Kates. 272

Here comes your father: never make denial;

I must and will have Katharine to my wife.

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio.

Bap.

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

Pet.

How but well, sir? how but well? 276

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

Bap.

Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in your dumps?

Kath.

Call you me daughter? now, I promise you

You have show’d a tender fatherly regard, 280

To wish me wed to one half lunatic;

A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Pet.

Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world, 284

That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her:

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; 288

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity;

And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together,

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 292

Kath.

I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

Gre.

Hark, Petruchio: she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

Tra.

Is this your speeding? nay then, good night our part!

Pet.

Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself: 296

If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you?

’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone,

That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe 300

How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate.

She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love. 304

O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.

Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice 308

To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day.

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine.

Bap.

I know not what to say; but give me your hands. 312

God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match.

Gre.

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Tra.

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Pet.

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace: 316

We will have rings, and things, and fine array;

And, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.

[Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina, severally.

Gre.

Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

Bap.

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, 320

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

Tra.

’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:

’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

Bap.

The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

Gre.

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:

Now is the day we long have looked for:

I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 328

Tra.

And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

Gre.

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

Tra.

Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

Gre.

But thine doth fry.

Skipper, stand back: ’tis age that nourisheth.

Tra.

But youth in ladies eyes that flourisheth.

Bap.

Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife:

’Tis deeds must win the prize; and he, of both,

That can assure my daughter greatest dower 337

Shall have my Bianca’s love.

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

Gre.

First, as you know, my house within the city 340

Is richly furnished with plate and gold:

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;

My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;

In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; 344

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needle-work, 348

Pewter and brass, and all things that belong

To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm

I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,

Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, 352

And all things answerable to this portion.

Myself am struck in years, I must confess;

And if I die to-morrow, this is hers,

If whilst I live she will be only mine. 356

Tra.

That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me:

I am my father’s heir and only son:

If I may have your daughter to my wife,

I’ll leave her houses three or four as good, 360

Within rich Pisa walls, as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all of which shall be her jointure. 364

What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

Gre.

Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

My land amounts not to so much in all:

That she shall have; besides an argosy 368

That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.

What, have I chok’d you with an argosy?

Tra.

Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,

And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,

And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

Gre.

Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more;

And she can have no more than all I have: 376

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

Tra.

Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,

By your firm promise. Gremio is out-vied.

Bap.

I must confess your offer is the best;

And, let your father make her the assurance, 381

She is your own; else, you must pardon me:

If you should die before him, where’s her dower?

Tra.

That’s but a cavil: he is old, I young.

Gre.

And may not young men die as well as old? 385

Bap.

Well, gentlemen,

I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know,

My daughter Katharine is to be married: 388

Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance;

If not, to Signior Gremio:

And so, I take my leave, and thank you both. 392

Gre.

Adieu, good neighbour. [Exit Baptista.] Now I fear thee not:

Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all, and in his waning age

Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy! 396

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

[Exit.

Tra.

A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide!

Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten.

’Tis in my head to do my master good: 400

I see no reason, but suppos’d Lucentio

Must get a father, called ‘suppos’d Vincentio;’

And that’s a wonder: fathers, commonly

Do get their children; but in this case of wooing, 404

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Padua. A Room in Baptista’s House.

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca.

Luc.

Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katharine welcom’d you withal?

Hor.

But, wrangling pedant, this is 4

The patroness of heavenly harmony:

Then give me leave to have prerogative;

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. 8

Luc.

Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music was ordain’d!

Was it not to refresh the mind of man

After his studies or his usual pain? 12

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And while I pause, serve in your harmony.

Hor.

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

Bian.

Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, 16

To strive for that which resteth in my choice.

I am no breeching scholar in the schools;

I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself. 20

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down:

Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;

His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d.

Hor.

You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

[Retires.

Luc.

That will be never: tune vour instrument. 25

Bian.

Where left we last?

Luc.

Here, madam:—

Hac ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; 28

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Hor.

The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. 48

How fiery and forward our pedant is!

[Aside.] Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:

Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

Bian.

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Luc.

Mistrust it not; for, sure, Æacides 53

Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

Bian.

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt: 56

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.

Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

Hor.

[To Lucentio.] You may go walk, and give me leave a while: 60

My lessons make no music in three parts.

Luc.

Are you so formal, sir? [Aside.] Well, I must wait,

And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,

Our fine musician groweth amorous. 64

Hor.

Madam, before you touch the instrument,

To learn the order of my fingering,

I must begin with rudiments of art;

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, 68

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,

Than hath been taught by any of my trade:

And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

Bian.

Why, I am past my gamut long ago. 72

Hor.

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Bian.

‘Gamut’ I am, the ground of all accord,

‘A re,’ to plead Hortensio’s passion;

‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord, 76

‘C fa ut,’ that loves with all affection:

‘D sol re,’ one clef, two notes have I:

‘E la mi,’ show pity, or I die.

Call you this gamut? tut, I like it not: 80

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,

To change true rules for odd inventions.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,

And help to dress your sister’s chamber up: 84

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

Bian.

Farewell, sweet masters both: I must be gone.

[Exeunt Bianca and Servant.

Luc.

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

[Exit.

Hor.

But I have cause to pry into this pedant: 88

Methinks he looks as though he were in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble

To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale,

Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, 92

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and Attendants.

Bap.

[To Tranio.] Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day

That Katharine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? what mockery will it be 4

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

Kath.

No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forc’d 8

To give my hand oppos’d against my heart

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen;

Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure.

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, 12

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;

And to be noted for a merry man,

He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,

Make friends invite, and proclaim the banns; 16

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.

Now must the world point at poor Katharine,

And say, ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife,

If it would please him come and marry her.’ 20

Tra.

Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word:

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;

Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. 25

Kath.

Would Katharine had never seen him though!

[Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others.

Bap.

Go, girl: I cannot blame thee now to weep,

’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;

Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one, 88

And yet not many.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

Pet.

Come, where be these gallants? who is at home?

Bap.

You are welcome, sir.

Pet.

And yet I come not well.

Bap.

And yet you halt not.

Tra.

Not so well apparell’d 92

As I wish you were.

Pet.

Were it better, I should rush in thus.

But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride?

How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown: 96

And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet, or unusual prodigy?

Bap.

Why, sir, you know this is your weddingday: 100

First were we sad, fearing you would not come;

Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,

An eye-sore to our solemn festival. 104

Tra.

And tell us what occasion of import

Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,

And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

Pet.

Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear:

Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, 109

Though in some part enforced to digress;

Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal. 112

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her:

The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

Tra.

See not your bride in these unreverent robes:

Go to my chamber; put on clothes of mine. 116

Pet.

Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.

Bap.

But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Pet.

Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words:

To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. 120

Could I repair what she will wear in me

As I can change these poor accoutrements,

’Twere well for Kate and better for myself.

But what a fool am I to chat with you 124

When I should bid good morrow to my bride,

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

[Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio, and Biondello.

Tra.

He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

We will persuade him, be it possible, 128

To put on better ere he go to church.

Bap.

I’ll after him, and see the event of this.

[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and Attendants.

Tra.

But to her love concerneth us to add

Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass, 132

As I before imparted to your worship,

I am to get a man,—whate’er he be

It skills not much, we’ll fit him to our turn,—

And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, 136

And make assurance here in Padua,

Of greater sums than I have promised.

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,

And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 140

Luc.

Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster

Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,

’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;

Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,

I’ll keep mine own, despite of all the world. 145

Tra.

That by degrees we mean to look into,

And watch our vantage in this business.

We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, 148

The narrow-prying father, Minola,

The quaint musician, amorous Licio;

All for my master’s sake, Lucentio.

Re-enter Gremio.

Signior Gremio, came you from the church? 152

Gre.

As willingly as e’er I came from school.

Tra.

And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

Gre.

A bridegroom say you? ’Tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

Tra.

Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible.

Gre.

Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

Tra.

Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.

Gre.

Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him.

I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest 161

Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife,

‘Ay, by gogs-wouns!’ quoth he; and swore so loud,

That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book; 164

And, as he stoop’d again to take it up,

The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff

That down fell priest and book and book and priest:

‘Now take them up,’ quoth he, ‘if any list.’ 168

Tra.

What said the wench when he arose again?

Gre.

Trembled and shook; for why he stampt and swore,

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done, 172

He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he; as if

He had been aboard, carousing to his mates

After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel,

And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face; 176

Having no other reason

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly,

And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking.

This done, he took the bride about the neck, 180

And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack

That at the parting all the church did echo:

And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;

And after me, I know, the rout is coming. 184

Such a mad marriage never was before.

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.

[Music.

Re-enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio, and Train.

Pet.

Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:

I know you think to dine with me to-day, 188

And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer;

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

Bap.

Is’t possible you will away to-night? 192

Pet.

I must away to-day, before night come.

Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all, 196

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.

Dine with my father, drink a health to me,

I am content you shall entreat me stay,

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

Kath.

Now, if you love me, stay.

Pet.

Grumio, my horse!

Gru.

Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses. 209

Kath.

Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;

No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself, 212

The door is open, sir, there lies your way;

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;

For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself.

’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom, 216

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

Pet.

O Kate! content thee: prithee, be not angry.

Kath.

I will be angry: what hast thou to do?

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. 220

Gre.

Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

Kath.

Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:

I see a woman may be made a fool,

If she had not a spirit to resist. 224

Pet.

They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.

Obey the bride, you that attend on her;

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, 228

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own. 232

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything;

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;

I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he 237

That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon, we’re beset with thieves;

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. 240

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Hall in Petruchio’s Country House.

Enter Grumio.

Gru.

Pet.

Where be these knaves? What! no man at door

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? 124

Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?—

All Serv.

Here, here, sir; here, sir.

Pet.

Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!

You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! 128

What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?

Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

Gru.

Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

Pet.

You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! 132

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,

And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

Gru.

Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel, 136

There was no link to colour Peter’s hat,

And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing,

There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;

The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly; 140

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

Pet.

Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in.

[Exeunt some of the Servants.

Where is the life that late I led?

Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.

Soud, soud, soud, soud! 145

Re-enter Servants with supper.

Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.—

Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! When?

It was the friar of orders grey, 148

As he forth walked on his way:

Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:

[Strikes him.

Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.

Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!

Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence 153

And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:

[Exit Servant.

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with.

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.—

[Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him.

You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

Kath.

Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.

Pet.

A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! 160

Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?—

What’s this? mutton?

First Serv.

Ay.

Pet.

Who brought it?

First Serv.

Pet.

’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. 164

What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?

How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,

And serve it thus to me that love it not?

[Throws the meat, &c. at them.

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.

You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves!

What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight.

Kath.

I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:

The meat was well if you were so contented. 172

Pet.

I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away;

And I expressly am forbid to touch it,

For it engenders choler, planteth anger;

And better ’twere that both of us did fast, 176

Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,

Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.

Be patient; to-morrow’t shall be mended,

And for this night we’ll fast for company: 180

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

[Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Curtis.

Nath.

Peter, didst ever see the like?

Peter.

He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter Curtis.

Gru.

Where is he? 184

Curt.

In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;

And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,

Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,

And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 189

Away, away! for he is coming hither.

[Exeunt.

Re-enter Petruchio.

Pet.

Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And ’tis my hope to end successfully. 192

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,

And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard, 196

To make her come and know her keeper’s call;

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat; 200

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not:

As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I’ll find about the making of the bed;

And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets:

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her;

And in conclusion she shall watch all night: 208

And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,

And with the clamour keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;

And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. 212

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Padua. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Tranio and Hortensio.

Tra.

Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

Hor.

Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 4

Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching.

[They stand aside.

Hor.

Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray,

You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca

Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. 13

Tra.

O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!

I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

Hor.

Mistake no more: I am not Licio, 16

Nor a musician, as I seem to be;

But one that scorns to live in this disguise,

For such a one as leaves a gentleman,

And makes a god of such a cullion: 20

Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio.

Tra.

Signior Hortensio, I have often heard

Of your entire affection to Bianca;

And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,

I will with you, if you be so contented, 25

Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

Hor.

See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow 28

Never to woo her more; but I do forswear her,

As one unworthy all the former favours

That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

Tra.

And here I take the like unfeigned oath,

Never to marry with her though she would entreat.

Fie on her! see how beastly she doth court him.

Hor.

Would all the world, but he had quite forsworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, 36

I will be married to a wealthy widow

Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me

As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. 40

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love: and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.

[Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance.

Tra.

Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace 44

As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case!

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,

Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master; 56

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,

To tame a shrew, and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter Biondello, running.

Bion.

O master, master! I have watch’d so long

That I’m dog-weary; but at last I spied 60

An ancient angel coming down the hill

Will serve the turn.

Tra.

What is he, Biondello?

Bion.

Master, a mercatante, or a pedant,

I know not what; but formal in apparel, 64

In gait and countenance surely like a father.

Luc.

And what of him, Tranio?

Tra.

If he be credulous and trust my tale,

I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, 68

And give assurance to Baptista Minola,

As if he were the right Vincentio.

Take in your love, and then let me alone.

[Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca.

Enter a Pedant.

Ped.

God save you, sir!

Tra.

And you, sir! you are welcome.

Travel you far on, or are you at the furthest? 73

Ped.

Sir, at the furthest for a week or two;

But then up further, and as far as Rome;

And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. 76

Tra.

What countryman, I pray?

Ped.

Of Mantua.

Tra.

Of Mantua, sir! marry, God forbid!

And come to Padua, careless of your life?

Ped.

My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard. 80

Tra.

’Tis death for any one in Mantua

To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?

Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the duke,—

For private quarrel ’twixt your duke and him,—

Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. 85

’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come,

You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

Ped.

Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so; 88

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence, and must here deliver them.

Tra.

Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you: 92

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

Ped.

Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been;

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens.

Tra.

Among them, know you one Vincentio?

Ped.

I know him not, but I have heard of him;

A merchant of incomparable wealth. 98

Tra.

He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

Bion.

[Aside.] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

Tra.

To save your life in this extremity,

This favour will I do you for his sake; 104

And think it not the worst of all your fortunes

That you are like to Sir Vincentio.

His name and credit shall you undertake,

And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d,

Look that you take upon you as you should! 109

You understand me, sir; so shall you stay

Till you have done your business in the city.

If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. 112

Ped.

O sir, I do; and will repute you ever

The patron of my life and liberty.

Tra.

Then go with me to make the matter good.

This, by the way, I let you understand: 116

My father is here look’d for every day,

To pass assurance of a dower in marriage

’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:

In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you. 120

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in Petruchio’s House.

Enter Katharina and Grumio.

Gru.

No, no, forsooth; I dare not, for my life.

Kath.

The more my wrong the more his spite appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars, that come unto my father’s door, 4

Upon entreaty have a present alms;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat, 8

Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love; 12

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat

’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.

I prithee go and get me some repast;

I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 16

Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath.

Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Gru.

Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,

Or else you get no beef of Grumio. 28

Kath.

Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

Gru.

Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Kath.

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

[Beats him.

That feed’st me with the very name of meat. 32

Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,

That triumph thus upon my misery!

Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.

Pet.

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort? 36

Hor.

Mistress, what cheer?

Kath.

Faith, as cold as can be.

Pet.

Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,

To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee: 40

[Sets the dish on a table.

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.

What! not a word? Nay then, thou lov’st it not,

And all my pains is sorted to no proof.

Here, take away this dish.

Kath.

I pray you, let it stand. 44

Pet.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks,

And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

Kath.

I thank you, sir.

Hor.

Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.

Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company. 49

Pet.

[Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov’st me.

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!

Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, 52

Will we return unto thy father’s house,

And revel it as bravely as the best,

With silken coats and caps and golden rings,

With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;

With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, 57

With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery.

What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 60

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;

Lay forth the gown.—

Enter Haberdasher.

What news with you, sir?

Hab.

Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

Pet.

Why, this was moulded on a porringer;

A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy: 65

Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:

Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. 68

Kath.

I’ll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

Pet.

When you are gentle, you shall have one too;

And not till then.

Hor.

[Aside.] That will not be in haste.

Kath.

Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, 73

And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:

Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 76

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,

Or else my heart, concealing it, will break:

And rather than it shall, I will be free

Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 80

Pet.

Why, thou sayst true; it is a paltry cap,

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie.

I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not.

Kath.

Love me or love me not, I like the cap,

And it I will have, or I will have none. 85

[Exit Haberdasher.

Pet.

Thy gown? why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t.

O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?

What’s this? a sleeve? ’tis like a demi-cannon:

What! up and down, carv’d like an apple-tart?

Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,

Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.

Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? 92

Hor.

[Aside.] I see, she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

Tai.

You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

Pet.

Marry, and did: but if you be remember’d,

I did not bid you mar it to the time. 97

Go, hop me over every kennel home,

For you shall hop without my custom, sir.

I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. 100

Kath.

I never saw a better-fashion’d gown,

More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable.

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Pet.

Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. 104

Tai.

She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

Pet.

O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,

Thou thimble, 108

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!

Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread!

Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard 113

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!

[Aside.] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.

[To Tailor.] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

Hor.

[Aside to Tailor.] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow: 168

Take no unkindness of his hasty words.

Away! I say; commend me to thy master.

[Exit Tailor.

Pet.

Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s,

Even in these honest mean habiliments. 172

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor:

For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich;

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 176

What is the jay more precious than the lark

Because his feathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel

Because his painted skin contents the eye? 180

O, no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse

For this poor furniture and mean array.

If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me;

And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith,

To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. 185

Go, call my men, and let us straight to him;

And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;

There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.

Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock,

And well we may come there by dinner-time.

Kath.

I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two;

And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there. 192

Pet.

It shall be seven ere I go to horse.

Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,

You are still crossing it. Sirs, let’t alone:

I will not go to-day; and ere I do, 196

It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

Hor.

Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Padua. Before Baptista’s House.

Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio.

Tra.

Sir, this is the house: please it you that I call?

Ped.

Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,

Signior Baptista may remember me,

Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, 4

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

Tra.

’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,

With such austerity as ’longeth to a father.

Ped.

I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy; 8

’Twere good he were school’d.

Enter Biondello.

Tra.

Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,

Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:

Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio. 12

Bion.

Tut! fear not me.

Tra.

But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

Bion.

I told him that your father was at Venice,

And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

Tra.

Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink. 17

Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

Enter Baptista and Lucentio.

Signior Baptista, you are happily met.

[To the Pedant.] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of: 20

I pray you, stand good father to me now,

Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

Ped.

Soft, son!

Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua 24

To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio

Made me acquainted with a weighty cause

Of love between your daughter and himself:

And,—for the good report I hear of you, 28

And for the love he beareth to your daughter,

And she to him,—to stay him not too long,

I am content, in a good father’s care,

To have him match’d; and, if you please to like

No worse than I, upon some agreement 33

Me shall you find ready and willing

With one consent to have her so bestow’d;

For curious I cannot be with you, 36

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Bap.

Sir, pardon me in what I have to say:

Your plainness and your shortness please me well.

Right true it is, your son Lucentio here 40

Doth love my daughter and she loveth him,

Or both dissemble deeply their affections:

And therefore, if you say no more than this,

That like a father you will deal with him 44

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done:

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

Tra.

I thank you, sir. Where, then, do you know best 48

We be affied and such assurance ta’en

As shall with either part’s agreement stand?

Bap.

Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know,

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants. 52

Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,

And happily we might be interrupted.

Tra.

Then at my lodging an it like you:

There doth my father lie, and there this night

We’ll pass the business privately and well. 57

Send for your daughter by your servant here;

My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.

The worst is this, that, at so slender warning, 60

You’re like to have a thin and slender pittance.

Bap.

It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,

And bid Bianca make her ready straight;

And, if you will, tell what hath happened: 64

Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,

And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.

Luc.

I pray the gods she may with all my heart!

Tra.

Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. 68

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?

Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer.

Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

Bap.

I follow you. 72

But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

[Going.

Luc.

Hearest thou, Biondello?

Bion.

I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.

[Exit.

Luc.

I may, and will, if she be so contented:

She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt?

Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her:

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. 109

[Exit.

Scene V.— A public Road.

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Servants.

Pet.

Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

Kath.

The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.

Pet.

I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

Kath.

I know it is the sun that shines so bright. 5

Pet.

Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or ere I journey to your father’s house. 8

Go one and fetch our horses back again.

Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

Hor.

Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Kath.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, 12

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.

An if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Pet.

I say it is the moon.

Kath.

I know it is the moon. 16

Pet.

Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

Kath.

Then God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun:

But sun it is not when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind. 20

What you will have it nam’d, even that it is;

And so, it shall be so for Katharine.

Hor.

Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

Pet.

Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, 24

And not unluckily against the bias.

But soft! what company is coming here?

Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress.

[To Vincentio.] Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, 28

Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks!

What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,

As those two eyes become that heavenly face? 32

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.

Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;

Beside, so qualified as may beseem

The spouse of any noble gentleman.

Let me embrace with old Vincentio; 68

And wander we to see thy honest son,

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

Vin.

But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,

Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest 72

Upon the company you overtake?

Hor.

I do assure thee, father, so it is.

Pet.

Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

[Exeunt all but Hortensio.

Hor.

Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. 77

Have to my widow! and if she be froward,

Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Padua. Before Lucentio’s House.

Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio, and Bianca; Gremio walking on the other side.

Bion.

Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready.

Luc.

I fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need thee at home; therefore leave us. 4

Bion.

Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master as soon as I can.

[Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello.

Gre.

I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. 8

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, and Attendants.

Pet.

Sir, here’s the door, this is Lucentio’s house:

My father’s bears more toward the marketplace;

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

Vin.

You shall not choose but drink before you go. 12

I think I shall command your welcome here,

And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.

[Knocks.

Gre.

They’re busy within; you were best knock louder. 16

[Beats Biondello.

Bion.

Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.

[Exit.

Ped.

Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! 61

Thus strangers may be haled and abused: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca.

Bion.

O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. 114

Luc.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, sweet father.

Vin.

Lives my sweetest son?

[Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant run out.

Bian.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, dear father.

Bap.

How hast thou offended?

Where is Lucentio?

Luc.

Here’s Lucentio, 117

Right son to the right Vincentio;

That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,

While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne.

Gre.

Here’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

Vin.

Where is that damned villain Tranio,

That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so? 124

Bap.

Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

Bian.

Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio.

Luc.

Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio, 128

While he did bear my countenance in the town;

And happily I have arriv’d at last

Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to; 132

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

Vin.

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, 4

While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.

Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina,

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,

Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:

My banquet is to close our stomachs up, 9

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;

For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

Wid.

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. 20

Pet.

Roundly replied.

Kath.

Mistress, how mean you that?

Wid.

Thus I conceive by him.

Pet.

Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

Hor.

My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. 24

Pet.

Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

Kath.

‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:’

I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.

Wid.

Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, 28

Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe:

And now you know my meaning.

Kath.

A very mean meaning.

Wid.

Right, I mean you.

Kath.

And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. 32

Pet.

To her, Kate!

Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun, 44

Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

Bian.

Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush;

And then pursue me as you draw your bow.

You are welcome all. 48

[Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow.

Pet.

She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;

This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not:

Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d.

Tra.

O sir! Lucentio slipp’d me, like his greyhound, 52

Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

Pet.

A good swift simile, but something currish.

Tra.

’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:

’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

Bap.

O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

Luc.

I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

Hor.

Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?

Pet.

A’ has a little gall’d me, I confess; 60

And, as the jest did glance away from me,

’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

Bap.

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 64

Pet.

Well, I say no: and therefore, for assurance,

Let’s each one send unto his wife;

And he whose wife is most obedient

To come at first when he doth send for her, 68

That will I.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 76

Bion.

I go.

[Exit.

Bap.

Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes.

Luc.

I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter Biondello.

How now! what news?

Hor.

I am afraid, sir, 88

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter Biondello.

Now, where’s my wife?

Bion.

She says you have some goodly jest in hand:

She will not come: she bids you come to her. 92

Pet.

Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,

And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy.

Bap.

Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won; and I will add 113

Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;

Another dowry to another daughter,

For she is chang’d, as she had never been. 116

Pet.

Nay, I will win my wager better yet,

And show more sign of her obedience,

Her new-built virtue and obedience.

See where she comes, and brings your froward wives 120

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow.

Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not:

Off with that bauble, throw it under foot.

[Katharina pulls off her cap, and throws it down.

Wid.

Lord! let me never have a cause to sigh, 124

Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

Bian.

Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

Luc.

I would your duty were as foolish too:

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 128

Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.

Bian.

The more fool you for laying on my duty.

Pet.

Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 132

Wid.

Come, come, you’re mocking: we will have no telling.

Pet.

Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

Wid.

She shall not.

Pet.

I say she shall: and first begin with her. 136

Kath.

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, 140

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; 144

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, 148

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labour both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; 152

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks, and true obedience;

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 156

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel, 160

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?—

I am asham’d that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 164

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts 168

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms!

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason haply more, 172

To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

But now I see our lances are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. 176

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband’s foot:

In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready; may it do him ease. 180

Pet.

Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

Luc.

Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t.

Vin.

’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

Luc.

But a harsh hearing when women are froward. 184

Pet.

Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.

We three are married, but you two are sped.

’Twas I won the wager, [To Lucentio.] though you hit the white;

And, being a winner, God give you good night! 188

[Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina.

Hor.

Now, go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew.

Luc.

’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.

[Exeunt.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King of France.
Duke of Florence.
Bertram,	Count of Rousillon.
Lafeu,	an old Lord.
Parolles,	a follower of Bertram.
Steward to the Countess of Rousillon.
Lavache,	a Clown in her household.
A Page.
Countess of Rousillon,	Mother to Bertram.
Helena,	a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.
An Old Widow of Florence.
Diana,	Daughter to the Widow.
Violenta, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Mariana, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.

Scene.—Rousillon, Paris, Florence, Marseilles.

Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

Laf.

How understand we that?

Count.

Be thou blest, Bertram; and succeed thy father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue 72

Contend for empire in thee; and thy goodness

Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy

Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 76

Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence,

But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will

That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,

Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; 80

’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord,

Advise him.

Laf.

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

Count.

Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

[Exit.

Ber.

[To Helena.] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. 88

Laf.

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.

Hel.

O! were that all. I think not on my father;

And these great tears grace his remembrance more 92

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

I have forgot him: my imagination

Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.

I am undone: there is no living, none, 96

If Bertram be away. It were all one

That I should love a bright particular star

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light 100

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw 105

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart’s table; heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: 108

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?

One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;

And yet I know him a notorious liar, 112

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones

Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,

A phœnix, captain, and an enemy, 184

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;

His humble ambition, proud humility,

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 188

His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—

I know not what he shall. God send him well!

The court’s a learning-place, and he is one— 193

Par.

What one, i’ faith?

Hel.

That I wish well. ’Tis pity—

Par.

What’s pity? 196

Hel.

That wishing well had not a body in’t,

Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,

Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

Might with effects of them follow our friends, 200

And show what we alone must think, which never

Returns us thanks.

Enter a Page.

Page.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

Hel.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 236

Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull

Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.

What power is it which mounts my love so high;

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 241

To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose

What hath been cannot be: who ever strove 245

To show her merit, that did miss her love?

The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me,

But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and Others attending.

King.

The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue

A braving war.

First Lord.

So ’tis reported, sir.

King.

Nay, ’tis most credible: we here receive it 4

A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria,

With caution that the Florentine will move us

For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend

Prejudicates the business, and would seem 8

To have us make denial.

First Lord.

His love and wisdom,

Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King.

He hath arm’d our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes: 12

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

Sec. Lord.

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 16

For breathing and exploit.

King.

What’s he comes here?

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.

First Lord.

It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Betram.

King.

Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face;

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, 20

Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber.

My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

King.

I would I had that corporal soundness now, 24

As when thy father and myself in friendship

First tried our soldiership! He did look far

Into the service of the time and was

Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long; 28

But on us both did haggish age steal on,

And wore us out of act. It much repairs me

To talk of your good father. In his youth

He had the wit which I can well observe 32

To-day in our young lords; but they may jest

Till their own scorn return to them unnoted

Ere they can hide their levity in honour.

So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness 36

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

His equal had awak’d them; and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time 40

His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him

He us’d as creatures of another place,

And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,

Making them proud of his humility, 44

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man

Might be a copy to these younger times,

Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now

But goers backward.

Ber.

His good remembrance, sir, 48

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

King.

Would I were with him! He would always say,— 52

Methinks I hear him now: his plausive words

He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them,

To grow there and to bear. ‘Let me not live,’—

Thus his good melancholy oft began, 56

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,

When it was out,—‘Let me not live,’ quoth he,

‘After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff

Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 60

All but new things disdain; whose judgments are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions.’ This he wish’d:

I, after him, do after him wish too, 64

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

To give some labourers room.

Sec. Lord.

You are lov’d, sir;

They that least lend it you shall lack you first. 68

King.

I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, count,

Since the physician at your father’s died?

He was much fam’d.

Ber.

Some six months since, my lord.

King.

If he were living, I would try him yet:

Lend me an arm: the rest have worn me out 73

With several applications: nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son’s no dearer.

Ber.

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind. 68

Enter Helena.

Even so it was with me when I was young: 136

If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn

Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born:

It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, 140

Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth:

By our remembrances of days foregone,

Such were our faults; or then we thought them none.

Her eye is sick on’t: I observe her now. 144

Hel.

What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.

You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Hel.

Mine honourable mistress.

Count.

Nay, a mother:

Why not a mother? When I said, ‘a mother,’

Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ‘mother’ 149

That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;

And put you in the catalogue of those

That were enwombed mine: ’tis often seen 152

Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds

A native slip to us from foreign seeds;

You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,

Yet I express to you a mother’s care. 156

God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter,

That this distemper’d messenger of wet,

The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye? 160

Why? that you are my daughter?

Hel.

That I am not.

Count.

I say, I am your mother.

Hel.

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour’d name; 164

No note upon my parents, his all noble:

My master, my dear lord he is; and I

His servant live, and will his vassal die.

He must not be my brother.

Count.

Nor I your mother? 168

Hel.

You are my mother, madam: would you were,—

So that my lord your son were not my brother,—

Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,

I care no more for than I do for heaven, 172

So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Count.

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 176

So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?

My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see

The mystery of your loneliness, and find

Your salt tears’ head: now to all sense ’tis gross

You love my son: invention is asham’d, 181

Against the proclamation of thy passion,

To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;

But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks 184

Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours

That in their kind they speak it: only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 188

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so?

If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;

If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 192

Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond 196

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection, for your passions

Have to the full appeach’d.

Hel.

Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you 200

That before you, and next unto high heaven,

I love your son.

My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love:

Be not offended, for it hurts not him 204

That he is lov’d of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

Yet never know how that desert should be. 208

I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve

I still pour in the waters of my love,

And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, 212

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

Let not your hate encounter with my love 216

For loving where you do: but, if yourself,

Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

Did ever in so true a flame of liking

Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian

Was both herself and Love; O! then, give pity

To her, whose state is such that cannot choose

But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

That seeks not to find that her search implies,

But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 225

Count.

Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,

To go to Paris?

Hel.

Madam, I had.

Count.

Wherefore? tell true.

Hel.

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me

In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, 233

As notes whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note. Amongst the rest,

There is a remedy, approv’d, set down 236

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render’d lost.

Count.

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Hel.

My lord your son made me to think of this; 240

Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,

Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

Count.

But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid, 244

He would receive it? He and his physicians

Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,

They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 248

Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Hel.

There’s something in’t,

More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st

Of his profession, that his good receipt 252

Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

But give me leave to try success, I’d venture

The well-lost life of mine on his Grace’s cure, 256

By such a day, and hour.

Count.

Dost thou believe’t?

Hel.

Ay, madam, knowingly.

Count.

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings 260

To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home

And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.

Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 264

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and Attendants.

King.

Farewell, young lords: these war-like principles

Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, farewell:

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain, all

The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis receiv’d, 4

And is enough for both.

First Lord.

’Tis our hope, sir,

After well enter’d soldiers, to return

And find your Grace in health.

King.

No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

Will not confess he owes the malady 9

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy— 12

Those bated that inherit but the fall

Of the last monarchy—see that you come

Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek

That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell. 17

Sec. Lord.

Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

King.

Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:

They say, our French lack language to deny 20

If they demand: beware of being captives,

Before you serve.

Both Lords.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

King.

Farewell. Come hither to me.

[Exit attended.

First Lord.

O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us! 24

Par.

’Tis not his fault, the spark.

Sec. Lord.

O! ’tis brave wars.

Par.

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

Ber.

I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

‘Too young,’ and ‘the next year,’ and ‘’tis too early.’ 28

Par.

An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.

Ber.

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

And I will do so. 60

Par.

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy swordmen.

[Exeunt Bertram and Parolles.

Enter Lafeu.

Laf.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

King.

I’ll fee thee to stand up. 64

Laf.

Then here’s a man stands that has brought his pardon.

I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy,

And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

King.

I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

And ask’d thee mercy for’t. 69

Laf.

Good faith, across: but, my good lord, ’tis thus;

Will you be cur’d of your infirmity?

King.

No. 72

Laf.

O! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?

Yes, but you will my noble grapes an if

My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a medicine

That’s able to breathe life into a stone, 76

Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary

With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch

Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,

To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand 80

And write to her a love-line.

King.

What ‘her’ is this?

Laf.

Why, Doctor She. My lord, there’s one arriv’d

If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,

If seriously I may convey my thoughts 84

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one, that in her sex, her years, profession,

Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more

Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, 88

For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

King.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration, that we with thee

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Hel.

Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father; 104

In what he did profess well found.

King.

I knew him.

Hel.

The rather will I spare my praises towards him;

Knowing him is enough. On’s bed of death

Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, 108

Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,

And of his old experience the only darling,

He bade me store up as a triple eye,

Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so;

And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d 113

With that malignant cause wherein the honour

Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power,

I come to tender it and my appliance, 116

With all bound humbleness.

King.

We thank you, maiden;

But may not be so credulous of cure,

When our most learned doctors leave us, and

The congregated college have concluded 120

That labouring art can never ransom nature

From her inaidable estate; I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady 124

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

Hel.

My duty then, shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you; 129

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one, to bear me back again.

King.

I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful. 132

Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks I give

As one near death to those that wish him live;

But what at full I know, thou know’st no part,

I knowing all my peril, thou no art. 136

Hel.

What I can do can do no hurt to try,

Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy.

He that of greatest works is finisher

Oft does them by the weakest minister: 140

So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,

When judges have been babes; great floods have flown

From simple sources; and great seas have dried

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 145

Where most it promises; and oft it hits

Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

King.

I must not hear thee: fare thee well, kind maid. 148

Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid:

Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

Hel.

Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d.

It is not so with Him that all things knows, 152

As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows;

But most it is presumption in us when

The help of heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; 156

Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim;

But know I think, and think I know most sure, 160

My art is not past power nor you past cure.

King.

Art thou so confident? Within what space

Hop’st thou my cure?

Hel.

The great’st grace lending grace,

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 164

Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp

Moist Hesperus hath quench’d his sleepy lamp,

Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass 168

Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,

What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,

Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.

King.

Upon thy certainty and confidence

What dar’st thou venture?

Hel.

Tax of impudence, 173

A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame,

Traduc’d by odious ballads: my maiden’s name

Sear’d otherwise; nay worse—if worse—extended 176

With vilest torture let my life be ended.

King.

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak,

His powerful sound within an organ weak;

And what impossibility would slay 180

In common sense, sense saves another way.

Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

Worth name of life in thee hath estimate;

Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all 184

That happiness and prime can happy call:

Thou this to hazard needs must intimate

Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.

Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, 188

That ministers thine own death if I die.

Hel.

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee; 192

But, if I help, what do you promise me?

King.

Make thy demand.

Hel.

But will you make it even?

King.

Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopes of heaven.

Hel.

Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand 196

What husband in thy power I will command:

Exempted be from me the arrogance

To choose from forth the royal blood of France,

My low and humble name to propagate 200

With any branch or image of thy state;

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know

Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

King.

Here is my hand; the premises observ’d, 204

Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d:

So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,

Though more to know could not be more to trust, 209

From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest.

I play the noble housewife with the time,

To entertain’t so merrily with a fool.

Clo.

O Lord, sir! why, there’t serves well again. 68

Count.

An end, sir: to your business. Give Helen this,

And urge her to a present answer back:

Commend me to my kinsmen and my son.

This is not much. 72

Clo.

Not much commendation to them.

Count.

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

Clo.

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

Count.

Enter King, Helena, and Attendants.

Laf.

Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I’ll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto. 49

Par.

Mort du vinaigre! Is not this Helen?

Laf.

’Fore God, I think so.

King.

Go, call before me all the lords in court.

[Exit an Attendant.

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side: 53

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense

Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive

The confirmation of my promised gift, 56

Which but attends thy naming.

Enter several Lords.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O’er whom both sov’reign power and father’s voice 60

I have to use: thy frank election make;

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

Hel.

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one.

Laf.

I’d give bay Curtal, and his furniture, 65

My mouth no more were broken than these boys’

And writ as little beard.

King.

Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father. 68

Hel.

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.

All.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

Hel.

I am a simple maid; and therein wealthiest 72

That I protest I simply am a maid.

Please it your majesty, I have done already:

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,

‘We blush, that thou shouldst choose; but, be refus’d, 76

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

We’ll ne’er come there again.’

King.

Make choice; and see,

Who shuns thy love, shuns all his love in me.

Hel.

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, 80

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?

First Lord.

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

Laf.

These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em. 101

Hel.

You are too young, too happy, and too good,

To make yourself a son out of my blood.

Fourth Lord.

Fair one, I think not so. 104

Laf.

There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drunk wine. But if thou be’st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen: I have known thee already. 108

Hel.

’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which 124

I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together,

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off

In differences so mighty. If she be 128

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st,

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislik’st

Of virtue for the name; but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 132

The place is dignified by the doer’s deed:

Where great additions swell’s, and virtue none,

It is a dropsied honour. Good alone

Is good without a name: vileness is so: 136

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;

In these to nature she’s immediate heir,

And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn

Which challenges itself as honour’s born, 141

And is not like the sire: honours thrive

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our foregoers. The mere word’s a slave,

Debosh’d on every tomb, on every grave 145

A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb

Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb

Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 149

I can create the rest: virtue and she

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

Ber.

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do’t.

King.

Thou wrong’st thyself if thou shouldst strive to choose. 153

Hel.

That you are well restor’d, my lord, I’m glad:

Let the rest go.

King.

My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat 156

I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,

That dost in vile misprision shackle up

My love and her desert; thou canst not dream

We, poising us in her defective scale, 161

Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,

It is in us to plant thine honour where

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good: 165

Believe not thy disdain, but presently

Do thine own fortunes that obedient right

Which both thy duty owes and our power claims;

Or I will throw thee from my care for ever 169

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 172

Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

Ber.

Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

My fancy to your eyes. When I consider

What great creation and what dole of honour 176

Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,

Is, as ’twere, born so.

King.

Take her by the hand, 180

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

A balance more replete.

Ber.

I take her hand.

King.

Good fortune and the favour of the king 184

Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony

Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,

And be perform’d to-night: the solemn feast

Shall more attend upon the coming space, 188

Par.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, an if I could but meet him again! 255

Par.

Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good. Let it be concealed awhile.

Re-enter Bertram.

Ber.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

Par.

What is the matter, sweet heart? 285

Ber.

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

Par.

What, what, sweet heart? 288

Ber.

O my Parolles, they have married me!

I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Par.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a man’s foot. To the wars! 292

Ber.

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is

I know not yet.

Par.

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy! to the wars!

He wears his honour in a box, unseen, 296

That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,

Spending his manly marrow in her arms,

Which should sustain the bound and high curvet

Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions! 300

France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades;

Therefore, to the war!

Ber.

It shall be so: I’ll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, 304

And wherefore I am fled; write to the king

That which I durst not speak: his present gift

Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,

Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife 308

To the dark house and the detested wife.

Par.

Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

Ber.

Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.

I’ll send her straight away: to-morrow 312

I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Par.

Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard:

A young man married is a man that’s marr’d:

A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. 40

Madam, my lord will go away to-night;

A very serious business calls on him.

The great prerogative and rite of love,

Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge, 44

But puts it off to a compell’d restraint;

Ber.

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given orders for our horses; and to-night, 28

When I should take possession of the bride,

And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur: I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

[Exit.

Par.

An idle lord, I swear.

Ber.

I think not so. 56

Par.

Why, do you not know him?

Ber.

Yes, I do know him well; and common speech

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena.

Hel.

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, 60

Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave

For present parting; only, he desires

Some private speech with you.

Ber.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 64

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular: prepar’d I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found 68

So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you

That presently you take your way for home;

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you;

For my respects are better than they seem, 72

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not. This to my mother.

[Giving a letter.

’Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so 76

[Exit Helena.

Go thou toward home; where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

Away! and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio! 98

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

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

Flourish. Enter the Duke, attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.

Duke.

So that from point to point now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war,

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

First Lord.

Holy seems the quarrel 4

Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

Duke.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would in so just a business shut his bosom 8

Against our borrowing prayers.

First Lord.

Good my lord,

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

But like a common and an outward man,

That the great figure of a council frames 12

By self-unable motion: therefore dare not

Say what I think of it, since I have found

Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

As often as I guess’d.

Duke.

Be it his pleasure. 16

Sec. Lord.

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

Duke.

Welcome shall they be,

And all the honours that can fly from us 20

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

What have we here? 19

Clo.

E’en that you have there.

[Exit.

Count.

I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the ‘not’ eternal. You shall hear I am ran away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.

Your unfortunate son, 28

Bertram.

This is not well: rash and unbridled boy,

To fly the favours of so good a king!

To pluck his indignation on thy head 32

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

Sec. Gen.

Do not say so. 49

Count.

Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,

That the first face of neither, on the start, 52

Can woman me unto ’t: where is my son, I pray you?

Sec. Gen.

Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence:

We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

And, after some dispatch in hand at court, 56

Thither we bend again.

Hel.

Look on his letter, madam; here’s my passport.

When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a ‘then’ I write a ‘never.’

This is a dreadful sentence. 64

Count.

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

First Gen.

Ay, madam;

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains.

Count.

I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 68

Thou robb’st me of a moiety: he was my son,

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?

Sec. Gen.

Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier? 72

Sec. Gen.

Such is his noble purpose; and, believe’t,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you thither?

First Gen.

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. 76

Hel.

Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.

’Tis bitter.

Count.

Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

First Gen.

’Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to. 80

Count.

Nothing in France until he have no wife!

There’s nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, 84

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

First Gen.

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have some time known.

Count.

Parolles, was it not?

First Gen.

Ay, my good lady, he. 88

Count.

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

First Gen.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much, 92

Which holds him much to have.

Count.

Y’are welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win 96

The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you

Written to bear along.

Sec. Gen.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near? 101

[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.

Hel.

‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’

Nothing in France until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is’t I 105

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the non-sparing war? and is it I 108

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 112

Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast, 116

I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t;

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better ’twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar’d 120

With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, 124

As oft it loses all: I will be gone;

My being here it is that holds thee hence:

Shall I stay here to do’t? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house, 128

And angels offic’d all: I will be gone,

That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away. 132

[Exit.

Scene III.— Florence. Before the Duke’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter Duke, Bertram, Parolles, Soldiers. Drum and Trumpets.

Duke.

The general of our horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet 4

We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

To the extreme edge of hazard.

Duke.

Then go thou forth,

And fortune play upon thy prosp’rous helm

As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

This very day, 8

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess and Steward.

Count.

Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done,

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Stew.

I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone: 4

Ambitious love hath so in me offended

That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

Write, write, that from the bloody course of war,

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

His name with zealous fervour sanctify:

His taken labours bid him me forgive; 12

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dog the heels of worth:

He is too good and fair for Death and me; 16

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Count.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,

As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, 20

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

Pardon me, madam:

If I had given you this at over-night

She might have been o’erta’en; and yet she writes,

Pursuit would be but vain.

Count.

What angel shall 25

Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, 29

To this unworthy husband of his wife;

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 33

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may that she, 36

Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

Led hither by pure love. Which of them both

Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense

To make distinction. Provide this messenger. 40

You shall not need to fear me.

Wid.

I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim:

I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another. I’ll question her. 33

Enter Helena in the dress of a Pilgrim.

God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

Hel.

To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

Wid.

At the Saint Francis, here beside the port. 37

Hel.

Is this the way?

Wid.

Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you!

[A marck afar off.

They come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by, 40

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d:

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

Hel.

Hel.

O! I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean 60

To have her name repeated: all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examin’d.

Dia.

Alas, poor lady!

’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife 64

Of a detesting lord.

Wid.

Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe’er she is,

Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her

A shrewd turn if she pleas’d.

Hel.

How do you mean? 68

May be the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Wid.

He does, indeed;

And brokes with all that can in such a suit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid: 72

But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

Mar.

The gods forbid else!

Enter, with drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army, Bertram and Parolles.

Wid.

So, now they come.

That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son; 76

That, Escalus.

Hel.

Which is the Frenchman?

Dia.

He;

He’s shrewdly vexed at something.

Look, he has spied us.

Wid.

Marry, hang you!

Mar.

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers, and Soldiers.

Wid.

The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you

Where you shall host: of enjoin’d penitents

There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,

Already at my house.

Hel.

I humbly thank you. 96

Please it this matron and this gentle maid

To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking

Shall be for me; and, to requite you further,

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin 100

Worthy the note.

Both.

First Lord.

I love not many words.

As’t please your lordship: I’ll leave you.

[Exit.

Ber.

Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

The lass I spoke of.

Sec. Lord.

But you say she’s honest. 120

Ber.

That’s all the fault. I spoke with her but once,

And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,

By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind,

Tokens and letters which she did re-send; 124

And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature;

Will you go see her?

Sec. Lord.

With all my heart, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena and Widow.

Hel.

If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

I know not how I shall assure you further,

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

Wid.

Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born, 4

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

Hel.

Nor would I wish you.

First, give me trust, the county is my husband,

And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken

Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,

By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

Err in bestowing it.

Wid.

I should believe you: 12

For you have show’d me that which well approves

You’re great in fortune.

Hel.

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay and pay again 16

When I have found it. The county woos your daughter,

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolv’d to carry her: let her in fine consent,

As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it. 20

Now, his important blood will nought deny

That she’ll demand: a ring the county wears,

That down ward hath succeeded in his house

From son to son, some four or five descents 24

Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds

In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,

Howe’er repented after.

Wid.

Now I see 28

The bottom of your purpose.

Hel.

You see it lawful then. It is no more,

But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,

Desires this ring, appoints him an encounter, 32

In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

Herself most chastely absent. After this,

To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns

To what is past already.

Wid.

I have yielded. 36

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,

That time and place with this deceit so lawful

May prove coherent. Every night he comes

With musics of all sorts and songs compos’d 40

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves, for he persists

As if his life lay on’t.

Hel.

Why then to-night

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, 44

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,

And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. 47

But let’s about it.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

I know you are the Muskos’ regiment;

And I shall lose my life for want of language.

If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 76

Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo

The Florentine.

First Sold.

Boskos vauvado:

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue:

Kerelybonto: Sir, 81

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards

Are at thy bosom.

Par.

First Sold.

[Exit, with Parolles guarded. A short alarum within.

First Lord.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

Sec. Sold.

Captain, I will. 96

First Lord.

A’ will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

Sec. Sold.

So I will, sir.

First Lord.

Till then, I’ll keep him dark and safely lock’d.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Bertram and Diana.

Ber.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

Dia.

No, my good lord, Diana.

Ber.

Titled goddess;

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

In your fine frame hath love no quality? 4

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,

You are no maiden, but a monument:

When you are dead, you should be such a one

As you are now, for you are cold and stern; 8

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

Dia.

She then was honest.

Ber.

So should you be.

Dia.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord, 12

As you owe to your wife.

Ber.

No more o’ that!

I prithee do not strive against my vows.

I was compell’d to her; but I love thee

By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever

Do thee all rights of service.

Dia.

Ay, so you serve us 17

Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

How have I sworn! 20

Dia.

’Tis not the many oaths that make the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me, 24

If I should swear by God’s great attributes

I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

When I did love you ill? this has no holding,

To swear by him whom I protest to love, 28

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d;

At least in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it.

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy; 32

And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts

That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

My love as it begins shall so persever. 37

Dia.

I see that men make ropes in such a scarr

That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

Ber.

I’ll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power 40

To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord?

Ber.

It is an honour ’longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 44

In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour’s such a ring:

My chastity’s the jewel of our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 48

In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion honour on my part

Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 52

And I’ll be bid by thee.

Dia.

When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window:

I’ll order take my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth, 56

When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them

When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: 60

And on your finger in the night I’ll put

Another ring, that what in time proceeds

May token to the future our past deeds.

Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won

A wife of me, though there my hope be done. 65

Ber.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

[Exit.

Dia.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end. 68

My mother told me just how he would woo

As if she sat in ’s heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me

When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, 73

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

First Sold.

When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;

After he scores, he never pays the score:

Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;

He ne’er pays after-debts; take it before, 256

And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;

For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it,

God save you, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France. 357

First Lord.

Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward I’d compel it of you; but fare you well.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lords.

First Sold.

You are undone, captain; all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

Par.

Who cannot be crushed with a plot? 364

First Sold.

If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.

Par.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great

’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more;

But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 372

As captain shall: simply the thing I am

Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,

Let him fear this; for it will come to pass

That every braggart shall be found an ass. 376

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and Parolles, live

Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive!

There’s place and means for every man alive.

I’ll after them.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana.

Hel.

That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you,

One of the greatest in the Christian world

Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’tis needful,

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. 4

Time was I did him a desired office,

Dear almost as his life; which gratitude

Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth,

And answer, thanks. I duly am inform’d 8

His Grace is at Marseilles; to which place

We have convenient convoy. You must know,

I am supposed dead: the army breaking,

My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding, 12

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We’ll be before our welcome.

Wid.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Hel.

Nor you, mistress, 16

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven

Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower,

As it hath fated her to be my motive 20

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!

That can such sweet use make of what they hate,

When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts

Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play 24

With what it loathes for that which is away.

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

Something in my behalf.

Dia.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours 29

Upon your will to suffer.

Hel.

Yet, I pray you:

But with the word the time will bring on summer,

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; 33

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us:

Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks. 63

Clo.

If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jade’s tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.

Clo.

O madam! yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under it or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare. 105

Laf.

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

Clo.

But it is your carbonadoed face. 108

Laf.

Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

Clo.

Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Marseilles. A Street.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants.

Hel.

But this exceeding posting, day and night,

Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it:

But since you have made the days and nights as one,

To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, 4

Be bold you do so grow in my requital

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;

Enter a gentle Astringer.

This man may help me to his majesty’s ear,

If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

Gent.

Wid.

Lord, how we lose our pains! 24

Hel.

All’s well that ends well yet,

Though time seems so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Gent.

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; 28

Whither I am going.

Hel.

I do beseech you, sir,

Since you are like to see the king before me,

Commend the paper to his gracious hand;

Which I presume shall render you no blame 32

But rather make you thank your pains for it.

I will come after you with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

Gent.

This I’ll do for you.

Hel.

And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, 36

Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again:

Go, go, provide.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rousillon. The inner Court of the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Clown and Parolles.

Par.

Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter. I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure. 6

Clo.

Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will henceforth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Prithee, allow the wind.

Par.

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir: I spake but by a metaphor. 12

Clo.

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.

Par.

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 16

Clo.

Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter Lafeu.

Here is a purr of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat—but not a musk-cat—that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.

King.

We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem

Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know

Her estimation home.

Count.

’Tis past, my liege; 4

And I beseech your majesty to make it

Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth;

When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force,

O’erbears it and burns on.

King.

My honour’d lady, 8

I have forgiven and forgotten all,

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch’d the time to shoot.

Laf.

This I must say,—

But first I beg my pardon,—the young lord 12

Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,

Offence of mighty note, but to himself

The greatest wrong of all: he lost a wife

Whose beauty did astonish the survey 16

Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,

Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve

Humbly call’d mistress.

King.

Praising what is lost

Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; 20

We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill

All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon:

The nature of his great offence is dead,

And deeper than oblivion we do bury 24

The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

A stranger, no offender; and inform him

So ’tis our will he should.

Gent.

I shall, my liege.

I am not a day of season, 32

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

In me at once; but to the brightest beams

Distracted clouds give way: so stand thou forth;

The time is fair again.

Ber.

My high-repented blames, 36

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

King.

All is whole;

Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let’s take the instant by the forward top,

For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees 40

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time

Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

Ber.

Admiringly, my liege: 44

At first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart

Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue,

Where the impression of mine eye infixing,

Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,

Which warp’d the line of every other favour; 49

Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen;

Extended or contracted all proportions

To a most hideous object: thence it came 52

That she, whom all men prais’d, and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

King.

Well excus’d:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away 56

From the great compt. But love that comes too late,

Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,

To the great sender turns a sour offence,

Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone.’ Our rasher faults 60

Make trivial price of serious things we have,

Not knowing them until we know their grave:

Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,

Destroy our friends and after weep their dust: 64

Our own love waking cries to see what’s done,

While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: 68

The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay

To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

Count.

Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse! 72

Laf.

Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name

Must be digested, give a favour from you

To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

That she may quickly come.

[Bertram gives a ring. By my old beard, 76

And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead,

Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this,

The last that e’er I took her leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

Ber.

Hers it was not. 80

King.

Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,

While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t.—

This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,

I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 84

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her

Of what should stead her most?

Ber.

My gracious sovereign,

Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, 88

The ring was never hers.

Count.

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it

At her life’s rate.

Laf.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Ber.

You are deceiv’d, my lord, she never saw it: 92

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,

Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name

Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought

I stood engag’d: but when I had subscrib’d 96

To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully

I could not answer in that course of honour

As she had made the overture, she ceas’d,

In heavy satisfaction, and would never 100

Receive the ring again.

King.

Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

Hath not in nature’s mystery more science

Than I have in this ring: ’twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, 104

Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know

That you are well acquainted with yourself,

Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement

You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety, 108

That she would never put it from her finger

Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,

Where you have never come, or sent it us

Upon her great disaster.

Ber.

She never saw it. 112

King.

Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me

Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove

That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so;— 116

And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly,

And she is dead; which nothing, but to close

Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,

More than to see this ring. Take him away. 120

[Guards seize Bertram.

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall,

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him!

We’ll sift this matter further.

Ber.

If you shall prove 124

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet she never was.

[Exit guarded.

King.

I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

Enter the gentle Astringer.

Gent.

Gracious sovereign, 128

Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:

Here’s a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes come short

To tender it herself. I undertook it, 132

Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech

Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know

Is here attending: her business looks in her

With an importing visage, and she told me, 136

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

King.

Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. 147

Diana Capilet.

Laf.

I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this: I’ll none of him.

King.

The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,

To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors: 152

Go speedily and bring again the count.

[Exeunt the gentle Astringer, and some Attendants.

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch’d.

Count.

Now, justice on the doers!

Re-enter Bertram, guarded.

King.

I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you, 156

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.

Re-enter the gentle Astringer, with Widow and Diana.

What woman’s that?

Dia.

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

Derived from the ancient Capilet: 160

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

Wid.

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 164

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

King.

Come hither, county; do you know these women?

Ber.

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further? 168

Dia.

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

Ber.

She’s none of mine, my lord.

Dia.

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; 172

You give away myself, which is known mine;

For I by vow am so embodied yours

That she which marries you must marry me;

Either both or none. 176

Laf.

[To Bertram.] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter: you are no husband for her.

Ber.

My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature, 180

Whom sometime I have laugh’d with: let your highness

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour

Than for to think that I would sink it here.

King.

Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend, 184

Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,

Than in my thought it lies.

Dia.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity. 188

King.

What sayst thou to her?

Ber.

She’s impudent, my lord;

And was a common gamester to the camp.

Dia.

He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so,

He might have bought me at a common price:

Do not believe him. O! behold this ring, 193

Whose high respect and rich validity

Did lack a parallel; yet for all that

He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, 196

If I be one.

Count.

He blushes, and ’tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem

Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been ow’d and worn. This is his wife:

That ring’s a thousand proofs.

King.

Methought you said 201

You saw one here in court could witness it.

Dia.

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles. 204

Laf.

I saw the man to-day, if man he be.

King.

Find him, and bring him hither.

[Exit an Attendant.

Ber.

What of him?

He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots of the world tax’d and debosh’d, 208

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.

Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter,

That will speak anything?

King.

She hath that ring of yours.

Ber.

I think she has: certain it is I lik’d her,

And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. 213

She knew her distance and did angle for me,

Madding my eagerness with her restraint,

As all impediments in fancy’s course 216

Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine,

Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace,

Subdued me to her rate; she got the ring,

And I had that which any inferior might 220

At market-price have bought.

Dia.

I must be patient;

You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife,

May justly diet me. I pray you yet,—

Since you lack virtue I will lose a husband,— 224

Send for your ring; I will return it home,

And give me mine again.

Ber.

I have it not.

Which, on your just proceeding I’ll keep off,—

King.

If it were yours by none of all these ways, 280

How could you give it him?

Dia.

I never gave it him.

Laf.

This woman’s an easy glove, my lord: she goes off and on at pleasure.

King.

This ring was mine: I gave it his first wife. 284

Dia.

It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.

King.

Take her away; I do not like her now.

To prison with her; and away with him.

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring

I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 296

Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life;

I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

[Pointing to Lafeu.

King.

She does abuse our ears: to prison with her!

Dia.

Good mother, fetch my bail. [Exit Widow.] Stay, royal sir; 300

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord,

Who hath abus’d me, as he knows himself,

Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him:

He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d, 305

And at that time he got his wife with child:

Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick:

So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick;

And now behold the meaning.

Re-enter Widow, with Helena.

King.

Is there no exorcist 309

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is’t real that I see?

Hel.

No, my good lord;

’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see; 312

The name and not the thing.

Ber.

Both, both. O! pardon.

Hel.

O my good lord! when I was like this maid,

I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring;

And, look you, here’s your letter; this it says:

When from my finger you can get this ring, 317

And are by me with child, &c. This is done:

Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?

Ber.

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, 320

I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

Hel.

If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!

O! my dear mother; do I see you living? 324

Laf.

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [To Parolles.] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher: so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee: let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy ones. 329

King.

Let us from point to point this story know,

To make the even truth in pleasure flow.

[To Diana.] If thou be’st yet a fresh uncropped flower, 332

Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower;

For I can guess that by thy honest aid

Thou keptst a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that, and all the progress, more and less, 336

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by the King.

The king’s a beggar, now the play is done:

All is well ended if this suit be won

That you express content; which we will pay,

With strife to please you, day exceeding day: 4

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.

[Exeunt.

TWELFTH-NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Orsino,	Duke of Illyria.
Sebastian,	Brother to Viola.
Antonio,	a Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian.
A Sea Captain,	Friend to Viola.
Valentine, }	Gentlemen attending on the Duke.
Curio, }	Gentlemen attending on the Duke.
Sir Toby Belch,	Uncle to Olivia.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek.
Malvolio,	Steward to Olivia.
Fabian, }	Servants to Olivia.
Feste, a Clown, }	Servants to Olivia.
Olivia,	a rich Countess.
Viola,	in love with the Duke.
Maria,	Olivia’s Woman.
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants.

Scene.—A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Duke, Curio, Lords; Musicians attending.

Duke.

If music be the food of love, play on;

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again! it had a dying fall: 4

O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour. Enough! no more:

’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. 8

O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,

That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soe’er, 12

But falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high fantastical.

Cur.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

Duke.

What, Curio? 16

Cur.

The hart.

Duke.

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.

O! when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence. 20

That instant was I turn’d into a hart,

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E’er since pursue me.

Enter Valentine.

How now! what news from her?

Val.

So please my lord, I might not be admitted; 24

But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, till seven years’ heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, 28

And water once a day her chamber round

With eve-offending brine: all this, to season

A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance. 32

Duke.

O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love, when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else 36

That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d

Her sweet perfections with one self king.

Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; 40

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

When you and those poor number sav’d with you

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

Most provident in peril, bind himself,—

Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,— 12

To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea;

Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back,

I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

So long as I could see.

Vio.

For saying so there’s gold. 16

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

The like of him. Know’st thou this country?

Cap.

Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born 20

Cap.

And so is now, or was so very late; 28

For but a month ago I went from hence,

And then ’twas fresh in murmur,—as, you know,

What great ones do the less will prattle of,—

That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 32

Vio.

What’s she?

Cap.

A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her

In the protection of his son, her brother, 36

Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,

They say she hath abjur’d the company

And sight of men.

Vio.

O! that I serv’d that lady,

And might not be deliver’d to the world, 40

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

What my estate is.

Cap.

That were hard to compass,

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the duke’s. 44

Vio.

There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;

And though that nature with a beauteous wall

Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 48

With this thy fair and outward character.

I prithee,—and I’ll pay thee bounteously,—

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid

For such disguise as haply shall become 52

The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke:

Thou shalt present me as a eunuch to him:

It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing

And speak to him in many sorts of music 56

That will allow me very worth his service.

What else may hap to time I will commit;

Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap.

Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be: 60

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

Vio.

[Exit.

Sir To.

O knight! thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down? 88

Sir And.

Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. 93

Sir To.

No question.

Sir And.

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

Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire.

Val.

If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. 4

Vio.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

Val.

No, believe me. 8

Vio.

I thank you. Here comes the count.

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.

Duke.

Who saw Cesario? ho!

Vio.

On your attendance, my lord; here.

Duke.

Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario, 12

Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d

To thee the book even of my secret soul:

Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her,

Be not denied access, stand at her doors, 16

And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow

Till thou have audience.

Vio.

Sure, my noble lord,

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow

As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 20

Duke.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds

Rather than make unprofited return.

Vio.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

Duke.

O! then unfold the passion of my love;

Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: 25

It shall become thee well to act my woes;

She will attend it better in thy youth

Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 28

Vio.

I think not so, my lord.

Duke.

Dear lad, believe it;

For they shall yet belie thy happy years

That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip

Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe

Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound; 33

And all is semblative a woman’s part.

I know thy constellation is right apt

For this affair. Some four or five attend him;

All, if you will; for I myself am best 37

When least in company. Prosper well in this,

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,

To call his fortunes thine.

Vio.

I’ll do my best 40

Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools! 105

Re-enter Maria.

Mar.

Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

Oli.

From the Count Orsino, is it? 108

Mar.

I know not, madam: ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Oli.

Who of my people hold him in delay?

Mar.

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 112

Oli.

Fetch him off, I pray you: he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! [Exit Maria.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.

Clo.

Sir To.

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.

Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

Lady, you are tho cruell’st she alive, 261

If you will lead these graces to the grave

And leave the world no copy.

Oli.

O! sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as Item, Two lips, indifferent red; Item, Two grey eyes, with lids to them; Item, One neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

Vio.

I see you what you are: you are too proud;

But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 272

My lord and master loves you: O! such love

Could be but recompens’d, though you were crown’d

The nonpareil of beauty.

Oli.

How does he love me?

Vio.

With adorations, with fertile tears, 276

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Oli.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him;

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; 280

In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant;

And, in dimension and the shape of nature

A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him:

He might have took his answer long ago. 284

Vio.

If I did love you in my master’s flame,

With such a suffering, such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense;

I would not understand it.

Oli.

Why, what would you? 288

Vio.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love,

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 293

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out, ‘Olivia!’ O! you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth, 296

But you should pity me!

Oli.

You might do much. What is your parentage?

Vio.

Above my fortune, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.

Oli.

Get you to your lord: 300

I cannot love him. Let him send no more,

Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

Vio.

I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse: 305

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,

And let your fervour, like my master’s, be 308

Plac’d in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.

Oli.

‘What is your parentage?’

‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art: 312

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft! soft!

Unless the master were the man. How now!

Even so quickly may one catch the plague? 316

Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

What, ho! Malvolio!

Re-enter Malvolio.

Mal.

Here, madam, at your service. 320

Oli.

Run after that same peevish messenger,

The county’s man: he left this ring behind him,

Would I, or not: tell him I’ll none of it.

Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 324

Nor hold him up with hopes: I’m not for him.

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.

Mal.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Oli.

I do I know not what, and fear to find 329

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

What is decreed must be, and be this so!

[Exit.

ACT II.

Seb.

If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell.

[Exit.

Ant.

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, 48

Else would I very shortly see thee there;

But, come what may, I do adore thee so,

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.

Vio.

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much, 20

That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger. 24

None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none.

I am the man: if it be so, as ’tis,

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, 28

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we! 32

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 36

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love;

As I am woman,—now alas the day!—

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time! thou must untangle this, not I; 41

It is too hard a knot for me to untie.

Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

My lady’s a Cataian; we are politicians; Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ‘Three merry men be we.’ Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally, lady!

There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!

Clo.

Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling. 89

Sir And.

Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Sir To.

O! the twelfth day of December,—

Mar.

Mal.

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

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Others.

Duke.

Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends:

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

That old and antique song we heard last night;

Methought it did relieve my passion much, 4

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:

Come; but one verse.

Cur.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. 9

Duke.

Who was it?

Cur.

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. 13

Duke.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit Curio. Music.

Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me; 16

For such as I am all true lovers are:

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? 20

Vio.

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where love is thron’d.

Duke.

Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves; 24

Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take

An elder than herself, so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband’s heart:

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 32

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

Vio.

I think it well, my lord.

Duke.

Then, let thy love be younger than thyself, 36

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flower

Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

Vio.

And so they are: alas, that they are so; 40

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter Curio with Clown.

Duke.

O, fellow! come, the song we had last night.

Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain;

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 44

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age. 48

Clo.

Are you ready, sir?

Duke.

Ay; prithee, sing.

[Music.

Clo.

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;  52

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O! prepare it  56

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown,  60

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where  64

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

[Exit.

Duke.

Let all the rest give place.

[Exeunt Curio and Attendants.

Once more, Cesario, 81

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; 84

The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems

That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. 88

Vio.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

Duke.

I cannot be so answer’d.

Vio.

Sooth, but you must.

Say that some lady, as perhaps, there is,

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 92

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so; must she not then be answer’d?

Duke.

There is no woman’s sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 96

As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart

So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio.

I am all the daughters of my father’s house,

And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.

Sir, shall I to this lady?

Duke.

Ay, that’s the theme. 124

To her in haste; give her this jewel; say

My love can give no place, bide no denay.

Jove knows I love; 108

But who?

Lips, do not move

No man must know.

‘No man must know.’ What follows? the numbers altered! ‘No man must know:’ if this should be thee, Malvolio!

Sir To.

Marry, hang thee, brock!

Mal.

I may command where I adore; 116

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:

M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

Mal.

M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former; and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose. 156

If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee. 173

The Fortunate-Unhappy.

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me, for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and, with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript. 190

Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.

Jove, I thank thee. I will smile: I will do everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.

Fab.

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

Sir To.

I could marry this wench for this device. 201

Sir And.

So could I too.

Sir To.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. 204

Sir And.

Nor I neither.

Fab.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

I’ll make one too.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Clo.

You have said, sir. To see this age!

Clo.

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin; I might say ‘element,’ but the word is overworn.

[Exit.

Vio.

This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool, 68

And to do that well craves a kind of wit:

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time,

And, like the haggard, check at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practice

As full of labour as a wise man’s art; 74

Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

Oli.

My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world

Dear lady,—

Oli

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,

After the last enchantment you did here, 125

A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:

Under your hard construction must I sit, 128

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,

Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving 133

Enough is shown; a cypress, not a bosom,

Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

Vio.

I pity you. 136

Oli.

That’s a degree to love.

Vio.

No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof

That very oft we pity enemies.

Oli.

Why, then methinks ’tis time to smile again. 140

O world! how apt the poor are to be proud.

If one should be a prey, how much the better

To fall before the lion than the wolf!

[Clock strikes.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,

Your wife is like to reap a proper man:

There lies your way, due west.

Vio.

Then westward-ho! 148

Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!

You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Oli.

Stay:

Oli.

O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip. 160

A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon

Than love that would seem hid; love’s night is noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, 165

Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;

But rather reason thus with reason fetter, 169

Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better.

Vio.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth,

I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, 172

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam: never more

We’ll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

Enter Maria.

Mar.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. 81

Sir To.

And cross-gartered?

Mar.

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i’ the church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his face into more lines than are in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as ’tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do, he’ll smile and take’t for a great favour. 92

Sir To.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Street.

Enter Sebastian and Antonio.

Seb.

I would not by my will have troubled you;

But since you make your pleasure of your pains,

I will no further chide you.

Ant.

I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; 5

And not all love to see you,—though so much

As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,—

But jealousy what might befall your travel, 8

Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,

Unguided and unfriended, often prove

Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,

The rather by these arguments of fear, 12

Set forth in your pursuit.

Seb.

My kind Antonio,

I can no other answer make but thanks,

And thanks, and ever thanks; for oft good turns

Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay: 16

But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,

You should find better dealing. What’s to do?

Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

Ant.

To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging. 20

Seb.

I am not weary, and ’tis long to night:

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes

With the memorials and the things of fame

That do renown this city.

Ant.

Would you’d pardon me;

I do not without danger walk these streets: 25

Once, in a sea-fight ’gainst the Count his galleys,

I did some service; of such note indeed,

That were I ta’en here it would scarce be answer’d. 28

Seb.

Belike you slew great number of his people?

Ant.

The offence is not of such a bloody nature,

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel

Might well have given us bloody argument. 32

It might have since been answer’d in repaying

What we took from them; which, for traffic’s sake,

Most of our city did: only myself stood out;

For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 36

I shall pay dear.

Seb.

Do not then walk too open.

Ant.

It doth not fit me. Hold, sir; here’s my purse.

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,

Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, 40

Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge

I do remember.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

Oli.

I have sent after him: he says he’ll come;

How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?

For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d.

I speak too loud. 4

Where is Malvolio? he is sad, and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:

Where is Malvolio?

Mar.

He’s coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He is sure possess’d, madam. 9

Oli.

Why, what’s the matter? does he rave?

Mar.

No, madam; he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man is tainted in’s wits.

Oli.

Go call him hither.

[Exit Maria.

I am as mad as he, 16

If sad and merry madness equal be.

Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio.

How now, Malvolio!

Mal.

Sweet lady, ho, ho.

Oli.

Oli.

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Enter Servant.

Ser.

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned. I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship’s pleasure. 66

Oli.

I’ll come to him. [Exit Servant.] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 71

[Exeunt Olivia and Maria.

Mal.

Mal.

Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter.

[Exit.

Sir To.

Is’t possible? 141

Fab.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

Sir To.

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. 145

Mar.

Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air, and taint.

Fab.

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

Mar.

The house will be the quieter. 149

Sir To.

Sir To.

Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better; and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,

Andrew Aguecheek.

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot.

I’ll give’t him. 192

Mar.

You may have very fit occasion for for’t: he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. 195

Sir To.

Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the orchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away!

Sir And.

Nay, let me alone for swearing. 204

[Exit.

Sir To.

Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman,—as I know his youth will aptly receive it,—into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. 219

Fab.

Here he comes with your niece: give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.

Sir To.

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria.

Re-enter Olivia, with Viola.

Oli.

I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 224

And laid mine honour too unchary out:

There’s something in me that reproves my fault,

But such a headstrong potent fault it is

That it but mocks reproof. 228

Vio.

With the same haviour that your passion bears

Goes on my master’s griefs.

Oli.

Here; wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture;

Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you; 232

And I beseech you come again to-morrow.

What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny,

That honour sav’d may upon asking give?

Vio.

Nothing but this; your true love for my master. 236

Oli.

How with mine honour may I give him that

Which I have given to you?

Vio.

I will acquit you.

Oli.

Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well:

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 240

[Exit.

Sir To.

Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy: the gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one bout with you; he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to’t. 344

Sir And.

Pray God, he keep his oath!

[Draws.

Vio.

I do assure you, ’tis against my will.

[Draws.

Enter Antonio.

Ant.

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman

Have done offence, I take the fault on me: 348

[To Sir Andrew.] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

Sir And.

Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.

Enter two Officers.

First Off.

This is the man; do thy office.

Sec. Off.

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 364

Of Count Orsino.

Ant.

You do mistake me, sir.

First Off.

No, sir, no jot: I know your favour well,

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.

Take him away: he knows I know him well. 368

Ant.

I must obey.—[To Viola.] This comes with seeking you:

But there’s no remedy: I shall answer it.

What will you do, now my necessity

Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me

Much more for what I cannot do for you 373

Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d:

But be of comfort.

Sec. Off.

Come, sir, away.

Ant.

I must entreat of you some of that money.

Vio.

What money, sir?

For the fair kindness you have show’d me here,

And part, being prompted by your present trouble,

Out of my lean and low ability 380

I’ll lend you something: my having is not much:

I’ll make division of my present with you.

Hold, there is half my coffer.

Ant.

Will you deny me now?

Is’t possible that my deserts to you 384

Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,

Lest that it make me so unsound a man

As to upbraid you with those kindnesses

That I have done for you.

Vio.

I know of none; 388

Nor know I you by voice or any feature.

I hate ingratitude more in a man

Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,

Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption 392

Inhabits our frail blood.

Ant.

O heavens themselves!

Sec. Off.

Come, sir: I pray you, go.

Ant.

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

I snatch’d one-half out of the jaws of death, 396

Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love,

And to his image, which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

First Off.

What’s that to us? The time goes by: away! 400

Ant.

But O! how vile an idol proves this god.

Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.

In nature there’s no blemish but the mind;

None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind: 404

Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil

Are empty trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil.

First Off.

The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.

Ant.

Lead me on. 408

[Exeunt Officers with Antonio.

Vio.

Methinks his words do from such passion fly,

That he believes himself; so do not I.

Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,

That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! 412

Sir To.

Come hither, knight; come hither,

Fabian: we’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

Vio.

He nam’d Sebastian: I my brother know

Yet living in my glass; even such and so 417

In favour was my brother; and he went

Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

For him I imitate. O! if it prove, 420

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

[Exit.

Sir To.

A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. 425

Fab.

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

Sir And.

’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him. 429

Sir To.

Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

Sir And.

An I do not,—

[Exit.

Fab.

Come, let’s see the event. 433

Sir To.

I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.

Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

Seb.

I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me:

There’s money for thee: if you tarry longer 20

I shall give worse payment.

Clo.

By my troth, thou hast an open hand.

These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen years’ purchase. 25

Enter Sir Andrew.

Sir And.

Now, sir, have I met you again? there’s for you.

[Striking Sebastian.

Seb.

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there, and there!

[Beating Sir Andrew.

Are all the people mad? 29

Enter Sir Toby and Fabian.

Sir To.

Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.

Clo.

This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence.

[Exit.

Sir To.

[Holding Sebastian.] Come on, sir: hold. 35

Sir And.

Nay, let him alone; I’ll go another way to work with him: I’ll have an action of battery against him if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that. 40

Seb.

Let go thy hand.

Sir To.

Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on. 44

Seb.

I will be free from thee. [Disengaging himself.] What wouldst thou now?

If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

Sir To.

What, what! Nay then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

[Draws.

Enter Olivia.

Oli.

Hold, Toby! on thy life I charge thee, hold! 49

Sir To.

Madam!

Oli.

Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch!

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,

Where manners ne’er were preach’d. Out of my sight! 53

Be not offended, dear Cesario.

Rudesby, be gone!

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

I prithee, gentle friend,

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 56

In this uncivil and unjust extent

Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,

And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks

This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby

Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go: 61

Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,

He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

Seb.

What relish is in this? how runs the stream? 64

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

Oli.

Nay; come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be rul’d by me! 68

Seb.

Madam, I will.

Oli.

O! say so, and so be!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown; Malvolio in a dark chamber adjoining.

Mar.

Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do it quickly; I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst.

[Exit.

Clo.

[Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria.

Clo.

Hey Robin, jolly Robin,

Tell me how thy lady does. 80

This is the air; that is the glorious sun; This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t;

And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus,

Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio then?

I could not find him at the Elephant; 5

Yet there he was, and there I found this credit,

That he did range the town to seek me out.

His counsel now might do me golden service; 8

For though my soul disputes well with my sense

That this may be some error, but no madness,

Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune

So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 12

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,

And wrangle with my reason that persuades me

To any other trust but that I am mad

Or else the lady’s mad: yet, if ’twere so, 16

She could not sway her house, command her followers,

Take and give back affairs and their dispatch

With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing

As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t

That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 21

Enter Olivia and a Priest.

Oli.

Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,

Now go with me and with this holy man

Into the chantry by; there, before him, 24

And underneath that consecrated roof,

Plight me the full assurance of your faith;

That my most jealous and too doubtful soul

May live at peace. He shall conceal it 28

Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,

What time we will our celebration keep

According to my birth. What do you say?

Seb.

I’ll follow this good man, and go with you; 32

And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Oli.

Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine

That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Clown and Fabian.

Fab.

Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

Clo.

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. 4

Fab.

Anything.

Clo.

Do not desire to see this letter.

Fab.

Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness; but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.

[Exit.

Vio.

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

Enter Antonio and Officers.

Duke.

That face of his I do remember well;

Yet when I saw it last, it was besmear’d 56

As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,

For shallow draught and hulk unprizable;

With which such scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 61

That very envy and the tongue of loss

Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

First Off.

Orsino, this is that Antonio 64

That took the Phœnix and her fraught from Candy;

And this is he that did the Tiger board,

When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.

Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, 68

In private brabble did we apprehend him.

Vio.

He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;

But in conclusion put strange speech upon me:

I know not what ’twas but distraction. 72

Duke.

Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!

What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

Hast made thine enemies?

Ant.

Orsino, noble sir, 76

Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you give me:

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,

Though I confess, on base and ground enough,

Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:

That most ingrateful boy there by your side, 81

From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wrack past hope he was:

His life I gave him, and did thereto add 84

My love, without retention or restraint,

All his in dedication; for his sake

Did I expose myself, pure for his love,

Into the danger of this adverse town; 88

Drew to defend him when he was beset:

Where being apprehended, his false cunning,

Not meaning to partake with me in danger,

Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 92

And grew a twenty years removed thing

While one would wink, denied me mine own purse,

Which I had recommended to his use

Not half an hour before.

Vio.

How can this be? 96

Duke.

When came he to this town?

Ant.

To-day, my lord; and for three months before,—

No interim, not a minute’s vacancy,—

Both day and night did we keep company. 100

Enter Olivia and Attendants.

Duke.

Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth!

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

Still so cruel?

Oli.

Still so constant, lord.

Duke.

What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady, 116

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breath’d out

That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

Oli.

Even what it please my lord, that shall become him. 120

Duke.

Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,

Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,

Kill what I love? a savage jealousy

That sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this: 124

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

And that I partly know the instrument

That screws me from my true place in your favour,

Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant still; 128

But this your minion, whom I know you love,

And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,

Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,

Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite. 132

Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief;

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,

To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.

Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?

Call forth the holy father.

[Exit an Attendant.

Duke.

[To Viola.] Come away.

Oli.

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Duke.

Husband?

Oli.

Ay, husband: can he that deny? 148

Duke.

Her husband, sirrah?

Vio.

No, my lord, not I.

Oli.

Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear

That makes thee strangle thy propriety.

Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up; 152

Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art

As great as that thou fear’st.

Enter Priest.

O, welcome, father!

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,

Here to unfold,—though lately we intended 156

To keep in darkness what occasion now

Reveals before ’tis ripe,—what thou dost know

Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me.

Priest.

A contract of eternal bond of love, 160

Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands,

Attested by the holy close of lips,

Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings;

And all the ceremony of this compact 164

Seal’d in my function, by my testimony:

Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave

I have travell’d but two hours.

Duke.

O, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be 168

When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case?

Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow

That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?

Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet 172

Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

Vio.

My lord, I do protest,—

Oli.

O! do not swear:

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.

Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek, with his head broken.

Sir And.

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;

But, had it been the brother of my blood, 220

I must have done no less with wit and safety.

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that

I do perceive it hath offended you:

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 224

We made each other but so late ago.

Duke.

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;

A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

Seb.

Antonio! O my dear Antonio! 228

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me

Since I have lost thee!

Ant.

Sebastian are you?

Seb.

Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

Ant.

How have you made division of yourself? 232

An apple cleft in two is not more twin

Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Oli.

Most wonderful!

Seb.

Do I stand there? I never had a brother; 236

Nor can there be that deity in my nature,

Of here and every where. I had a sister,

Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d.

Of charity, what kin are you to me? 240

What countryman? what name? what parentage?

Vio.

Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;

Such a Sebastian was my brother too,

So went he suited to his watery tomb. 244

If spirits can assume both form and suit

You come to fright us.

Seb.

A spirit I am indeed;

But am in that dimension grossly clad

Which from the womb I did participate. 248

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!’

Vio.

My father had a mole upon his brow.

Seb.

And so had mine. 253

Vio.

And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had number’d thirteen years.

Seb.

O! that record is lively in my soul. 256

He finished indeed his mortal act

That day that made my sister thirteen years.

Vio.

If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp’d attire, 260

Do not embrace me till each circumstance

Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump

That I am Viola: which to confirm,

I’ll bring you to a captain in this town, 264

Where lie my maiden weeds: by whose gentle help

I was preserv’d to serve this noble count.

All the occurrence of my fortune since

Hath been between this lady and this lord. 268

Seb.

[To Olivia.] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:

But nature to her bias drew in that.

You would have been contracted to a maid;

Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv’d, 272

You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.

Duke.

Be not amaz’d; right noble is his blood.

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,

I shall have share in this most happy wrack.

[To Viola.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times 277

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Vio.

And all those sayings will I over-swear,

And all those swearings keep as true in soul 280

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

Duke.

Give me thy hand;

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

Vio.

The captain that did bring me first on shore 284

Hath my maid’s garments: he upon some action

Is now in durance at Malvolio’s suit,

A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.

Oli.

He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. 288

And yet, alas, now I remember me,

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.

A most extracting frenzy of mine own

From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. 292

Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian.

How does he, sirrah?

Clo.

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. He has here writ a letter to you: I should have given it to you to-day morning; but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

Oli.

Open it, and read it. 300

Clo.

Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman.

By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury.

The madly-used Malvolio.

Oli.

Did he write this? 324

Clo.

Ay, madam.

Duke.

This savours not much of distraction.

Oli.

See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither.

[Exit Fabian.

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, 328

To think me as well a sister as a wife,

One day shall crown the alliance on’t, so please you,

Here at my house and at my proper cost.

Duke.

Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer. 332

[To Viola.] Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,

So much against the mettle of your sex,

So far beneath your soft and tender breeding;

And since you call’d me master for so long, 336

Here is my hand: you shall from this time be

Your master’s mistress.

Oli.

A sister! you are she.

Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio.

Duke.

Is this the madman?

Oli.

Ay, my lord, this same.

How now, Malvolio!

Mal.

Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

Oli.

Have I, Malvolio? no. 341

Mal.

Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.

You must not now deny it is your hand:

Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase,

Or say ’tis not your seal nor your invention: 345

You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,

And tell me, in the modesty of honour,

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, 348

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you,

To put on yellow stockings, and to frown

Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;

And, acting this in an obedient hope, 352

Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,

Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,

And made the most notorious geck and gull

That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why. 356

Oli.

Alas! Malvolio, this is not my writing,

Though, I confess, much like the character;

But, out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand:

And now I do bethink me, it was she 360

First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling,

And in such forms which here were presuppos’d

Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:

This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee; 364

But when we know the grounds and authors of it,

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

Fab.

Good madam, hear me speak,

And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come 368

Taint the condition of this present hour,

Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not,

Most freely I confess, myself and Toby

Set this device against Malvolio here, 372

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts

We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ

The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance;

In recompense whereof he hath married her.

How with a sportful malice it was follow’d, 377

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d

That have on both sides past. 380

Oli.

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Clo.

Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad:’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he’s gagged:’ and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 389

Mal.

I’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of you.

[Exit.

Oli.

He hath been most notoriously abus’d.

Duke.

Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace;— 392

He hath not told us of the captain yet:

When that is known and golden time convents,

A solemn combination shall be made

Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, 396

We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;

For so you shall be, while you are a man;

But when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. 400

[Exeunt all except Clown.

SONG.

Clo.

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.  404

But when I came to man’s estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gates,

For the rain it raineth every day.  408

But when I came, alas! to wive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.  412

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

With toss-pots still had drunken heads,

For the rain it raineth every day.  416

A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

[Exit.

THE WINTER’S TALE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Leontes,	King of Sicilia.
Mamillius,	young Prince of Sicilia.
Camillo, }	Lords of Sicilia.
Antigonus, }
Cleomenes, }
Dion, }
Polixenes,	King of Bohemia.
Florizel,	his Son.
Archidamus,	a Lord of Bohemia.
A Mariner.
A Gaoler.
An old Shepherd, reputed Father of Perdita.
Clown, his Son.
Servant to the old Shepherd.
Autolycus,	a Rogue.
Hermione,	Queen to Leontes.
Perdita,	Daughter to Leontes and Hermione.
Paulina,	Wife to Antigonus.
Emilia, a Lady, }	attending the Queen.
Other Ladies, }	attending the Queen.
Mopsa, }	Shepherdesses.
Dorcas, }	Shepherdesses.
Sicilian Lords and Ladies, Attendants, Guards, Satyrs, Shepherds, Shepherdesses, &c.
Time, as Chorus.

Scene.—Sometimes in Sicilia, sometimes in Bohemia.

ACT I.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, Camillo, and Attendants.

Pol.

Nine changes of the watery star have been

The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne

Without a burden: time as long again

Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks;

And yet we should for perpetuity 5

Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,

Yet standing in rich place, I multiply

With one ‘We thank you’ many thousands moe

That go before it.

Leon.

Stay your thanks awhile, 9

And pay them when you part.

Pol.

Sir, that’s to-morrow.

I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance

Or breed upon our absence; that may blow 12

No sneaping winds at home, to make us say,

‘This is put forth too truly!’ Besides, I have stay’d

To tire your royalty.

Leon.

We are tougher, brother,

Than you can put us to’t.

Pol.

No longer stay. 16

Leon.

One seven-night longer.

Pol.

Very sooth, to-morrow.

Leon.

We’ll part the time between’s then; and in that

I’ll no gainsaying.

Pol.

Press me not, beseech you, so.

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ the world, 20

So soon as yours could win me: so it should now,

Were there necessity in your request, although

’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs

Do even drag me homeward; which to hinder 24

Were in your love a whip to me; my stay

To you a charge and trouble: to save both,

Farewell, our brother.

Leon.

Tongue-tied, our queen? speak you.

Her.

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until 28

You had drawn oaths from him not to stay.

You, sir,

Charge him too coldly: tell him, you are sure

All in Bohemia’s well: this satisfaction

The by-gone day proclaim’d: say this to him, 32

He’s beat from his best ward.

Leon.

Well said, Hermione.

Her.

To tell he longs to see his son were strong:

But let him say so then, and let him go;

But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 36

We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs.

[To Polixenes.] Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure

The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia

You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission

To let him there a month behind the gest 41

Prefix’d for’s parting: yet, good deed, Leontes,

I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind

What lady she her lord. You’ll stay?

Pol.

No, madam. 44

Her.

Nay, but you will?

Pol.

I may not, verily.

Her.

Verily!

You put me off with limber vows; but I,

Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths, 48

Should yet say, ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily,

You shall not go: a lady’s ‘verily’ ’s

As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet?

Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 52

Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees

When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?

My prisoner, or my guest? by your dread ‘verily,’

One of them you shall be.

Pol.

Your guest, then, madam: 56

To be your prisoner should import offending;

Which is for me less easy to commit

Than you to punish.

Her.

Not your gaoler then,

But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you

Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys: 61

You were pretty lordings then.

Pol.

We were, fair queen,

Two lads that thought there was no more behind

But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 64

And to be boy eternal.

Her.

Was not my lord the verier wag o’ the two?

Pol.

We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ the sun,

And bleat the one at the other: what we chang’d 68

Was innocence for innocence; we knew not

The doctrine of ill-doing, no nor dream’d

That any did. Had we pursu’d that life,

And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d 72

With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven

Boldly, ‘not guilty;’ the imposition clear’d

Hereditary ours.

Her.

By this we gather

Never?

Leon.

Never, but once.

Her.

What! have I twice said well? when was’t before?

I prithee tell me; cram’s with praise, and make’s

As fat as tame things: one good deed, dying tongueless, 92

Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.

Our praises are our wages: you may ride’s

With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere

With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal: 96

My last good deed was to entreat his stay:

What was my first? it has an elder sister,

Or I mistake you: O! would her name were Grace.

But once before I spoke to the purpose: when?

Nay, let me have’t; I long.

Leon.

Why, that was when

Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death,

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand

And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter, 104

‘I am yours for ever.’

Her.

’Tis grace indeed.

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice:

The one for ever earn’d a royal husband,

The other for some while a friend. 108

[Giving her hand to Polixenes.

Leon.

[Aside.] Too hot, too hot!

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;

But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment 112

May a free face put on, derive a liberty

From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,

And well become the agent:’t may I grant:

But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,

As now they are, and making practis’d smiles, 117

As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ’twere

The mort o’ the deer; O! that is entertainment

My bosom likes not, nor my brows. Mamillius,

Art thou my boy?

Mam.

Ay, my good lord.

Leon.

I’ fecks? 121

Why, that’s my bawcock. What! hast smutch’d thy nose?

They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,

We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain:

And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf, 125

Are all call’d neat. Still virginalling

Upon his palm! How now, you wanton calf!

Art thou my calf?

Mam.

Yes, if you will, my lord. 128

Leon.

Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots that I have,

To be full like me: yet they say we are

Almost as like as eggs; women say so,

That will say anything: but were they false 132

As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters, false

As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes

No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true

To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page,

Look on me with your wolkin eye: sweet villain!

Most dear’st! my collop! Can thy dam?—may’t be?—

Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:

Thou dost make possible things not so held, 140

Communicat’st with dreams;—how can this be?—

With what’s unreal thou co-active art,

And fellow’st nothing: then, ’tis very credent

Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost, 144

And that beyond commission, and I find it,

And that to the infection of my brains

And hardening of my brows.

Pol.

What means Sicilia?

Her.

He something seems unsettled.

Pol.

How, my lord! 148

What cheer? how is’t with you, best brother?

Her.

You look

As if you held a brow of much distraction:

Are you mov’d, my lord?

Leon.

No, in good earnest.

How sometimes nature will betray its folly, 152

Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime

To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines

Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil

Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d,

In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled,

Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,

As ornaments oft do, too dangerous:

How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,

This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, 161

Will you take eggs for money?

Mam.

No, my lord, I’ll fight.

Leon.

You will? why, happy man be his dole! My brother,

Are you so fond of your young prince as we 164

Do seem to be of ours?

Pol.

If at home, sir,

He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,

Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy;

My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: 168

He makes a July’s day short as December,

And with his varying childness cures in me

Thoughts that would thick my blood.

Leon.

So stands this squire

Offic’d with me. We two will walk, my lord, 172

And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,

How thou lov’st us, show in our brother’s welcome:

Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap:

Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s 176

Apparent to my heart.

Her.

If you would seek us,

We are yours i’ the garden: shall’s attend you there?

Leon.

To your own bents dispose you: you’ll be found,

Be you beneath the sky.—[Aside.] I am angling now, 180

Though you perceive me not how I give line.

Go to, go to!

How she holds up the neb, the bill to him!

And arms her with the boldness of a wife 184

To her allowing husband!

[Exeunt Polixenes, Hermione, and Attendants.

Gone already!

Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d one!

Go play, boy, play; thy mother plays, and I

Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue 188

Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour

Will be my knell. Go play, boy, play. There have been,

Or I am much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now;

And many a man there is even at this present,

Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,

That little thinks she has been sluic’d in’s absence,

And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by

Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there’s comfort in’t, 196

Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d,

As mine, against their will. Should all despair

That have revolted wives the tenth of mankind

Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there is none; 200

It is a bawdy planet, that will strike

Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it,

From east, west, north, and south: be it concluded,

No barricado for a belly: know’t; 204

It will let in and out the enemy

With bag and baggage. Many a thousand on’s

Have the disease, and feel’t not. How now, boy!

Mam.

I am like you, they say.

Leon.

Why, that’s some comfort. 208

What! Camillo there?

Cam.

Ay, my good lord.

Leon.

Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest man.

[Exit Mamillius.

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 212

Cam.

You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.

Leon.

Didst note it?

Cam.

He would not stay at your petitions; made

His business more material.

Leon.

Didst perceive it? 216

[Aside.] They’re here with me already, whispering, rounding

‘Sicilia is a so-forth.’ ’Tis far gone,

When I shall gust it last. How came’t, Camillo,

That he did stay?

Cam.

At the good queen’s entreaty. 220

Leon.

At the queen’s, be’t: ‘good’ should be pertinent;

But so it is, it is not. Was this taken

By any understanding pate but thine?

For thy conceit is soaking; will draw in 224

More than the common blocks: not noted, is’t,

But of the finer natures? by some severals

Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes

Perchance are to this business purblind? say.

Cam.

Business, my lord! I think most understand

Bohemia stays here longer.

Leon.

Ha!

Cam.

Stays here longer.

Leon.

Ay, but why?

Cam.

To satisfy your highness and the entreaties 232

Of our most gracious mistress.

Leon.

Satisfy!

The entreaties of your mistress! satisfy!

Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,

With all the nearest things to my heart, as well

My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou

Hast cleans’d my bosom: I from thee departed

Thy penitent reform’d; but we have been

Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d 240

In that which seems so.

Cam.

Be it forbid, my lord!

Leon.

To bide upon ’t, thou art not honest; or,

If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward,

Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining 244

From course requir’d; or else thou must be counted

A servant grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool

That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn, 248

And tak’st it all for jest.

Cam.

My gracious lord,

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;

In every one of these no man is free,

But that his negligence, his folly, fear, 252

Among the infinite doings of the world,

Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,

If ever I were wilful-negligent,

It was my folly; if industriously 256

I play’d the fool, it was my negligence,

Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful

To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,

Whereof the execution did cry out 260

Against the non-performance, ’twas a fear

Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,

Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty

Is never free of: but, beseech your Grace, 264

Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass

By its own visage; if I then deny it,

’Tis none of mine.

Leon.

Ha’ not you seen, Camillo,—

But that’s past doubt; you have, or your eyeglass 268

Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn,—or heard,—

For to a vision so apparent rumour

Cannot be mute,—or thought,—for cogitation

Resides not in that man that does not think,—

My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,— 273

Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,—then say

My wife’s a hobby-horse; deserves a name 276

As rank as any flax-wench that puts to

Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t.

Cam.

I would not be a stander-by, to hear

My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 280

My present vengeance taken: ’shrew my heart,

You never spoke what did become you less

Than this; which to reiterate were sin

As deep as that, though true.

Leon.

Is whispering nothing? 284

Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?

Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career

Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible

Of breaking honesty,—horsing foot on foot? 288

Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?

Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes

Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,

That would unseen be wicked? is this nothing?

Why, then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing; 293

The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;

My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,

If this be nothing.

Cam.

Good my lord, be cur’d 296

Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes;

For ’tis most dangerous.

Leon.

Say it be, ’tis true.

Cam.

No, no, my lord.

Leon.

It is; you lie, you lie:

I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee; 300

Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,

Or else a hovering temporizer, that

Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,

Inclining to them both: were my wife’s liver 304

Infected as her life, she would not live

The running of one glass.

Cam.

Who does infect her?

Leon.

Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging

About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I 308

Had servants true about me, that bare eyes

To see alike mine honour as their profits,

Their own particular thrifts, they would do that

Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou,

His cup-bearer,—whom I from meaner form 313

Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see

Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven,

How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup, 316

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial.

Cam.

Sir, my lord,

I could do this, and that with no rash potion,

But with a lingering dram that should not work

Maliciously like poison: but I cannot 321

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,

So sovereingly being honourable:

I have lov’d thee,—

Leon.

Make that thy question, and go rot!

Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 325

To appoint myself in this vexation; sully

The purity and whiteness of my sheets,

Which to preserve is sleep; which being spotted

Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps? 329

Give scandal to the blood o’ the prince my son,

Who I do think is mine, and love as mine,

Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this?

Could man so blench?

Cam.

I must believe you, sir: 333

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t;

Provided that when he’s remov’d, your highness

Will take again your queen as yours at first, 336

Even for your son’s sake; and thereby for sealing

The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms

Known and allied to yours.

Leon.

Thou dost advise me

Even so as I mine own course have set down:

I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none. 341

Cam.

My lord,

Go then; and with a countenance as clear

As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia,

And with your queen. I am his cupbearer; 345

If from me he have wholesome beverage,

Account me not your servant.

Leon.

This is all:

Do’t, and thou hast the one half of my heart;

Do’t not, thou split’st thine own.

Cam.

I’ll do’t, my lord. 349

Leon.

I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis’d me.

[Exit.

Cam.

O miserable lady! But, for me,

What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner

Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do’t 353

Is the obedience to a master; one

Who, in rebellion with himself will have

All that are his so too. To do this deed 356

Promotion follows. If I could find example

Of thousands that had struck anointed kings,

And flourish’d after, I’d not do’t; but since

Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one, 360

Let villany itself forswear’t. I must

Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain

To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now!

Here comes Bohemia.

Re-enter Polixenes.

Pol.

This is strange: methinks 364

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?—

Good day, Camillo.

Cam.

Hail, most royal sir!

Pol.

What is the news i’ the court?

Cam.

None rare, my lord.

Pol.

The king hath on him such a countenance 368

As he had lost some province and a region

Lov’d as he loves himself: even now I met him

With customary compliment, when he,

Wafting his eyes, to the contrary, and falling 372

A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and

So leaves me to consider what is breeding

That changes thus his manners.

Cam.

I dare not know, my lord. 376

Pol.

How! dare not! do not! Do you know, and dare not

Be intelligent to me? ’Tis thereabouts:

For, to yourself, what you do know, you must,

And cannot say you dare not. Good Camillo,

Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter’d with’t.

Cam.

There is a sickness 384

Which puts some of us in distemper; but

I cannot name the disease, and it is caught

Of you that yet are well.

Pol.

How! caught of me?

Make me not sighted like the basilisk: 388

I have look’d on thousands, who have sped the better

By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo,—

As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto

Clerk-like experienc’d, which no less adorns 392

Our gentry than our parents’ noble names,

In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you,

If you know aught which does behove my knowledge

Thereof to be inform’d, imprison it not 396

In ignorant concealment.

Cam.

I may not answer.

Pol.

A sickness caught of me, and yet I well!

I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo;

I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 400

Which honour does acknowledge,—whereof the least

Is not this suit of mine,—that thou declare

What incidency thou dost guess of harm

Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near;

Which way to be prevented if to be; 405

If not, how best to bear it.

Cam.

Sir, I will tell you;

Since I am charg’d in honour and by him

That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, 408

Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as

I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,

As he had seen’t or been an instrument

To vice you to’t, that you have touch’d his queen

Forbiddenly.

Pol.

O, then my best blood turn 417

To an infected jelly, and my name

Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best!

Turn then my freshest reputation to 420

A savour, that may strike the dullest nostril

Where I arrive; and my approach be shunn’d,

Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection

That e’er was heard or read!

Cam.

Swear his thought over

By each particular star in heaven and 425

By all their influences, you may as well

Forbid the sea for to obey the moon

As or by oath remove or counsel shake 428

The fabric of his folly, whose foundation

Is pil’d upon his faith, and will continue

The standing of his body.

Pol.

How should this grow?

Cam.

I know not: but I am sure ’tis safer to

Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born.

If therefore you dare trust my honesty,

That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you

Shall bear along impawn’d, away to-night! 436

Your followers I will whisper to the business,

And will by twos and threes at several posterns

Clear them o’the city. For myself, I’ll put

My fortunes to your service, which are here 440

By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain;

For, by the honour of my parents, I

Have utter’d truth, which, if you seek to prove,

I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer 444

Than one condemn’d by the king’s own mouth, thereon

His execution sworn.

Pol.

I do believe thee:

I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand:

Be pilot to me and thy places shall 448

Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready and

My people did expect my hence departure

Two days ago. This jealousy

Is for a precious creature: as she’s rare 452

Must it be great, and, as his person’s mighty

Must it be violent, and, as he does conceive

He is dishonour’d by a man which ever

Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must 456

In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades me:

Good expedition be my friend, and comfort

The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing

Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come. Camillo; 460

I will respect thee as a father if

Thou bear’st my life off hence: let us avoid.

Cam.

It is in mine authority to command

The keys of all the posterns: please your highness 464

To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away!

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Sicilia. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies.

Her.

Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, ’Tis past enduring.

First Lady.

Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow?

Mam.

No, I’ll none of you.

First Lady.

Why, my sweet lord? 4

Mam.

You’ll kiss me hard and speak to me as if

I were a baby still. I love you better.

Sec. Lady.

And why so, my lord?

Mam.

Not for because

Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say, 8

Become some women best, so that there be not

Too much hair there, but in a semicircle,

Or a half-moon made with a pen.

Sec. Lady.

Who taught you this?

Mam.

I learn’d it out of women’s faces. Pray now, 12

What colour are your eyebrows?

First Lady.

Blue, my lord.

Mam.

Nay, that’s a mock: I have seen a lady’s nose

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

Sec. Lady.

Hark ye;

The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall

Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him? 32

First Lord.

Behind the tuft of pines I met them: never

Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey’d them

Even to their ships

Leon.

How blest am I

In my just censure, in my true opinion! 36

Alack, for lesser knowledge! How accurs’d

In being so blest! There may be in the cup

A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart,

And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge 40

Is not infected; but if one present

The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known

How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,

With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. 44

Camillo was his help in this, his pandar:

There is a plot against my life, my crown;

All’s true that is mistrusted: that false villain

Whom I employ’d was pre-employ’d by him: 48

He has discover’d my design, and I

Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick

For them to play at will. How came the posterns

So easily open?

First Lord.

By his great authority; 52

Which often hath no less prevail’d than so

On your command.

Leon.

I know’t too well.

[To Hermione.] Give me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him:

Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you

Have too much blood in him.

Her.

What is this? sport?

Leon.

Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;

Away with him!—[Exit Mamillius, attended.] and let her sport herself

With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes 60

Has made thee swell thus.

Her.

But I’d say he had not,

And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying,

Howe’er you lean to the nayward.

Leon.

You, my lords,

Look on her, mark her well; be but about 64

To say, ‘she is a goodly lady,’ and

The justice of your hearts will thereto add

‘’Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable:’

Praise her but for this her without-door form,—

Which, on my faith deserves high speech,—and straight 69

The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands

That calumny doth use,—O, I am out!—

That mercy does, for calumny will sear 72

Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha’s,

When you have said ‘she’s goodly,’ come between,

Ere you can say ‘she’s honest.’ But be’t known,

From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, 76

She’s an adulteress.

Her.

Should a villain say so,

The most replenish’d villain in the world,

He were as much more villain: you, my lord,

Do but mistake.

Leon.

You have mistook, my lady, 80

Polixenes for Leontes. O thou thing!

Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place,

Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,

Should a like language use to all degrees, 84

And mannerly distinguishment leave out

Betwixt the prince and beggar: I have said

She’s an adulteress; I have said with whom:

More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is 88

A federary with her, and one that knows

What she should shame to know herself

But with her most vile principal, that she’s

A bed-swerver, even as bad as those 92

That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy

To this their late escape.

Her.

No, by my life,

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you

When you shall come to clearer knowledge that

You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, 97

You scarce can right me throughly then to say

You did mistake.

Leon.

No; if I mistake

In those foundations which I build upon, 100

The centre is not big enough to bear

A schoolboy’s top. Away with her to prison!

He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty

But that he speaks.

Her.

There’s some ill planet reigns: 104

I must be patient till the heavens look

With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,

I am not prone to weeping, as our sex

Commonly are; the want of which vain dew 108

Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have

That honourable grief lodg’d here which burns

Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords,

With thoughts so qualified as your charities 112

Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so

The king’s will be perform’d!

Leon.

[To the Guards.] Shall I be heard?

Her.

Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness,

My women may be with me; for you see 116

My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;

There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress

Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears

As I come out: this action I now go on 120

Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord:

I never wish’d to see you sorry; now

I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.

Leon.

Go, do our bidding: hence! 124

[Exeunt Queen guarded, and Ladies.

First Lord.

Beseech your highness call the queen again.

Ant.

Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice

Prove violence: in the which three great ones suffer,

Yourself, your queen, your son.

First Lord.

For her, my lord, 128

I dare my life lay down, and will do’t, sir,

Please you to accept it,—that the queen is spotless

I’ the eyes of heaven and to you: I mean,

In this which you accuse her.

Ant.

If it prove 132

She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where

I lodge my wife; I’ll go in couples with her;

Than when I feel and see her no further trust her;

For every inch of woman in the world, 136

Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false,

If she be.

Leon.

Hold your peaces!

First Lord.

Good my lord,—

Ant.

It is for you we speak, not for ourselves.

You are abus’d, and by some putter-on 140

That will be damn’d for’t; would I knew the villain,

I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d,—

I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven,

The second and the third, nine and some five; 144

If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t: by mine honour,

I’ll geld them all; fourteen they shall not see,

To bring false generations: they are co-heirs;

And I had rather glib myself than they 148

Should not produce fair issue.

Leon.

Cease! no more.

You smell this business with a sense as cold

As is a dead man’s nose; but I do see’t and feel’t,

As you feel doing thus, and see withal 152

The instruments that feel.

Ant.

If it be so,

We need no grave to bury honesty:

There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten

Of the whole dungy earth.

Leon.

What! lack I credit? 156

First Lord.

I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,

Upon this ground; and more it would content me

To have her honour true than your suspicion,

Be blam’d for’t how you might.

Leon.

Why, what need we 160

Commune with you of this, but rather follow

Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative

Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness

Imparts this; which if you,—or stupified 164

Or seeming so in skill,—cannot or will not

Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves

We need no more of your advice: the matter,

The loss, the gain, the ordering on’t, is all 168

Properly ours.

Ant.

And I wish, my liege,

You had only in your silent judgment tried it,

Without more overture.

Leon.

How could that be?

Either thou art most ignorant by age, 172

Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight,

Added to their familiarity,

Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture,

That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation

But only seeing, all other circumstances 177

Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding:

Yet, for a greater confirmation,—

For in an act of this importance ’twere 180

Most piteous to be wild,—I have dispatch’d in post

To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple,

Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know

Of stuff’d sufficiency. Now, from the oracle 184

They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,

Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?

First Lord.

Well done, my lord.

Leon.

Though I am satisfied and need no more 188

Than what I know, yet shall the oracle

Give rest to the minds of others, such as he

Whose ignorant credulity will not

Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good 192

From our free person she should be confin’d,

Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence

Be left her to perform. Come, follow us:

We are to speak in public; for this business 196

Will raise us all.

Ant.

[Aside.] To laughter, as I take it,

If the good truth were known.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. The outer Room of a Prison.

Enter Paulina and Attendants.

Paul.

The keeper of the prison, call to him;

Let him have knowledge who I am.—[Exit an Attendant.] Good lady,

No court in Europe is too good for thee;

What dost thou then in prison?

Re-enter Attendant with the Gaoler.

Now, good sir, 4

You know me, do you not?

Gaol.

For a worthy lady

And one whom much I honour.

Paul.

Pray you then,

Conduct me to the queen.

Gaol.

I may not, madam: to the contrary 8

I have express commandment.

Paul.

Here’s ado,

To lock up honesty and honour from

The access of gentle visitors! Is’t lawful, pray you,

To see her women? any of them? Emilia? 12

Gaol.

So please you, madam,

To put apart these your attendants, I

Shall bring Emilia forth.

Paul.

I pray now, call her.

Withdraw yourselves.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Gaol.

And, madam, 16

I must be present at your conference.

Paul.

Well, be’t so, prithee.

[Exit Gaoler.

Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain,

As passes colouring.

Re-enter Gaoler, with Emilia.

Dear gentlewoman, 20

How fares our gracious lady?

Emil.

As well as one so great and so forlorn

May hold together. On her frights and griefs,—

Which never tender lady hath borne greater,—

She is something before her time deliver’d. 25

Paul.

A boy?

Emil.

A daughter; and a goodly babe,

Lusty and like to live: the queen receives

Much comfort in’t; says, ‘My poor prisoner, 28

I am innocent as you.’

Paul.

I dare be sworn:

These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ the king, beshrew them!

He must be told on’t, and he shall: the office

Becomes a woman best; I’ll take’t upon me. 32

If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister,

And never to my red-look’d anger be

The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia,

Commend my best obedience to the queen: 36

If she dares trust me with her little babe,

I’ll show it to the king and undertake to be

Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know

How he may soften at the sight of the child: 40

The silence often of pure innocence

Persuades when speaking fails.

Emil.

Most worthy madam,

Your honour and your goodness is so evident

That your free undertaking cannot miss 44

A thriving issue: there is no lady living

So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship

To visit the next room, I’ll presently

Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer, 48

Who but to-day hammer’d of this design,

But durst not tempt a minister of honour,

Lest she should be denied.

Paul.

Tell her, Emilia,

I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from’t 52

As boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted

I shall do good.

Emil.

Now be you blest for it!

I’ll to the queen. Please you, come something nearer.

Gaol.

Madam, if’t please the queen to send the babe, 56

I know not what I shall incur to pass it,

Having no warrant.

Paul.

You need not fear it, sir:

The child was prisoner to the womb, and is

By law and process of great nature thence 60

Freed and enfranchis’d; not a party to

The anger of the king, nor guilty of,

If any be, the trespass of the queen.

Gaol.

I do believe it. 64

Paul.

Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I

Will stand betwixt you and danger.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and other Attendants.

Leon.

Nor night, nor day, no rest; it is but weakness

To bear the matter thus; mere weakness. If

The cause were not in being,—part o’ the cause,

She the adultress; for the harlot king 4

Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank

And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she

I can hook to me: say, that she were gone,

Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 8

Might come to me again. Who’s there?

First Atten.

[Advancing.] My lord?

Leon.

How does the boy?

First Atten.

He took good rest to-night;

’Tis hop’d his sickness is discharg’d.

Leon.

To see his nobleness! 12

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,

He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply,

Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself,

Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 16

And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go,

See how he fares. [Exit Attendant.]—Fie, fie! no thought of him;

The very thought of my revenges that way

Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, 20

And in his parties, his alliance; let him be

Until a time may serve: for present vengeance,

Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes

Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow: 24

They should not laugh, if I could reach them, nor

Shall she within my power.

Enter Paulina, with a Child.

First Lord.

You must not enter.

Paul.

Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:

Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, 28

Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul,

More free than he is jealous.

Ant.

That’s enough.

Sec. Atten.

Madam, he hath not slept to-night; commanded

None should come at him.

Paul.

Not so hot, good sir; 32

I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you,

That creep like shadows by him and do sigh

At each his needless heavings, such as you

Nourish the cause of his awaking: I 36

Do come with words as med’cinal as true,

Honest as either, to purge him of that humour

That presses him from sleep.

Leon

What noise there, ho?

Paul.

No noise, my lord; but needful conference 40

About some gossips for your highness.

Leon.

How!

Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus,

I charg’d thee that she should not come about me:

I knew she would.

Ant.

I told her so, my lord, 44

On your displeasure’s peril, and on mine,

She should not visit you.

Leon.

What! canst not rule her?

Paul.

From all dishonesty he can: in this,

Unless he take the course that you have done,

Commit me for committing honour, trust it, 49

He shall not rule me.

Ant.

La you now! you hear;

When she will take the rein I let her run;

But she’ll not stumble.

Paul.

Good my liege, I come, 52

And I beseech you, hear me, who professes

Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares

Less appear so in comforting your evils 56

Than such as most seem yours: I say, I come

From your good queen.

Leon.

Good queen!

Paul.

Good queen, my lord, good queen; I say, good queen;

And would by combat make her good, so were I

A man, the worst about you.

Leon.

Force her hence. 61

Paul.

Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes

First hand me: on mine own accord I’ll off;

But first I’ll do my errand. The good queen, 64

For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter:

Here ’tis; commends it to your blessing.

[Laying down the Child.

Leon.

Out!

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door:

A most intelligencing bawd!

Paul.

Not so; 68

I am as ignorant in that as you

In so entitling me, and no less honest

Than you are mad; which is enough, I’ll warrant,

As this world goes, to pass for honest.

Leon.

Traitors! 72

Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.

[To Antigonus.] Thou dotard! thou art woman-tir’d, unroosted

By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;

For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

He cannot be compell’d to’t,—once remove 88

The root of his opinion, which is rotten

As ever oak or stone was sound.

Leon.

A callat

Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband

And now baits me! This brat is none of mine;

It is the issue of Polixenes: 93

Hence with it; and, together with the dam

Commit them to the fire!

Paul.

It is yours;

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, 96

‘So like you, ’tis the worse.’ Behold, my lords,

Although the print be little, the whole matter

And copy of the father; eye, nose, lip,

The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, 100

The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles,

The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:

And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it

So like to him that got it, if thou hast 104

The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours

No yellow in’t; lest she suspect, as he does,

Her children not her husband’s.

Leon.

A gross hag!

And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d, 108

That wilt not stay her tongue.

Ant.

Hang all the husbands

That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself

Hardly one subject.

Leon.

Once more, take her hence.

Paul.

A most unworthy and unnatural lord

Can do no more.

Leon.

I’ll ha’ thee burn’d.

Paul.

I care not:

It is a heretic that makes the fire,

Not she which burns in’t. I’ll not call you tyrant;

But this most cruel usage of your queen,— 116

Not able to produce more accusation

Than your own weak-hing’d fancy,—something savours

Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,

Yea, scandalous to the world.

Leon.

On your allegiance, 120

Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,

Where were her life? she durst not call me so

If she did know me one. Away with her!

Paul.

I pray you do not push me; I’ll be gone. 124

Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send her

A better guiding spirit! What need these hands?

You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies,

Will never do him good, not one of you. 128

So, so: farewell; we are gone.

[Exit.

Leon.

Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.

My child! away with’t!—even thou, that hast

A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence 132

And see it instantly consum’d with fire:

Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight:

Within this hour bring me word ’tis done,—

And by good testimony,—or I’ll seize thy life,

With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse

And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;

The bastard brains with these my proper hands

Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; 140

For thou sett’st on thy wife.

Ant.

I did not, sir:

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

Can clear me in’t.

First Lord.

We can, my royal liege,

He is not guilty of her coming hither. 144

Leon.

You are liars all.

First Lord.

Beseech your highness, give us better credit:

We have always truly serv’d you, and beseech you

So to esteem of us; and on our knees we beg, 148

As recompense of our dear services

Past and to come, that you do change this purpose,

Which being so horrible, so bloody, must

Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel. 152

Leon.

I am a feather for each wind that blows.

Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel

And call me father? Better burn it now

Than curse it then. But, be it; let it live: 156

It shall not neither.—[To Antigonus.] You, sir, come you hither;

You that have been so tenderly officious

With Lady Margery, your midwife there,

To save this bastard’s life,—for ’tis a bastard, 160

So sure as thy beard’s grey,—what will you adventure

To save this brat’s life?

Ant.

Any thing, my lord,

That my ability may undergo,

And nobleness impose: at least, thus much: 164

I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left,

To save the innocent: any thing possible.

Leon.

It shall be possible. Swear by this sword

Thou wilt perform my bidding.

Ant.

I will, my lord. 168

Leon.

Mark and perform it,—seest thou!—for the fail

Of any point in’t shall not only be

Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu’d wife,

Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,

As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry 173

This female bastard hence; and that thou bear it

To some remote and desart place quite out

Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,

Without more mercy, to its own protection, 177

And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune

It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,

On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, 180

That thou commend it strangely to some place,

Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.

Ant.

I swear to do this, though a present death

Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe:

Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 185

To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say,

Casting their savageness aside have done

Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous 188

In more than this deed doth require! And blessing

Against this cruelty fight on thy side,

Poor thing, condemn’d to loss!

[Exit with the Child.

Leon.

No; I’ll not rear

Another’s issue.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

Please your highness, posts 192

From those you sent to the oracle are come

An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,

Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both landed,

Hasting to the court.

First Lord.

So please you, sir, their speed

Hath been beyond account.

Leon.

Twenty-three days

They have been absent: ’tis good speed; foretells

The great Apollo suddenly will have

The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;

Summon a session, that we may arraign 201

Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath

Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have

A just and open trial. While she lives 204

My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me,

And think upon my bidding.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Sea-port in Sicilia.

Enter Cleomenes and Dion.

Cleo.

The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet,

Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing

The common praise it bears.

Dion.

I shall report,

For most it caught me, the celestial habits,— 4

Methinks I so should term them,—and the reverence

Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!

How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly

It was i’ the offering!

Cleo.

But of all, the burst 8

And the ear-deafening voice o’ the oracle,

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surpris’d my sense,

That I was nothing.

Dion.

If the event o’ the journey

Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be’t so! —

As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 13

The time is worth the use on’t.

Cleo.

Great Apollo

Turn all to the best! These proclamations,

So forcing faults upon Hermione, 16

I little like.

Dion.

The violent carriage of it

Will clear or end the business: when the oracle,

Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up,

Shall the contents discover, something rare 20

Even then will rush to knowledge.—Go:—fresh horses!

And gracious be the issue!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Sicilia. A Court of Justice.

Leontes, Lords, and Officers.

Leon.

This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,

Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried

The daughter of a king, our wife, and one

Of us too much belov’d. Let us be clear’d 4

Of being tyrannous, since we so openly

Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,

Even to the guilt or the purgation.

Produce the prisoner. 8

Offi.

It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen

Appear in person here in court. Silence!

Enter Hermione guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending.

Leon.

Read the indictment. 11

Offi.

Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, King of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.

Her.

Since what I am to say must be but that

Which contradicts my accusation, and 24

The testimony on my part no other

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me

To say ‘Not guilty:’ mine integrity

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,

Be so receiv’d. But thus: if powers divine 29

Behold our human actions, as they do,

I doubt not then but innocence shall make

False accusation blush, and tyranny 32

Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,—

Who least will seem to do so,—my past life

Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,

As I am now unhappy; which is more 36

Than history can pattern, though devis’d

And play’d to take spectators. For behold me,

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter,

The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing

To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore

Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it.

As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour, 44

’Tis a derivative from me to mine,

And only that I stand for. I appeal

To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes

Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 48

How merited to be so; since he came,

With what encounter so uncurrent I

Have strain’d, to appear thus: if one jot beyond

The bound of honour, or in act or will 52

That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts

Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin

Cry fie upon my grave!

Leon.

I ne’er heard yet

That any of these bolder vices wanted 56

Less impudence to gainsay what they did

Than to perform it first.

Her.

That’s true enough;

Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

Leon.

You will not own it.

Her.

More than mistress of 60

Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not

At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,—

With whom I am accus’d,—I do confess

I lov’d him as in honour he requir’d, 64

With such a kind of love as might become

A lady like me; with a love even such,

So and no other, as yourself commanded:

Which not to have done I think had been in me

Both disobedience and ingratitude 69

To you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke,

Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely

That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 72

I know not how it tastes, though it be dish’d

For me to try how: all I know of it

Is that Camillo was an honest man;

And why he left your court, the gods themselves,

Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 77

Leon.

You knew of his departure, as you know

What you have underta’en to do in’s absence.

Her.

Sir, 80

You speak a language that I understand not:

My life stands in the level of your dreams,

Which I’ll lay down.

Leon.

Your actions are my dreams:

You had a bastard by Polixenes, 84

And I but dream’d it. As you were past all shame,—

Those of your fact are so,—so past all truth:

Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as

Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, 88

No father owning it,—which is, indeed,

More criminal in thee than it,—so thou

Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage

Look for no less than death.

Her.

Sir, spare your threats: 92

The bug which you would fright me with I seek.

To me can life be no commodity:

The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,

I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, 96

But know not how it went. My second joy,

And first-fruits of my body, from his presence

I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort,

Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, 100

The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,

Hal’d out to murder: myself on every post

Proclaim’d a strumpet: with immodest hatred

The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs 104

To women of all fashion: lastly, hurried

Here to this place, i’the open air, before

I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,

Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 108

That I should fear to die? Therefore proceed.

But yet hear this; mistake me not; no life,

I prize it not a straw:—but for mine honour,

Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d 112

Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else

But what your jealousies awake, I tell you

’Tis rigour and not law. Your honours all,

I do refer me to the oracle: 116

Apollo be my judge!

First Lord.

This your request

Is altogether just: therefore, bring forth,

And in Apollo’s name, his oracle.

[Exeunt certain Officers.

Her.

The Emperor of Russia was my father:

O! that he were alive, and here beholding 121

His daughter’s trial; that he did but see

The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes

Of pity, not revenge! 124

Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion.

Offi.

You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,

That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have

Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought

This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d 128

Of great Apollo’s priest, and that since then

You have not dar’d to break the holy seal,

Nor read the secrets in’t.

Cleo.

All this we swear.

Dion.

All this we swear.

Leon.

Break up the seals, and read. 132

Offi.

Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found! 137

Lords.

Now blessed be the great Apollo!

Her.

Praised!

Leon.

Hast thou read truth?

Offi.

Ay, my lord; even so

As it is here set down. 140

Leon.

There is no truth at all i’ the oracle:

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

My lord the king, the king!

Leon.

What is the business?

Ser.

O sir! I shall be hated to report it: 144

The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear

Of the queen’s speed, is gone.

Leon.

How! gone!

Ser.

Is dead.

Leon.

Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves

Do strike at my injustice.

[Hermione swoons.

How now, there! 148

Paul.

This news is mortal to the queen:— look down,

And see what death is doing.

Leon.

Take her hence:

Her heart is but o’ercharg’d; she will recover:

I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion:

Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 153

Some remedies for life.—

[Exeunt Paulina, and Ladies, with Hermione.

Apollo, pardon

My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle!

I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, 156

New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo,

Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;

For, being transported by my jealousies

To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose 160

Camillo for the minister to poison

My friend Polixenes: which had been done,

But that the good mind of Camillo tardied

My swift command; though I with death and with 164

Reward did threaten and encourage him,

Not doing it, and being done: he, most humane

And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest

Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, 168

Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard

Of all incertainties himself commended,

No richer than his honour: how he glisters

Thorough my rust! and how his piety 172

Does my deeds make the blacker!

Re-enter Paulina.

Paul.

Woe the while!

O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,

Break too!

First Lord.

What fit is this, good lady?

Paul.

What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? 176

What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? or what boiling

In leads, or oils? what old or newer torture

Must I receive, whose every word deserves

To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny, 180

Together working with thy jealousies,

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle

For girls of nine, O! think what they have done,

And then run mad indeed, stark mad; for all 184

Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.

That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing;

That did but show thee of a fool, inconstant

And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much 188

Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour

To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,

More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon

The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter 192

To be or none or little; though a devil

Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t:

Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death

Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,—

Thoughts high for one so tender,—cleft the heart

That could conceive a gross and foolish sire

Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no,

Laid to thy answer: but the last,—O lords! 200

When I have said, cry, ‘woe!’—the queen, the queen,

The sweetest, dearest creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t

Not dropp’d down yet.

First Lord.

The higher powers forbid!

Paul.

I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t: if word nor oath 204

Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring

Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,

Heat outwardly, or breath within, I’ll serve you

As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! 208

Do not repent these things, for they are heavier

Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee

To nothing but despair. A thousand knees

Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, 212

Upon a barren mountain, and still winter

In storm perpetual, could not move the gods

To look that way thou wert.

Leon.

Go on, go on;

Thou canst not speak too much: I have deserv’d

All tongues to talk their bitterest.

First Lord.

Say no more: 217

Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault

I’ the boldness of your speech.

Paul.

I am sorry for’t:

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, 220

I do repent. Alas! I have show’d too much

The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d

To the noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help

Should be past grief: do not receive affliction 224

At my petition; I beseech you, rather

Let me be punish’d, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,

Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: 228

The love I bore your queen,—lo, fool again!—

I’ll speak of her no more, nor of your children;

I’ll not remember you of my own lord,

Who is lost too: take your patience to you, 232

And I’ll say nothing.

Leon.

Thou didst speak but well,

When most the truth, which I receive much better

Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me

To the dead bodies of my queen and son: 236

One grave shall be for both: upon them shall

The causes of their death appear, unto

Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ll visit

The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there

Shall be my recreation: so long as nature 241

Will bear up with this exercise, so long

I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me

Unto these sorrows.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea.

Enter Antigonus, with the Child; and a Mariner.

Ant.

Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch’d upon

The desarts of Bohemia?

Mar.

Ay, my lord; and fear

We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly

And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, 4

The heavens with that we have in hand are angry,

And frown upon’s.

Ant.

Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;

Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before 8

I call upon thee.

Mar.

Make your best haste, and go not

Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather;

Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

Of prey that keep upon’t.

Ant.

Go thou away: 12

I’ll follow instantly.

Mar.

I am glad at heart

To be so rid of the business.

[Exit.

Ant.

Come, poor babe:

I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits o’ the dead

May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother 16

Appear’d to me last night, for ne’er was dream

So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

Sometimes her head on one side, some another;

I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, 20

So fill’d, and so becoming: in pure white robes,

Like very sanctity, she did approach

My cabin where I lay; thrice bow’d before me,

And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 24

Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon

Did this break from her: ‘Good Antigonus,

Since fate, against thy better disposition,

Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 28

Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,

Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

There weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 32

I prithee, call’t: for this ungentle business,

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see

Thy wife Paulina more:’ and so, with shrieks,

She melted into air. Affrighted much, 36

I did in time collect myself, and thought

This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys;

Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,

I will be squar’d by this. I do believe 40

Hermione hath suffer’d death; and that

Apollo would, this being indeed the issue

Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,

Either for life or death, upon the earth 44

Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!

[Laying down Child.

There lie; and there thy character: there these;

[Laying down a bundle.

Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,

And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch! 48

That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d

To loss and what may follow. Weep I cannot,

But my heart bleeds, and most accurs’d am I

To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! 52

The day frowns more and more: thou art like to have

A lullaby too rough. I never saw

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!

Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: 56

I am gone for ever.

[Exit, pursued by a bear.

Enter a Shepherd.

Shep.

’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter Time, the Chorus.

Time.

I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror

Of good and bad, that make and unfold error,

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 4

To me or my swift passage, that I slide

O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried

Of that wide gap; since it is in my power

To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour 8

To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass

The same I am, ere ancient’st order was

Or what is now receiv’d: I witness to

The times that brought them in; so shall I do

To the freshest things now reigning, and make stale 13

The glistering of this present, as my tale

Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,

I turn my glass and give my scene such growing 16

As you had slept between. Leontes leaving,—

The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving,

That he shuts up himself,—imagine me,

Gentle spectators, that I now may be 20

In fair Bohemia; and remember well,

I mention’d a son o’ the king’s, which Florizel

I now name to you; and with speed so pace

To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace 24

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues

I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news

Be known when ’tis brought forth. A shepherd’s daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is th’ argument of Time. Of this allow, 29

If ever you have spent time worse ere now:

If never, yet that Time himself doth say

He wishes earnestly you never may.

My best Camillo!—We must disguise ourselves.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Road near the Shepherd’s Cottage.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy, over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.  4

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king  8

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,

With, heigh! with, heigh! the thrush and the jay,

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.  12

I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night; 16

And when I wander here and there,

I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin bowget, 20

Then my account I well may give,

And in the stocks avouch it

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize! 32

Enter Clown.

Clo.

Let me see: Every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling: fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?

Aut.

[Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine. 37

Clo.

I cannot do’t without compters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? ‘Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants; rice,’ what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases: but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron, to colour the warden pies; mace, dates,—none; that’s out of my note:—nutmegs seven; a race or two of ginger,—but that I may beg;—four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ the sun. 53

Aut.

O! that ever I was born!

Scene III.— The Same. A Lawn before the Shepherd’s Cottage.

Enter Florizel and Perdita.

Flo.

These your unusual weeds to each part of you

Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora

Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing

Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 4

And you the queen on’t.

Per.

Sir, my gracious lord,

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me:

O! pardon, that I name them. Your high self,

The gracious mark o’ the land, you have obscur’d

With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,

Most goddess-like prank’d up. But that our feasts

In every mess have folly, and the feeders

Digest it with a custom, I should blush 12

To see you so attired,—swoon, I think,

To show myself a glass.

Flo.

I bless the time

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father’s ground.

Per.

Now, Jove afford you cause! 16

To me the difference forges dread; your greatness

Hath not been us’d to fear. Even now I tremble

To think, your father, by some accident,

Should pass this way as you did. O, the Fates!

How would he look, to see his work, so noble, 21

Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how

Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold

The sternness of his presence?

Flo.

Apprehend 24

Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,

Humbling their deities to love, have taken

The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter

Became a bull, and bellow’d; the green Neptune

A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob’d god, 29

Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,

As I seem now. Their transformations

Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, 32

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires

Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts

Burn hotter than my faith.

Per.

O! but, sir,

Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis 36

Oppos’d, as it must be, by the power of the king.

One of these two must be necessities,

Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.

Flo.

Thou dearest Perdita, 40

With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken not

The mirth o’ the feast: or I’ll be thine, my fair,

Or not my father’s; for I cannot be

Mine own, nor anything to any, if 44

I be not thine: to this I am most constant,

Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle;

Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing

That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: 48

Lift up your countenance, as it were the day

Of celebration of that nuptial which

We two have sworn shall come.

Per.

O lady Fortune,

Stand you auspicious!

Flo.

See, your guests approach: 52

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let’s be red with mirth.

Enter Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo disguised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and Others.

Shep.

Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv’d, upon

This day she was both pantler, butler, cook; 56

Both dame and servant; welcom’d all, serv’d all,

Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,

At upper end o’ the table, now i’ the middle;

On his shoulder, and his; her face o’ fire 60

With labour and the thing she took to quench it,

She would to each one sip. You are retir’d,

As if you were a feasted one and not

The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid 64

These unknown friends to’s welcome; for it is

A way to make us better friends, more known.

Come, quench your blushes and present yourself

That which you are, mistress o’ the feast: come on, 68

And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Per.

[To Polixenes.] Sir, welcome:

It is my father’s will I should take on me

The hostess-ship o’ the day:—[To Camillo.] You’re welcome, sir. 72

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,

For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep

Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be to you both, 76

And welcome to our shearing!

Pol.

Shepherdess,—

A fair one are you,—well you fit our ages

With flowers of winter.

Per.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth 80

Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ the season

Are our carnations, and streak’d gillyvors,

Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not 84

To get slips of them.

Pol.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per.

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

Pol.

Say there be; 88

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean: so, over that art,

Which you say adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 92

A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race: this is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather, but

The art itself is nature.

Per.

So it is. 97

Pol.

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

Per.

I’ll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; 100

No more than, were I painted, I would wish

This youth should say, ’twere well, and only therefore

Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you;

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 104

The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun,

And with him rises weeping: these are flowers

Of middle summer, and I think they are given

To men of middle age. You’re very welcome. 108

Cam.

I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

Per.

Out, alas!

You’d be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair’st friend, 112

I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might

Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,

That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads growing: O Proserpina! 116

For the flowers now that frighted thou let’st fall

From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 121

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale prime-roses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady 124

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one. O! these I lack

To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,

To strew him o’er and o’er!

Flo

What! like a corse? 129

Per.

No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;

Not like a corse; or if,—not to be buried,

But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers: 132

Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine

Does change my disposition.

Flo.

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 136

I’d have you do it ever: when you sing,

I’d have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you 140

A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular, 144

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

That all your acts are queens.

Per.

O Doricles!

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

And the true blood which fairly peeps through it,

Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd,

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo’d me the false way.

Flo.

I think you have

As little skill to fear as I have purpose 152

To put you to’t. But, come; our dance, I pray.

Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair

That never mean to part.

Per.

I’ll swear for ’em.

Pol.

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 156

Ran on the green-sord: nothing she does or seems

But smacks of something greater than herself;

Too noble for this place.

Cam.

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is 160

The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

Come on, strike up.

Dor.

Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic,

To mend her kissing with.

Mop.

Now, in good time!

Clo.

Not a word, a word: we stand upon our manners. 164

Come, strike up.

[Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.

Pol.

Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this

Which dances with your daughter?

Shep.

They call him Doricles, and boasts himself 168

To have a worthy feeding; but I have it

Upon his own report and I believe it:

He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:

I think so too; for never gaz’d the moon 172

Upon the water as he’ll stand and read

As ’twere my daughter’s eyes; and, to be plain,

I think there is not half a kiss to choose

Who loves another best.

Pol.

She dances featly. 176

Shep.

So she does any thing, though I report it

That should be silent. If young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

Which he not dreams of. 180

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

O master! if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men’s ears grew to his tunes. 186

Clo.

He could never come better: he shall come in: I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. 190

Serv.

He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burthens of dildos and fadings, ‘jump her and thump her;’ and where some stretchmouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man;’ puts him off, slights him with ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man.’ 201

Pol.

This is a brave fellow.

Clo.

Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

Serv.

He hath ribands of all the colours i’ the rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he sings ’em over, as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on’t.

Clo

Prithee, bring him in, and let him approach singing. 214

Per.

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in’s tunes.

[Exit Servant.

Clo.

You have of these pedlars, that have more in them than you’d think, sister.

Per.

Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

Lawn as white as driven snow;  220

Cyprus black as e’er was crow;

Gloves as sweet as damask roses;

Masks for faces and for noses;

Bugle-bracelet, necklace-amber,  224

Perfume for a lady’s chamber;

Golden quoifs and stomachers,

For my lads to give their dears;

Pins and poking-sticks of steel;  228

What maids lack from head to heel:

Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:

Come buy.  232

Dor.

Whither?

Mop.

O! whither? 304

Dor.

Whither?

Mop.

It becomes thy oath full woll,

Thou to me thy secrets tell.

Dor.

Me too: let me go thither. 308

Mop.

Or thou go’st to the grange or mill.

Dor.

If to either, thou dost ill.

Aut.

Neither.

Dor.

What, neither? 312

Aut.

Neither.

Dor.

Thou hast sworn my love to be

Mop.

Thou hast sworn it more to me:

Then whither go’st? say whither? 316

Clo.

We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves: my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them: come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.

[Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa.

Aut.

And you shall pay well for ’em.

Will you buy any tape,  324

Or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?

Any silk, any thread,

Any toys for your head,  328

Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a?

Come to the pedlar;

Money’s a meddler,

That doth utter all men’s ware-a.  332

[Exit.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv.

Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair; they call themselves Saltiers; and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind,—if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling,—it will please plentifully. 341

Shep.

Away! we’ll none on’t: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. 344

Pol.

You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.

Serv.

One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squier. 350

Shep.

Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased let them come in: but quickly now.

Serv.

Why, they stay at door, sir.

[Exit.

Re-enter Servant, with Twelve Rustics habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

Pol.

[To Shep.] O, father! you’ll know more of that hereafter.

[To Camillo.] Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. 356

He’s simple and tells much. [To Florizel.] How now, fair shepherd!

Your heart is full of something that does take

Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,

And handed love as you do, I was wont 360

To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack’d

The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d it

To her acceptance; you have let him go

And nothing marted with him. If your lass 364

Interpretation should abuse and call this

Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited

For a reply, at least if you make a care

Of happy holding her.

Flo.

Old sir, I know 368

She prizes not such trifles as these are.

The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d

Up in my heart, which I have given already,

But not deliver’d. O! hear me breathe my life

Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, 373

Hath sometime lov’d: I take thy hand; this hand,

As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it,

Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow 376

That’s bolted by the northern blasts twice o’er.

Pol.

What follows this?

How prettily the young swain seems to wash

The hand was fair before! I have put you out:

But to your protestation: let me hear 381

What you profess.

Flo.

Do, and be witness to’t.

Pol.

And this my neighbour too?

Flo.

And he, and more

Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all; 384

That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch,

Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth

That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge

More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them 388

Without her love: for her employ them all;

Commend them and condemn them to her service

Or to their own perdition.

Pol.

Fairly offer’d.

Cam.

This shows a sound affection.

Shep.

But, my daughter, 392

Say you the like to him?

Per.

I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:

By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out

The purity of his.

Shep.

Take hands; a bargain; 396

And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t:

I give my daughter to him, and will make

Her portion equal his.

Flo.

O! that must be 399

I’ the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,

I shall have more than you can dream of yet;

Enough then for your wonder. But, come on;

Contract us ’fore these witnesses.

Shep.

Come, your hand;

And, daughter, yours.

Pol.

Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you.

Have you a father?

Flo.

I have; but what of him?

Pol.

Knows he of this?

Flo.

He neither does nor shall.

Pol.

Methinks a father

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest 408

That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more,

Is not your father grown incapable

Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid

With age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear? 412

Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing

But what he did being childish?

Flo.

No, good sir:

He has his health and ampler strength indeed

Than most have of his age.

Pol.

By my white beard, 417

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial. Reason my son

Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason 420

The father,—all whose joy is nothing else

But fair posterity,—should hold some counsel

In such a business.

Flo.

I yield all this;

But for some other reasons, my grave sir, 424

Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

My father of this business.

Pol.

Let him know’t.

Flo.

He shall not.

Pol.

Prithee, let him.

Flo.

No, he must not.

Shep.

Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve 428

At knowing of thy choice.

Flo.

Come, come, he must not.

Mark our contract.

Pol.

Mark your divorce, young sir,

[Discovering himself.

Whom son I dare not call: thou art too base

To be acknowledg’d: thou a sceptre’s heir, 432

That thus affect’st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor,

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can

But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know

The royal fool thou cop’st with,—

Shep.

O, my heart! 437

Pol.

I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, and made

More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,

If I may ever know thou dost but sigh 440

That thou no more shalt see this knack,—as never

I mean thou shalt,—we’ll bar thee from succession;

Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,

Far than Deucalion off: mark thou my words:

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee

From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,—

Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too, 448

That makes himself, but for our honour therein,

Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou

These rural latches to his entrance open,

Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, 452

I will devise a death as cruel for thee

As thou art tender to’t.

[Exit.

Per.

Even here undone!

I was not much afeard; for once or twice

I was about to speak and tell him plainly, 456

The self-same sun that shines upon his court

Hides not his visage from our cottage, but

Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone?

I told you what would come of this: beseech you, 460

Of your own state take care: this dream of mine—

Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch further,

But milk my ewes and weep.

Cam.

Why, how now, father!

Speak, ere thou diest.

Shep.

I cannot speak, nor think, 464

Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir!

You have undone a man of fourscore three,

That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,

To die upon the bed my father died, 468

To lie close by his honest bones: but now

Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me

Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch!

That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure 472

To mingle faith with him. Undone! undone!

If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d

To die when I desire.

[Exit.

Flo.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, 476

But nothing alter’d. What I was, I am:

More straining on for plucking back; not following

My leash unwillingly.

Cam.

Gracious my lord,

You know your father’s temper: at this time 480

He will allow no speech, which I do guess

You do not purpose to him; and as hardly

Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear:

Then, till the fury of his highness settle, 484

Come not before him.

Flo.

I not purpose it.

I think, Camillo?

Cam.

Even he, my lord.

Per.

How often have I told you ’twould be thus!

How often said my dignity would last 488

But till ’twere known!

Flo.

It cannot fail but by

The violation of my faith; and then

Let nature crush the sides o’ the earth together

And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks:

From my succession wipe me, father; I 493

Am heir to my affection.

Cam.

Be advis’d.

Flo.

I am; and by my fancy: if my reason

Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; 496

If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness,

Do bid it welcome.

Cam.

This is desperate, sir.

Flo.

So call it; but it does fulfil my vow,

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 500

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may

Be thereat glean’d, for all the sun sees or

The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides

In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 504

To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you,

As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend,

When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not

To see him any more,—cast your good counsels

Upon his passion: let myself and fortune 509

Tug for the time to come. This you may know

And so deliver, I am put to sea

With her whom here I cannot hold on shore;

And most opportune to our need, I have 513

A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d

For this design. What course I mean to hold

Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 516

Concern me the reporting.

Cam.

O my lord!

I would your spirit were easier for advice,

Or stronger for your need.

Flo.

Hark, Perdita. [Takes her aside.

[To Camillo.] I’ll hear you by and by.

Cam.

He’s irremovable, 520

Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy if

His going I could frame to serve my turn,

Save him from danger, do him love and honour,

Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia 524

And that unhappy king, my master, whom

I so much thirst to see.

Flo.

Now, good Camillo,

I am so fraught with curious business that

I leave out ceremony.

Cam.

Sir, I think 528

You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love

That I have borne your father?

Flo.

Very nobly

Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music

To speak your deeds, not little of his care 532

To have them recompens’d as thought on.

Cam.

Well, my lord,

If you may please to think I love the king

And through him what’s nearest to him, which is

Your gracious self, embrace but my direction,

If your more ponderous and settled project 537

May suffer alteration, on mine honour

I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving

As shall become your highness; where you may

Enjoy your mistress,—from the whom, I see, 541

There’s no disjunction to be made, but by,

As, heavens forfend! your ruin,—marry her;

And with my best endeavours in your absence

Your discontenting father strive to qualify, 545

And bring him up to liking.

Flo.

How, Camillo,

May this, almost a miracle, be done?

That I may call thee something more than man,

And, after that trust to thee.

Cam.

Have you thought on 549

A place whereto you’ll go?

Flo.

Not any yet;

But as the unthought-on accident is guilty

To what we wildly do, so we profess 552

Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies

Of every wind that blows.

Cam.

Then list to me:

This follows; if you will not change your purpose

But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, 556

And there present yourself and your fair princess,—

For so, I see, she must be,—’fore Leontes;

She shall be habited as it becomes

The partner of your bed. Methinks I see 560

Leontes opening his free arms and weeping

His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness

As ’twere i’ the father’s person; kisses the hands

Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him 564

’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness: the one

He chides to hell, and bids the other grow

Faster than thought or time.

Flo.

Worthy Camillo,

What colour for my visitation shall I 568

Hold up before him?

Cam.

Sent by the king your father

To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,

The manner of your bearing towards him, with

What you as from your father shall deliver, 572

Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down:

The which shall point you forth at every sitting

What you must say; that he shall not perceive

But that you have your father’s bosom there 576

And speak his very heart.

Flo.

I am bound to you.

There is some sap in this.

Cam.

A course more promising

Than a wild dedication of yourselves

To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain 580

To miseries enough: no hope to help you,

But as you shake off one to take another;

Nothing so certain as your anchors, who

Do their best office, if they can but stay you 584

Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know

Prosperity’s the very bond of love,

Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together

Affliction alters.

Per.

One of these is true: 588

I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind.

Cam.

Yea, say you so?

There shall not at your father’s house these seven years

Be born another such.

Flo.

My good Camillo, 592

She is as forward of her breeding as

She is i’ the rear o’ her birth.

Cam.

I cannot say ’tis pity

She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress

To most that teach.

Per.

Your pardon, sir; for this 596

I’ll blush you thanks.

Flo.

My prettiest Perdita!

But O! the thorns we stand upon. Camillo,

Preserver of my father, now of me,

The med’cine of our house, how shall we do? 600

We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son,

Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

Cam.

My lord,

Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes

Do all lie there: it shall be so my care 604

To have you royally appointed as if

The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,

That you may know you shall not want, one word.

[They talk aside.

Enter Autolycus.

Aut.

Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery: not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting: they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown,—who wants but something to be a reasonable man,—grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it; so that, in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. 634

[Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward.

Cam.

Nay, but my letters, by this means being there

So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. 636

Flo.

And those that you’ll procure from King Leontes—

Cam.

Shall satisfy your father.

Per.

Happy be you!

All that you speak shows fair.

Cam.

[Seeing Autolycus.] Whom have we here?

We’ll make an instrument of this: omit 640

Unbuckle, unbuckle.— 664

[Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments.

Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy

Come home to ye!—you must retire yourself

Into some covert: take your sweetheart’s hat

And pluck it o’er your brows; muffle your face;

Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken 669

The truth of your own seeming; that you may,—

For I do fear eyes over you,—to shipboard

Get undescried.

Per.

I see the play so lies 672

That I must bear a part.

Cam.

No remedy.

Have you done there?

Flo.

Should I now meet my father

He would not call me son.

Cam.

Nay, you shall have no hat.

[Giving it to Perdita.

Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.

Aut.

Adieu, sir. 676

Flo.

O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

Pray you, a word.

[They converse apart.

Cam.

[Aside.] What I do next shall be to tell the king

Of this escape, and whither they are bound; 680

Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail

To force him after: in whose company

I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight

I have a woman’s longing.

Flo.

Fortune speed us! 684

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.

Cam.

The swifter speed the better.

[Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo.

Aut.

Shep.

Let’s before as he bids us. He was provided to do us good.

[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.

Aut.

If I had a mind to be honest I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion, gold, and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will I present them: there may be matter in it.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Sicilia. A Room in the Palace of Leontes.

Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and others.

Cleo.

Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d

A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make

Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down

More penitence than done trespass. At the last, 4

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil;

With them forgive yourself.

Leon.

Whilst I remember

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget

My blemishes in them, and so still think of 8

The wrong I did myself; which was so much,

That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and

Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man

Bred his hopes out of.

Paul.

True, too true, my lord; 12

If one by one you wedded all the world,

Or from the all that are took something good,

To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d

Would be unparallel’d.

Leon.

I think so. Kill’d! 16

She I kill’d! I did so; but thou strik’st me

Sorely to say I did: it is as bitter

Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now

Say so but seldom.

Cleo.

Not at all, good lady: 20

You might have spoken a thousand things that would

Have done the time more benefit, and grac’d

Your kindness better.

Paul.

You are one of those

Would have him wed again.

Dion.

If you would not so, 24

You pity not the state, nor the remembrance

Of his most sovereign name; consider little

What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue,

May drop upon his kingdom and devour 28

Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy

Than to rejoice the former queen is well?

What holier than for royalty’s repair,

For present comfort, and for future good, 32

To bless the bed of majesty again

With a sweet fellow to’t?

Paul.

There is none worthy,

Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods

Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; 36

For has not the divine Apollo said,

Is’t not the tenour of his oracle,

That King Leontes shall not have an heir

Till his lost child be found? which that it shall,

Is all as monstrous to our human reason 41

As my Antigonus to break his grave

And come again to me; who, on my life,

Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel 44

My lord should to the heavens be contrary,

Oppose against their wills.—[To Leontes.] Care not for issue;

The crown will find an heir: great Alexander

Left his to the worthiest, so his successor 48

Was like to be the best.

Leon.

Good Paulina,

Who hast the memory of Hermione,

I know, in honour; O! that ever I

Had squar’d me to thy counsel! then, even now,

I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes,

Have taken treasure from her lips,—

Paul.

And left them

More rich, for what they yielded.

Leon.

Thou speak’st truth.

No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, 56

And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit

Again possess her corpse and on this stage,—

Where we’re offenders now,—appear soul-vex’d,

And begin, ‘Why to me?’

Paul.

Paul.

Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath. 72

Cleo.

You tempt him over much.

Paul.

Unless another,

As like Hermione as is her picture,

Affront his eye.

Cleo.

Good madam,—

Paul.

I have done.

Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, 76

No remedy, but you will,—give me the office

To choose you a queen, she shall not be so young

As was your former; but she shall be such

As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy 80

To see her in your arms.

Leon.

My true Paulina,

We shall not marry till thou bidd’st us.

Paul.

That

Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath;

Never till then. 84

Enter a Gentleman.

Gent.

One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,

Son of Polixenes, with his princess,—she

The fairest I have yet beheld,—desires access

To your high presence.

Leon.

What with him? he comes not 88

Like to his father’s greatness; his approach,

So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us

’Tis not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d

By need and accident. What train?

Gent.

But few, 92

And those but mean.

Leon.

His princess, say you, with him?

Gent.

Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think,

That e’er the sun shone bright on.

Paul.

O Hermione!

As every present time doth boast itself 96

Above a better gone, so must thy grave

Give way to what’s seen now. Sir, you yourself

Have said and writ so,—but your writing now

Is colder than that theme,—‘She had not been,

Nor was not to be equall’d;’ thus your verse 101

Flow’d with her beauty once: ’tis shrewdly ebb’d

To say you have seen a better.

Gent.

Pardon, madam:

The one I have almost forgot—your pardon—

The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, 105

Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,

Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal

Of all professors else, make proselytes 108

Of who she but bid follow.

Paul.

How! not women?

Gent.

Women will love her, that she is a woman

More worth than any man; men, that she is

The rarest of all women.

Leon.

Go, Cleomenes; 112

Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends,

Bring them to our embracement. Still ’tis strange,

[Exeunt Cleomenes, Lords, and Gentleman.

He thus should steal upon us.

Paul.

Had our prince—

Jewel of children—seen this hour, he had pair’d

Well with this lord: there was not full a month

Between their births.

Leon.

Prithee, no more: cease! thou know’st

He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, 120

When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches

Will bring me to consider that which may

Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.

Re-enter Cleomenes, with Florizel, Perdita, and Others.

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off, 125

Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one,

Your father’s image is so hit in you,

His very air, that I should call you brother, 128

As I did him; and speak of something wildly

By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome!

And you, fair princess,—goddess! O, alas!

I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth 132

Might thus have stood begetting wonder as

You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost—

All mine own folly—the society,

Amity too, of your brave father, whom, 136

Though bearing misery, I desire my life

Once more to look on him.

Flo.

By his command

Have I here touch’d Sicilia; and from him

Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, 140

Can send his brother: and, but infirmity,—

Which waits upon worn times,—hath something seiz’d

His wish’d ability, he had himself

The land and waters ’twixt your throne and his

Measur’d to look upon you, whom he loves— 145

He bade me say so—more than all the sceptres

And those that bear them living.

Leon.

O, my brother!—

Good gentleman,—the wrongs I have done thee stir 148

Afresh within me, and these thy offices

So rarely kind, are as interpreters

Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither,

As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too

Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage— 153

At least ungentle—of the dreadful Neptune,

To greet a man not worth her pains, much less

The adventure of her person?

Flo.

Good my lord, 156

She came from Libya.

Leon.

Where the war-like Smalus,

That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d?

Flo.

Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter

His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence— 160

A prosperous south-wind friendly—we have cross’d,

To execute the charge my father gave me

For visiting your highness: my best train

I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d; 164

Who for Bohemia bend, to signify

Not only my success in Libya, sir,

But my arrival and my wife’s, in safety

Here where we are.

Leon.

The blessed gods 168

Purge all infection from our air whilst you

Do climate here! You have a holy father,

A graceful gentleman; against whose person,

So sacred as it is, I have done sin: 172

For which the heavens, taking angry note,

Have left me issueless; and your father’s bless’d—

As he from heaven merits it—with you,

Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,

Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on,

Such goodly things as you!

Enter a Lord.

Lord.

Most noble sir,

That which I shall report will bear no credit,

Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, 180

Bohemia greets you from himself by me;

Desires you to attach his son, who has—

His dignity and duty both cast off—

Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with

A shepherd’s daughter.

Leon.

Where’s Bohemia? speak. 185

Lord.

Here in your city; I now came from him:

I speak amazedly, and it becomes

My marvel and my message. To your court 188

Whiles he was hastening,—in the chase it seems

Of this fair couple,—meets he on the way

The father of this seeming lady and

Her brother, having both their country quitted

With this young prince.

Flo.

Camillo has betray’d me; 193

Whose honour and whose honesty till now

Endur’d all weathers.

Lord.

Lay’t so to his charge:

He’s with the king your father.

Leon.

Who? Camillo? 196

Lord.

Camillo, sir: I spake with him, who now

Has these poor men in question. Never saw I

Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth,

Forswear themselves as often as they speak: 200

Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them

With divers deaths in death.

Per.

O my poor father!

The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have

Our contract celebrated.

Leon.

You are married? 204

Flo.

We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;

The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:

The odds for high and low’s alike.

Leon.

My lord,

Is this the daughter of a king?

Flo.

She is, 208

When once she is my wife.

Leon.

That ‘once,’ I see, by your good father’s speed,

Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,

Most sorry, you have broken from his liking 212

Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry

Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,

That you might well enjoy her.

Flo.

Dear, look up:

Though Fortune, visible an enemy, 216

Should chase us with my father, power no jot

Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir,

Remember since you ow’d no more to time

Than I do now; with thought of such affections,

Step forth mine advocate; at your request 221

My father will grant precious things as trifles

Leon.

Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress,

Which he counts but a trifle.

Paul.

Sir, my liege, 224

Your eye hath too much youth in’t: not a month

’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes

Than what you look on now.

Leon.

I thought of her,

Even in these looks I made. [To Florizel.] But your petition 228

Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father:

Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires,

I am friend to them and you; upon which errand

I now go toward him. Therefore follow me, 232

And mark what way I make: come, good my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman.

Aut.

Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

Gent.

I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this methought I heard the shepherd say, he found the child. 8

Aut.

I would most gladly know the issue of it.

Gent.

I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration: they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one it must needs be. 21

Enter another Gentleman.

Are they returned to the court?

Third Gent.

No; the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina—a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano; who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer: thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. 116

Sec. Gent.

I thought she had some great matter there in hand, for she hath privately, twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither and with our company piece the rejoicing? 122

First Gent.

Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wink of an eye some new grace will be born: our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. 126

[Exeunt Gentlemen.

Aut.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Chapel in Paulina’s House.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants.

Leon.

O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort

That I have had of thee!

Paul.

What, sovereign sir,

I did not well, I meant well. All my services

You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf’d, 4

With your crown’d brother and these your contracted

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,

It is a surplus of your grace, which never

My life may last to answer.

Leon.

O Paulina! 8

We honour you with trouble: but we came

To see the statue of our queen: your gallery

Have we pass’d through, not without much content

In many singularities, but we saw not 12

That which my daughter came to look upon,

The statue of her mother.

Paul.

As she liv’d peerless,

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon 16

Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it

Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare

To see the life as lively mock’d as ever

Still sleep mock’d death: behold! and say ’tis well. 20

[Paulina draws back a curtain, and discovers Hermione as a statue.

I like your silence: it the more shows off

Your wonder; but yet speak: first you, my liege.

Comes it not something near?

Leon.

Her natural posture!

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say, indeed 24

Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she

In thy not chiding, for she was as tender

As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina,

Hermione was not so much wrinkled; nothing

So aged as this seems.

Pol.

O! not by much. 29

Paul.

So much the more our carver’s excellence;

Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her

As she liv’d now.

Leon.

As now she might have done, 32

So much to my good comfort, as it is

Now piercing to my soul. O! thus she stood,

Even with such life of majesty,—warm life,

As now it coldly stands,—when first I woo’d her.

I am asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me 37

For being more stone than it? O, royal piece!

There’s magic in thy majesty, which has

My evils conjur’d to remembrance, and 40

From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,

Standing like stone with thee.

Per.

And give me leave,

And do not say ’tis superstition, that

I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, 44

Dear queen, that ended when I but began,

Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

Paul.

O, patience!

The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s

Not dry. 48

Cam.

My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,

Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,

So many summers dry: scarce any joy

Did ever so long live; no sorrow 52

But kill’d itself much sooner.

Pol.

Dear my brother,

Let him that was the cause of this have power

To take off so much grief from you as he

Will piece up in himself.

Paul.

Indeed, my lord, 56

If I had thought the sight of my poor image

Would thus have wrought you,—for the stone is mine,—

I’d not have show’d it.

Leon.

Do not draw the curtain.

Paul.

No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy 60

May think anon it moves.

Leon.

Let be, let be!

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already—

What was he that did make it? See, my lord,

Would you not deem it breath’d, and that those veins 64

Did verily bear blood?

Pol.

Masterly done:

The very life seems warm upon her lip.

Leon.

The fixure of her eye has motion in’t,

As we are mock’d with art.

Paul.

I’ll draw the curtain; 68

My lord’s almost so far transported that

He’ll think anon it lives.

Leon.

O sweet Paulina!

Make me to think so twenty years together:

No settled senses of the world can match 72

The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone.

Paul.

I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but

I could afflict you further.

Leon.

Do, Paulina;

For this affliction has a taste as sweet 76

As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks,

There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel

Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,

For I will kiss her.

Paul.

Good my lord, forbear. 80

The ruddiness upon her lip is wet:

You’ll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own

With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

Leon.

No, not these twenty years.

Per.

So long could I 84

Stand by, a looker-on.

Paul.

Either forbear,

Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you

For more amazement. If you can behold it,

I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, 88

And take you by the hand; but then you’ll think,—

Which I protest against,—I am assisted

By wicked powers.

Leon.

What you can make her do,

I am content to look on: what to speak, 92

I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy

To make her speak as move.

Paul.

It is requir’d

You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still;

Or those that think it is unlawful business 96

I am about, let them depart.

Leon.

Proceed:

No foot shall stir.

Paul.

Music, awake her: strike!

[Music.

’Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach;

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;

I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away; 101

Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs:

[Hermione comes down.

Start not; her actions shall be holy as 104

You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her

Until you see her die again, for then

You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:

When she was young you woo’d her; now in age 108

Is she become the suitor!

Leon.

[Embracing her.] O! she’s warm.

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

Pol.

She embraces him.

Cam.

She hangs about his neck: 112

If she pertain to life let her speak too.

Pol.

Ay; and make’t manifest where she has liv’d,

Or how stol’n from the dead.

Paul.

That she is living,

Were it but told you, should be hooted at 116

Like an old tale; but it appears she lives,

Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.

Please you to interpose, fair madam. kneel

And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady; 120

Our Perdita is found.

[Presenting Perdita, who kneels to Hermione.

Her.

You gods, look down,

And from your sacred vials pour your graces

Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own,

Where hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how found 124

Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I,

Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d

Myself to see the issue.

Paul.

There’s time enough for that; 128

Lest they desire upon this push to trouble

Your joys with like relation. Go together,

You precious winners all: your exultation

Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, 132

Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there

My mate, that’s never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

Leon.

O! peace, Paulina.

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, 136

As I by thine a wife: this is a match,

And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine;

But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her,

As I thought dead, and have in vain said many 140

A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far,—

For him, I partly know his mind,—to find thee

An honourable husband. Come, Camillo,

And take her by the hand; whose worth and honesty 144

Is richly noted, and here justified

By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place.

What! look upon my brother: both your pardons,

That e’er I put between your holy looks 148

My ill suspicion. This’ your son-in-law,

And son unto the king,—whom heavens directing,

Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,

Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely 152

Each one demand and answer to his part

Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first

We were dissever’d: hastily lead away.

[Exeunt.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King John.
Prince Henry,	Son to the King.
Arthur,	Duke of Britaine, Nephew to the King.
The Earl of Pembroke.
The Earl of Essex.
The Earl of Salisbury.
The Lord Bigot.
Hubert de Burgh.
Robert Faulconbridge,	Son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge.
Philip the Bastard,	his half-brother.
James Gurney,	Servant to Lady Faulconbridge.
Peter of Pomfret,	a Prophet.
Philip,	King of France.
Lewis,	the Dauphin.
Lymoges,	Duke of Austria.
Cardinal Pandulph,	the Pope’s Legate.
Melun,	a French Lord.
Chatillon,	Ambassador from France.
Queen Elinor,	Mother to King John.
Constance,	Mother to Arthur.
Blanch of Spain,	Niece to King John.
Lady Faulconbridge.
Lords, Ladies, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.

ACT I.

Scene I.— A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury, and Others, with Chatillon.

K. John.

Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?

Chat.

Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France,

In my behaviour, to the majesty,

The borrow’d majesty of England here. 4

Eli.

A strange beginning; ‘borrow’d majesty!’

K. John.

Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

Chat.

Philip of France, in right and true behalf

Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son, 8

Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim

To this fair island and the territories,

To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine;

Desiring thee to lay aside the sword 12

Which sways usurpingly these several titles,

And put the same into young Arthur’s hand,

Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

K. John.

What follows if we disallow of this?

Chat.

The proud control of fierce and bloody war, 17

To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

K. John.

Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,

Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

Chat.

Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth, 21

The furthest limit of my embassy.

K. John.

Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; 24

For ere thou canst report I will be there,

The thunder of my cannon shall be heard.

So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath

And sullen presage of your own decay. 28

An honourable conduct let him have:

Pembroke, look to’t. Farewell, Chatillon.

[Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke.

Eli.

What now, my son! have I not ever said

How that ambitious Constance would not cease

Till she had kindled France and all the world 33

Upon the right and party of her son?

This might have been prevented and made whole

With very easy arguments of love, 36

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

K. John.

Our strong possession and our right for us.

Eli.

Your strong possession much more than your right, 40

Or else it must go wrong, with you and me:

So much my conscience whispers in your ear,

Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear.

Enter a Sheriff, who whispers Essex.

Essex.

My liege, here is the strangest controversy, 44

Come from the country to be judg’d by you,

That e’er I heard: shall I produce the men?

K. John.

Let them approach.

[Exit Sheriff.

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay 48

This expedition’s charge.

Re-enter Sheriff, with Robert Faulconbridge and Philip, his Bastard Brother.

What men are you?

Bast.

Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,

As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge, 52

A soldier, by the honour-giving hand

Of Cœur-de-Lion knighted in the field.

K. John.

But whe’r I be as true-begot or no,

That still I lay upon my mother’s head; 76

But that I am as well-begot, my liege,—

Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!—

Compare our faces and be judge yourself.

If old Sir Robert did beget us both, 80

And were our father, and this son like him;

O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee

I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee!

K. John.

Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here! 84

Eli.

He hath a trick of Cœur-de-Lion’s face;

The accent of his tongue affecteth him.

Do you not read some tokens of my son

In the large composition of this man? 88

K. John.

Mine eye hath well examined his parts,

And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak:

What doth move you to claim your brother’s land?

Bast.

Because he hath a half-face, like my father. 92

With half that face would he have all my land;

A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year!

Rob.

My gracious liege, when that my father liv’d,

Your brother did employ my father much,— 96

Bast.

Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:

Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother.

Rob.

And once dispatch’d him in an embassy

To Germany, there with the emperor 100

To treat of high affairs touching that time.

The advantage of his absence took the king,

And in the mean time sojourn’d at my father’s;

Where how he did prevail I shame to speak, 104

But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores

Between my father and my mother lay,—

As I have heard my father speak himself,—

When this same lusty gentleman was got. 108

Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d

His lands to me, and took it on his death

That this my mother’s son was none of his;

An if he were, he came into the world 112

Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.

Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,

My father’s land, as was my father’s will.

K. John.

Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;

Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him,

And if she did play false, the fault was hers;

Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands

That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,

Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, 121

Had of your father claim’d this son for his?

In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept

This calf bred from his cow from all the world;

In sooth he might: then, if he were my brother’s,

My brother might not claim him; nor your father,

Being none of his, refuse him: this concludes;

My mother’s son did get your father’s heir; 128

Your father’s heir must have your father’s land.

Rob.

Shall then my father’s will be of no force

To dispossess that child which is not his?

Bast.

Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

Than was his will to get me, as I think. 133

Eli.

Whe’r hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge

And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-Lion, 136

Lord of thy presence and no land beside?

Bast.

Madam, an if my brother had my shape,

And I had his, Sir Robert his, like him;

And if my legs were two such riding-rods, 140

My arms such eel-skins stuff’d, my face so thin

That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose

Lest men should say, ‘Look, where three-far-things goes!’

Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee! 180

For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty.

[Exeunt all but the Bastard.

A foot of honour better than I was,

But many a many foot of land the worse.

Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 184

‘Good den, Sir Richard!’ ‘God-a-mercy, fellow!’

And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter;

For new-made honour doth forget men’s names:

’Tis too respective and too sociable 188

For your conversion. Now your traveller,

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess,

And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d,

Why then I suck my teeth, and catechize 192

My picked man of countries: ‘My dear sir,’—

Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin,—

‘I shall beseech you,’—that is question now;

And then comes answer like an absey-book: 196

‘O, sir,’ says answer, ‘at your best command;

At your employment; at your service, sir:’

‘No, sir,’ says question, ‘I, sweet sir, at yours:’

And so, ere answer knows what question would,

Saving in dialogue of compliment, 201

And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

The Pyrenean and the river Po,

It draws toward supper in conclusion so. 204

But this is worshipful society

And fits the mounting spirit like myself;

For he is but a bastard to the time,

That doth not smack of observation; 208

And so am I, whether I smack or no;

And not alone in habit and device,

Exterior form, outward accoutrement,

But from the inward motion to deliver 212

Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth:

Which, though I will not practise to deceive,

Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;

For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. 216

But who comes in such haste in riding-robes?

What woman-post is this? hath she no husband

That will take pains to blow a horn before her?

Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney.

O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!

What brings you here to court so hastily? 221

Lady F.

Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,

That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

Bast.

My brother Robert? old Sir Robert’s son? 224

Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

Is it Sir Robert’s son that you seek so?

Lady F.

Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at Sir Robert? 228

He is Sir Robert’s son, and so art thou.

Bast.

James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

Gur.

Good leave, good Philip.

Bast.

Philip! sparrow! James,

There’s toys abroad: anon I’ll tell thee more.

[Exit Gurney.

Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son: 233

Sir Robert might have eat his part in me

Upon Good-Friday and ne’er broke his fast.

Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess, 236

Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:

We know his handiwork: therefore, good mother,

To whom am I beholding for these limbs?

Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. 240

Lady F.

Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

Bast.

Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. 244

What! I am dubb’d; I have it on my shoulder.

But, mother, I am not Sir Robert’s son;

I have disclaim’d Sir Robert and my land;

Legitimation, name, and all is gone. 248

Then, good my mother, let me know my father;

Some proper man, I hope; who was it, mother?

Lady F.

Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

Bast.

As faithfully as I deny the devil. 252

Lady F.

King Richard Cœur-de-Lion was thy father:

By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d

To make room for him in my husband’s bed.

Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!

Thou art the issue of my dear offence, 257

Which was so strongly urg’d past my defence.

Bast.

Now, by this light, were I to get again,

Madam, I would not wish a better father. 260

Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,

And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:

Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,

Subjected tribute to commanding love, 264

Against whose fury and unmatched force

The aweless lion could not wage the fight,

Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand.

He that perforce robs lions of their hearts 268

May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother,

With all my heart I thank thee for my father!

Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well

When I was got, I’ll send his soul to hell. 272

Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;

And they shall say, when Richard me begot,

If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:

Who says it was, he lies: I say, ’twas not. 276

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— France. Before the Walls of Angiers.

Enter, on one side, the Duke of Austria, and Forces; on the other, Philip, King of France, and Forces, Lewis, Constance, Arthur, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.

Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood,

Richard, that robb’d the lion of his heart

And fought the holy wars in Palestine, 4

By this brave duke came early to his grave:

And, for amends to his posterity,

At our importance hither is he come,

To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf, 8

And to rebuke the usurpation

Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

Arth.

God shall forgive you Cœur-de-Lion’s death 12

The rather that you give his offspring life,

Shadowing their right under your wings of war.

I give you welcome with a powerless hand,

But with a heart full of unstained love: 16

Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

K. Phi.

A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

Aust.

Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

As seal to this indenture of my love, 20

That to my home I will no more return

Till Angiers, and the right thou hast in France,

Together with that pale, that white-fac’d shore,

Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides 24

And coops from other lands her islanders,

Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main,

That water-walled bulwark, still secure

And confident from foreign purposes, 28

Even till that utmost corner of the west

Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,

Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

Const.

O! take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks, 32

Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength

To make a more requital to your love.

Aust.

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

In such a just and charitable war. 36

K. Phi.

Well then, to work: our cannon shall be bent

Against the brows of this resisting town.

Call for our chiefest men of discipline,

To cull the plots of best advantages: 40

We’ll lay before this town our royal bones,

Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood,

But we will make it subject to this boy.

Const.

Stay for an answer to your embassy,

Lest unadvis’d you stain your swords with blood.

My Lord Chatillon may from England bring

That right in peace which here we urge in war;

And then we shall repent each drop of blood 48

That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

Enter Chatillon.

K. Phi.

A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish,

Our messenger, Chatillon, is arriv’d!

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; 52

We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

Chat.

Then turn your forces from this paltry siege

And stir them up against a mightier task.

England, impatient of your just demands, 56

Hath put himself in arms: the adverse winds,

Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time

To land his legions all as soon as I;

His marches are expedient to this town, 60

His forces strong, his soldiers confident.

With him along is come the mother-queen,

An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife;

With her her niece, the Lady Blanch of Spain;

With them a bastard of the king’s deceas’d; 65

And all the unsettled humours of the land,

Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,

With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens, 68

Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,

Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,

To make a hazard of new fortunes here.

In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits 72

Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er

Did never float upon the swelling tide,

To do offence and scathe in Christendom.

[Drums heard within.

The interruption of their churlish drums 76

Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,

To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.

K. Phi.

How much unlook’d for is this expedition!

Aust.

By how much unexpected, by so much

We must awake endeavour for defence, 81

For courage mounteth with occasion:

Let them be welcome then, we are prepar’d.

Enter King John, Elinor, Blanch, the Bastard, Lords, and Forces.

K. John.

Peace be to France, if France in peace permit 84

Our just and lineal entrance to our own;

If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,

Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct

Their proud contempt that beats his peace to heaven. 88

K. Phi.

Peace be to England, if that war return

From France to England, there to live in peace.

England we love; and, for that England’s sake

With burden of our armour here we sweat: 92

This toil of ours should be a work of thine;

But thou from loving England art so far

That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king,

Cut off the sequence of posterity, 96

Out-faced infant state, and done a rape

Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.

Look here upon thy brother Geffrey’s face:

These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his; 100

This little abstract doth contain that large

Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time

Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.

That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, 104

And this his son; England was Geffrey’s right

And this is Geffrey’s. In the name of God

How comes it then that thou art call’d a king,

When living blood doth in these temples beat,

Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest?

K. John.

From whom hast thou this great commission, France,

To draw my answer from thy articles?

K. Phi.

From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts 112

In any breast of strong authority,

To look into the blots and stains of right:

That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:

Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong, 116

And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

K. John.

Alack! thou dost usurp authority.

K. Phi.

Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.

Eli.

Who is it thou dost call usurper, France? 120

Const.

Let me make answer; thy usurping son.

Eli.

Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,

That thou mayst be a queen, and check the world!

Const.

My bed was ever to thy son as true

As thine was to thy husband, and this boy 125

Liker in feature to his father Geffrey

Than thou and John in manners; being as like

As rain to water, or devil to his dam. 128

My boy a bastard! By my soul I think

His father never was so true begot:

It cannot be an if thou wert his mother.

Eli.

There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. 132

Const.

There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

Aust.

Peace!

Bast.

Hear the crier.

Aust.

What the devil art thou?

Bast.

One that will play the devil, sir, with you,

An a’ may catch your hide and you alone. 136

You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,

Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard.

I’ll smoke your skin coat, an I catch you right.

Sirrah, look to’t; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith. 140

Blanch.

O! well did he become that lion’s robe,

That did disrobe the lion of that robe.

Bast.

It lies as sightly on the back of him

As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass: 144

But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back,

Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

Aust.

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears

With this abundance of superfluous breath? 148

King,—Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.

K. Phil.

Women and fools, break off your conference.

King John, this is the very sum of all:

England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,

In right of Arthur do I claim of thee. 153

Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?

K. John.

My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.

Arthur of Britaine, yield thee to my hand; 156

And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more

Than e’er the coward hand of France can win.

Submit thee, boy.

Eli.

Come to thy grandam, child.

Const.

Do, child, go to it grandam, child; 160

Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will

Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:

There’s a good grandam.

Arth.

Good my mother, peace!

I would that I were low laid in my grave: 164

I am not worth this coil that’s made for me.

Eli.

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

Const.

Now shame upon you, whe’r she does or no!

His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames, 168

Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,

Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee;

Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib’d

To do him justice and revenge on you. 172

Eli.

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

Const.

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!

Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp

The dominations, royalties, and rights 176

Of this oppressed boy: this is thy eld’st son’s son,

Infortunate in nothing but in thee:

Thy sins are visited in this poor child;

The canon of the law is laid on him, 180

Being but the second generation

Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

K. John.

Bedlam, have done.

Const.

I have but this to say,

That he’s not only plagued for her sin, 184

But God hath made her sin and her the plague

On this removed issue, plagu’d for her,

And with her plague, her sin; his injury

Her injury, the beadle to her sin, 188

All punish’d in the person of this child,

And all for her. A plague upon her!

Eli.

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

A will that bars the title of thy son. 192

Const.

Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will;

A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will!

K. Phi.

Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim 196

To these ill-tuned repetitions.

Some trumpet summon hither to the walls

These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak

Whose title they admit, Arthur’s or John’s. 200

Trumpet sounds. Enter Citizens upon the Walls.

First Cit.

Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls?

K. Phi.

’Tis France, for England.

K. John.

England for itself.

You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,—

K. Phi.

You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects, 204

Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle,—

K. John.

For our advantage; therefore hear us first.

These flags of France, that are advanced here

Before the eye and prospect of your town, 208

Have hither march’d to your endamagement:

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath,

And ready mounted are they to spit forth

Their iron indignation ’gainst your walls: 212

All preparation for a bloody siege

And merciless proceeding by these French

Confronts your city’s eyes, your winking gates;

And but for our approach those sleeping stones,

That as a waist do girdle you about, 217

By the compulsion of their ordinance

By this time from their fixed beds of lime

Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made 220

For bloody power to rush upon your peace.

But on the sight of us your lawful king,—

Who painfully with much expedient march

Have brought a countercheck before your gates,

To save unscratch’d your city’s threaten’d cheeks,— 225

Behold, the French amaz’d vouchsafe a parle;

And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire,

To make a shaking fever in your walls, 228

They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke,

To make a faithless error in your ears:

Which trust accordingly, kind citizens,

And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits,

Forwearied in this action of swift speed, 233

Crave harbourage within your city walls.

K. Phi.

When I have said, make answer to us both.

Lo! in this right hand, whose protection 236

Is most divinely vow’d upon the right

Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,

Son to the elder brother of this man,

And king o’er him and all that he enjoys: 240

For this down-trodden equity, we tread

In war-like march these greens before your town,

Being no further enemy to you

Than the constraint of hospitable zeal, 244

In the relief of this oppressed child,

Religiously provokes. Be pleased then

To pay that duty which you truly owe

To him that owes it, namely, this young prince;

And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, 249

Save in aspect, have all offence seal’d up;

Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent

Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven; 252

And with a blessed and unvex’d retire,

With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruis’d,

We will bear home that lusty blood again

Which here we came to spout against your town, 256

And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace.

But if you fondly pass our proffer’d offer,

’Tis not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls

Can hide you from our messengers of war, 260

Though all these English and their discipline

Were harbour’d in their rude circumference.

Then tell us, shall your city call us lord,

In that behalf which we have challeng’d it? 264

Or shall we give the signal to our rage

And stalk in blood to our possession?

First Cit.

In brief, we are the King of England’s subjects:

For him, and in his right, we hold this town. 268

K. John.

Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

First Cit.

That can we not; but he that proves the king,

To him will we prove loyal: till that time

Have we ramm’d up our gates against the world.

K. John.

Doth not the crown of England prove the king? 273

And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed,—

Bast.

Bastards, and else. 276

K. John.

To verify our title with their lives.

K. Phi.

As many and as well-born bloods as those,—

Bast.

Some bastards too.

K. Phi.

Stand in his face to contradict his claim. 280

First Cit.

Till thou compound whose right is worthiest,

We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

K. John.

Then God forgive the sins of all those souls

That to their everlasting residence, 284

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,

In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king!

K. Phi.

Amen, Amen! Mount, chevaliers! to arms!

Bast.

Saint George, that swing’d the dragon, and e’er since 288

Sits on his horse back at mine hostess’ door,

Teach us some fence! [To Austria.] Sirrah, were I at home,

At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,

I would set an ox-head to your lion’s hide, 292

And make a monster of you.

Aust.

Peace! no more.

Bast

O! tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

K. John.

Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth

In best appointment all our regiments. 296

Bast.

Speed then, to take advantage of the field.

K. Phi.

It shall be so; [To Lewis.] and at the other hill

Command the rest to stand. God, and our right!

[Exeunt.

Alarums and excursions; then a retreat. Enter a French Herald, with trumpets, to the gates.

F. Her.

You men of Angiers, open wide your gates, 300

And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in,

Who, by the hand of France this day hath made

Much work for tears in many an English mother,

Whose sons he scatter’d on the bleeding ground;

Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies, 305

Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth;

And victory, with little loss, doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French, 308

Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d,

To enter conquerors and to proclaim

Arthur of Britaine England’s king and yours.

Enter English Herald, with trumpets.

E. Her.

Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells; 312

King John, your king and England’s, doth approach,

Commander of this hot malicious day.

Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright,

Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood;

There stuck no plume in any English crest 317

That is removed by a staff of France;

Our colours do return in those same hands

That did display them when we first march’d forth; 320

And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come

Our lusty English, all with purpled hands

Dy’d in the dying slaughter of their foes.

Open your gates and give the victors way. 324

First Cit.

Heralds, from off our towers we might behold,

From first to last, the onset and retire

Of both your armies; whose equality

By our best eyes cannot be censured: 328

Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer’d blows;

Strength match’d with strength, and power confronted power:

Both are alike; and both alike we like.

One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even, 332

We hold our town for neither, yet for both.

Re-enter the two Kings, with their powers, severally.

K. John.

France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?

Say, shall the current of our right run on?

Whose passage, vex’d with thy impediment, 336

Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell

With course disturb’d even thy conflning shores,

Unless thou let his silver water keep

A peaceful progress to the ocean. 340

K. Phi.

England, thou hast not sav’d one drop of blood,

In this hot trial, more than we of France;

Rather, lost more: and by this hand I swear,

That sways the earth this climate overlooks, 344

Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,

We’ll put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we bear,

Or add a royal number to the dead,

Gracing the scroll that tells of this war’s loss 348

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

Bast.

Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers

When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!

O! now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; 352

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

In undetermin’d differences of kings.

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? 356

Cry ‘havoc!’ kings; back to the stained field,

You equal-potents, fiery-kindled spirits!

Then let confusion of one part confirm

The other’s peace; till then, blows, blood, and death! 360

K. John.

Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

K. Phi.

Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king?

First Cit.

The King of England, when we know the king.

K. Phi.

Know him in us, that here hold up his right. 364

K. John.

In us, that are our own great deputy,

And bear possession of our person here,

Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.

First Cit.

A greater power than we denies all this; 368

And, till it be undoubted, we do lock

Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates,

Kings of ourselves; until our fears, resolv’d,

Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d. 372

Bast.

By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings,

And stand securely on their battlements

As in a theatre, whence they gape and point

At your industrious scenes and acts of death. 376

Your royal presences be rul’d by me:

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. 380

By east and west let France and England mount

Their battering cannon charged to the mouths,

Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl’d down

The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city: 384

I’d play incessantly upon these jades,

Even till unfenced desolation

Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.

That done, dissever your united strengths, 388

And part your mingled colours once again;

Turn face to face and bloody point to point;

Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth

Out of one side her happy minion, 392

To whom in favour she shall give the day,

And kiss him with a glorious victory.

How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?

Smacks it not something of the policy? 396

K. John.

Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,

I like it well. France, shall we knit our powers

And lay this Angiers even with the ground;

Then after fight who shall be king of it? 400

Bast.

An if thou hast the mettle of a king,

Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town,

Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

As we will ours, against these saucy walls; 404

And when that we have dash’d them to the ground,

Why then defy each other, and, pell-mell,

Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell.

K. Phi.

Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? 408

K. John.

We from the west will send destruction

Into this city’s bosom.

Aust.

I from the north.

K. Phi.

Our thunder from the south

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. 412

Bast.

O, prudent discipline! From north to south

Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth:

I’ll stir them to it. Come, away, away!

First Cit.

Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe a while to stay, 416

And I shall show you peace and fair-fac’d league;

Win you this city without stroke or wound;

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,

That here come sacrifices for the field. 420

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

K. John.

Speak on with favour: we are bent to hear.

First Cit.

That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

Is near to England: look upon the years 424

Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid.

If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,

Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?

If zealous love should go in search of virtue, 428

Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?

If love ambitious sought a match of birth,

Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?

Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, 432

Is the young Dauphin every way complete:

If not complete of, say he is not she;

And she again wants nothing, to name want,

If want it be not that she is not he: 436

He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such a she;

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. 440

O! two such silver currents, when they join,

Do glorify the banks that bound them in;

And two such shores to two such streams made one,

Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings, 444

To these two princes, if you marry them.

This union shall do more than battery can

To our fast-closed gates; for at this match,

With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, 448

The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,

And give you entrance; but without this match,

The sea enraged is not half so deaf,

Lions more confident, mountains and rocks 452

More free from motion, no, not death himself

In mortal fury half so peremptory,

As we to keep this city.

Bast.

Here’s a stay,

That shakes the rotten carcase of old Death 456

Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth, indeed,

That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs. 460

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

He speaks plain cannon fire, and smoke and bounce;

He gives the bastinado with his tongue;

Our ears are cudgell’d; not a word of his 464

But buffets better than a fist of France.

’Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words

Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad.

Eli.

[Aside to King John.] Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; 468

Give with our niece a dowry large enough;

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

Thy now unsur’d assurance to the crown,

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe 472

The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.

I see a yielding in the looks of France;

Mark how they whisper: urge them while their souls

Are capable of this ambition, 476

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

Of soft petitions, pity and remorse,

Cool and congeal again to what it was.

First Cit.

Why answer not the double majesties 480

This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town?

K. Phi.

Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

K. John.

If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, 484

Can in this book of beauty read ‘I love,’

Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:

For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,

And all that we upon this side the sea,— 488

Except this city now by us besieg’d,—

Find liable to our crown and dignity,

Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich

In titles, honours, and promotions, 492

As she in beauty, education, blood,

Holds hand with any princess of the world.

K. Phi.

What sayst thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.

Lew.

I do, my lord; and in her eye I find 496

A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,

The shadow of myself form’d in her eye;

Which, being but the shadow of your son

Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow:

I do protest I never lov’d myself 501

Till now infixed I beheld myself,

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

[Whispers with Blanch.

Bast.

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!

Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!

And quarter’d in her heart! he doth espy

Himself love’s traitor: this is pity now,

That hang’d and drawn and quarter’d, there should be 508

In such a love so vile a lout as he.

Blanch.

My uncle’s will in this respect is mine:

If he see aught in you that makes him like,

That anything he sees, which moves his liking,

I can with ease translate it to my will; 513

Or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it easily to my love.

Further I will not flatter you, my lord, 516

That all I see in you is worthy love,

Than this: that nothing do I see in you,

Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,

That I can find should merit any hate. 520

K. John.

What say these young ones? What say you, my niece?

Blanch.

That she is bound in honour still to do

What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.

K. John.

Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady? 524

Lew.

Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

For I do love her most unfeignedly.

K. John.

Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, 528

With her to thee; and this addition more,

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.

Philip of France, if thou be pleas’d withal,

Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

K. Phi.

It likes us well. Young princes, close your hands. 533

Aust.

And your lips too; for I am well assur’d

That I did so when I was first assur’d.

K. Phi.

Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, 536

Let in that amity which you have made;

For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemniz’d.

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? 540

I know she is not; for this match made up

Her presence would have interrupted much:

Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.

Lew.

She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent. 544

K. Phi.

And, by my faith, this league that we have made

Will give her sadness very little cure.

Brother of England, how may we content

This widow lady? In her right we came; 548

Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way,

To our own vantage.

K. John.

We will heal up all;

For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine

And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town

We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance:

Some speedy messenger bid her repair

To our solemnity: I trust we shall,

If not fill up the measure of her will, 556

Yet in some measure satisfy her so,

That we shall stop her exclamation.

Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,

To this unlook’d-for unprepared pomp. 560

[Exeunt all except the Bastard. The Citizens retire from the walls.

Bast.

Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!

John, to stop Arthur’s title in the whole,

Hath willingly departed with a part;

And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, 564

Whom zeal and charity brought to the field

As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear

With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,

That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith,

That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, 569

Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,

Who having no external thing to lose

But the word ‘maid,’ cheats the poor maid of that, 572

That smooth-fac’d gentleman, tickling Commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world;

The world, who of itself is peized well,

Made to run even upon even ground, 576

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias,

This sway of motion, this Commodity,

Makes it take head from all indifferency,

From all direction, purpose, course, intent: 580

And this same bias, this Commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,

Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France,

Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid,

From a resolv’d and honourable war, 585

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.

And why rail I on this Commodity?

But for because he hath not woo’d me yet. 588

Not that I have the power to clutch my hand

When his fair angels would salute my palm;

But for my hand, as unattempted yet,

Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich. 592

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,

And say there is no sin but to be rich;

And being rich, my virtue then shall be

To say there is no vice but beggary. 596

Since kings break faith upon Commodity,

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee!

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— France. The French King’s Tent.

Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury.

Const.

Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!

False blood to false blood join’d! gone to be friends!

Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces?

It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; 4

Be well advis’d, tell o’er thy tale again:

It cannot be; thou dost but say ’tis so.

I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word

Is but the vain breath of a common man: 8

Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;

I have a king’s oath to the contrary.

Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me,

For I am sick and capable of fears; 12

Oppress’d with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;

A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;

A woman, naturally born to fears;

And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, 16

With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce,

But they will quake and tremble all this day.

What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?

Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? 20

What means that hand upon that breast of thine?

Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,

Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds?

Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? 24

Then speak again; not all thy former tale,

But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal.

As true as I believe you think them false

That give you cause to prove my saying true. 28

Const.

O! if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,

Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;

And let belief and life encounter so

As doth the fury of two desperate men 32

Which in the very meeting fall and die.

Lewis marry Blanch! O boy! then where art thou?

France friend with England what becomes of me?

Fellow, be gone! I cannot brook thy sight: 36

This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Sal.

What other harm have I, good lady, done,

But spoke the harm that is by others done?

Const.

Which harm within itself so heinous is

As it makes harmful all that speak of it. 41

Arth.

I do beseech you, madam, be content.

Const.

If thou, that bidd’st me be content, wert grim,

Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb, 44

Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,

Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,

Patch’d with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

I would not care, I then would be content; 48

For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou

Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.

But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy,

Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great:

Of Nature’s gifts thou mayst with lilies boast 53

And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O!

She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee:

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, 56

And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France

To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,

And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.

France is a bawd to Fortune and King John, 60

That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John!

Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?

Envenom him with words, or get thee gone

And leave those woes alone which I alone 64

Am bound to underbear.

Sal.

Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

Const.

Thou mayst, thou shalt: I will not go with thee.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; 68

For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.

To me and to the state of my great grief

Let kings assemble; for my grief’s so great

That no supporter but the huge firm earth 72

Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;

Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

[Seats herself on the ground.

Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch, Elinor, the Bastard, Duke of Austria, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day

Ever in France shall be kept festival: 76

To solemnize this day the glorious sun

Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,

Turning with splendour of his precious eye

The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: 80

The yearly course that brings this day about

Shall never see it but a holiday.

Const.

[Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day!

What hath this day deserv’d? what hath it done

That it in golden letters should be set 85

Among the high tides in the calendar?

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

This day of shame, oppression, perjury: 88

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

Pray that their burdens may not fall this day,

Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d:

But on this day let seamen fear no wrack; 92

No bargains break that are not this day made;

This day all things begun come to ill end;

Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!

K. Phi.

By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause 96

To curse the fair proceedings of this day:

Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?

Const.

You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried, 100

Proves valueless: you are forsworn, forsworn;

You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood,

But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:

The grappling vigour and rough frown of war

Is cold in amity and painted peace, 105

And our oppression hath made up this league.

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur’d kings!

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens! 108

Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord ’twixt these perjur’d kings!

Hear me! O, hear me!

Aust.

Lady Constance, peace!

Const.

War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war. 113

O, Lymoges! O, Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil. thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

Thou little valiant, great in villany! 116

Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!

Thou Fortune’s champion, that dost never fight

But when her humorous ladyship is by

To teach thee safety! thou art perjur’d too, 120

And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou,

A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp and swear

Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,

Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?

Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend 125

Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?

And dost thou now fall over to my foes?

Thou wear a hon’s hide! doff it for shame, 128

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.

O! that a man should speak those words to me.

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Aust.

Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life. 132

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

K. John.

We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.

Enter Pandulph.

K. Phi.

Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

Pand.

Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!

To thee, King John, my holy errand is. 137

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

Do in his name religiously demand 140

Why thou against the church, our holy mother,

So wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce,

Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop

Of Canterbury, from that holy see? 144

This, in our foresaid holy father’s name,

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

K. John.

What earthly name to interrogatories

Can task the free breath of a sacred king? 148

Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name

So slight, unworthy and ridiculous,

To charge me to an answer, as the pope.

Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England 152

Add thus much more: that no Italian priest

Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;

But as we under heaven are supreme head,

So under him that great supremacy, 156

Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,

Without the assistance of a mortal hand:

So tell the pope; all reverence set apart

To him, and his usurp’d authority. 160

K. Phi.

Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

K. John.

Though you and all the kings of Christendom

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,

Dreading the curse that money may buy out;

And, by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, 165

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself;

Though you and all the rest so grossly led 168

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;

Yet I alone, alone do me oppose

Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.

Pand.

Then, by the lawful power that I have,

Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate:

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to a heretic;

And meritorious shall that hand be call’d, 176

Canonized and worshipp’d as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.

Const.

O! lawful let it be

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile.

Good father cardinal, cry thou amen 181

To my keen curses; for without my wrong

There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

Pand.

There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse. 184

Const.

And for mine too: when law can do no right,

Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong.

Law cannot give my child his kingdom here,

For he that holds his kingdom holds the law:

Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, 189

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

Pand.

Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, 192

And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Eli.

Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.

Const.

Look to that, devil, lest that France repent, 196

And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

Aust.

King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

Bast.

And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.

Aust.

Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, 200

Because—

Bast.

Your breeches best may carry them.

K. John.

Philip, what sayst thou to the cardinal?

Const.

What should he say, but as the cardinal?

Lew.

Bethink you, father; for the difference

Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome, 205

Or the light loss of England for a friend:

Forego the easier.

Blanch.

That’s the curse of Rome.

Const.

O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here, 208

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

Blanch.

The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

But from her need.

Const.

O! if thou grant my need,

Which only lives but by the death of faith, 212

That need must needs infer this principle,

That faith would live again by death of need:

O! then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;

Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down.

K. John.

The king is mov’d, and answers not to this. 217

Const.

O! be remov’d from him, and answer well.

Aust.

Do so, King Philip: hang no more in doubt.

Bast.

Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout. 220

K. Phi.

I am perplex’d, and know not what to say.

Pand.

What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and curs’d?

K. Phi.

Good reverend father, make my person yours, 224

And tell me how you would bestow yourself.

This royal hand and mine are newly knit,

And the conjunction of our inward souls

Married in league, coupled and link’d together

With all religious strength of sacred vows; 229

The latest breath that gave the sound of words

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,

Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; 232

And even before this truce, but new before,

No longer than we well could wash our hands

To clap this royal bargain up of peace,

Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d 236

With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint

The fearful difference of incensed kings:

And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood,

So newly join’d in love, so strong in both, 240

Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet?

Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,

Make such unconstant children of ourselves,

As now again to snatch our palm from palm,

Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed

Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,

And make a riot on the gentle brow

Of true sincerity? O! holy sir, 248

My reverend father, let it not be so!

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose

Some gentle order, and then we shall be bless’d

To do your pleasure and continue friends. 252

Pand.

All form is formless, order orderless,

Save what is opposite to England’s love.

Therefore to arms! be champion of our church,

Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,

A mother’s curse, on her revolting son. 257

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, 260

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

K. Phi.

I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

Pand.

So mak’st thou faith an enemy to faith:

And like a civil war sett’st oath to oath, 264

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O! let thy vow

First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d;

That is, to be the champion of our church.

What since thou swor’st is sworn against thyself

And may not be performed by thyself; 269

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss

Is not amiss when it is truly done;

And being not done, where doing tends to ill,

The truth is then most done not doing it. 273

The better act of purposes mistook

Is to mistake again; though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct, 276

And falsehood falsehood cures, as fire cools fire

Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d.

It is religion that doth make vows kept;

But thou hast sworn against religion 280

By what thou swear’st, against the thing thou swear’st,

And mak’st an oath the surety for thy truth

Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure

To swear, swears only not to be forsworn; 284

Else what a mockery should it be to swear!

But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;

And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.

Therefore thy later vows against thy first 288

Is in thyself rebellion to thyself;

And better conquest never canst thou make

Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts

Against these giddy loose suggestions: 292

Upon which better part our prayers come in,

If thou vouchsafe them; but, if not, then know

The peril of our curses light on thee

So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, 296

But in despair die under their black weight.

Aust.

Rebellion, flat rebellion!

Bast.

Will’t not be?

Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lew.

Father, to arms!

Blanch.

Upon thy wedding-day? 300

Against the blood that thou hast married?

What! shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men?

Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums,

Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? 304

O husband, hear me! ay, alack! how new

Is husband in my mouth; even for that name,

Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce,

Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms 308

Against mine uncle.

Const.

O! upon my knee,

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

Forethought by heaven. 312

Blanch.

Now shall I see thy love: what motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

Const.

That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

His honour: O! thine honour, Lewis, thine honour. 316

Lew.

I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

When such profound respects do pull you on.

Pand.

I will denounce a curse upon his head.

K. Phi.

Thou shalt not need. England, I’ll fall from thee. 320

Const.

O fair return of banish’d majesty!

Eli.

O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

K. John.

France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

Bast.

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, 324

Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.

Blanch.

The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, adieu!

Which is the side that I must go withal?

I am with both: each army hath a hand; 328

And in their rage, I having hold of both,

They whirl asunder and dismember me.

Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;

Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;

Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; 333

Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;

Assured loss before the match be play’d. 336

Lew.

Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.

Blanch.

There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

K. John.

Cousin, go draw our puissance together.

[Exit Bastard.

France, I am burn’d up with inflaming wrath;

A rage whose heat hath this condition, 341

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

The blood, and dearest-valu’d blood of France.

K. Phi.

Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn 344

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

K. John.

No more than he that threats. To arms let’s hie!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. Plains near Angiers.

Alarums; excursions. Enter the Bastard, with the Duke of Austria’s head.

Bast.

Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;

Some airy devil hovers in the sky

And pours down mischief. Austria’s head lie there,

While Philip breathes. 4

Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert.

K. John.

Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up,

My mother is assailed in our tent,

And ta’en, I fear.

Bast.

My lord, I rescu’d her;

Her highness is in safety, fear you not: 8

But on, my liege; for very little pains

Will bring this labour to a happy end.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same.

Alarums; excursions; retreat. Enter King John, Elinor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, and Lords.

K. John.

[To Elinor.] So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind

So strongly guarded. [To Arthur.] Cousin, look not sad:

Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will

As dear be to thee as thy father was. 4

Arth.

O! this will make my mother die with grief.

K. John.

[To the Bastard.] Cousin, away for England! haste before;

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; set at liberty 8

Imprison’d angels: the fat ribs of peace

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bast.

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back 12

When gold and silver becks me to come on.

I leave your highness. Grandam, I will pray,—

If ever I remember to be holy,—

For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand. 16

Eli.

Farewell, gentle cousin.

K. John.

Coz, farewell.

[Exit Bastard.

Eli.

Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

[She takes Arthur aside.

K. John.

Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,

We owe thee much: within this wall of flesh 20

There is a soul counts thee her creditor,

And with advantage means to pay thy love:

And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath

Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 24

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,

But I will fit it with some better time.

By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham’d

To say what good respect I have of thee. 28

Hub.

I am much bounden to your majesty.

K. John.

Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet;

But thou shalt have; and creep time ne’er so slow,

Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 32

I had a thing to say, but let it go:

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,

Attended with the pleasures of the world,

Is all too wanton and too full of gawds 36

To give me audience: if the midnight bell

Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

Sound one into the drowsy race of night;

If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; 41

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had bak’d thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes 45

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,

A passion hateful to my purposes;

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 48

Hear me without thine ears, and make reply

Without a tongue, using conceit alone,

Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;

Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, 52

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:

But ah! I will not: yet I love thee well;

And, by my troth, I think thou lov’st me well.

Hub.

So well, that what you bid me undertake, 56

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

K. John.

Do not I know thou wouldst?

Good Hubert! Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye

On yon young boy: I’ll tell thee what, my friend, 60

He is a very serpent in my way;

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread

He lies before me: dost thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

Hub.

K. John.

For England, cousin; go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you 72

With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The French King’s Tent.

Enter King Philip, Lewis, Pandulph, and Attendants.

K. Phi.

So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship.

Pand.

Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well. 4

K. Phi.

What can go well when we have run so ill?

Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?

Arthur ta’en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?

And bloody England into England gone, 8

O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lew.

What he hath won that hath he fortified:

So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d,

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, 12

Doth want example: who hath read or heard

Of any kindred action like to this?

K. Phi.

Well could I bear that England had this praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame. 16

Enter Constance.

Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;

Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,

In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

I prithee lady, go away with me. 20

Const.

Lo now! now see the issue of your peace.

K. Phi.

Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Const.

No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 24

Death, death: O, amiable lovely death!

Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 28

And I will kiss thy detestable bones,

And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows,

And ring these fingers with thy household worms,

And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,

And be a carrion monster like thyself: 33

Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil’st

And buss thee as thy wife! Misery’s love,

O! come to me.

K. Phi

O fair affliction, peace! 36

Const.

No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:

O! that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth!

Then with a passion would I shake the world,

And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy 40

Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

Pand.

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const.

Thou art not holy to belie me so; 44

I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;

My name is Constance; I was Geffrey’s wife;

Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!

I am not mad: I would to heaven I were! 48

For then ’tis like I should forget myself:

O! if I could, what grief should I forget.

Preach some philosophy to make me mad,

And thou shalt be canoniz’d, cardinal; 52

For being not mad but sensible of grief,

My reasonable part produces reason

How I may be deliver’d of these woes,

And teaches me to kill or hang myself: 56

If I were mad, I should forget my son,

Or madly think a babe of clouts were he.

I am not mad: too well, too well I feel

The different plague of each calamity. 60

K. Phi.

Bind up those tresses. O! what love I note

In the fair multitude of those her hairs:

Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,

Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends 64

Do glue themselves in sociable grief;

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

Sticking together in calamity.

Const.

To England, if you will.

K. Phi.

Bind up your hairs. 68

Const.

Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it?

I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud

‘O! that these hands could so redeem my son,

As they have given these hairs their liberty!’ 72

But now I envy at their liberty,

And will again commit them to their bonds,

Because my poor child is a prisoner.

And, father cardinal, I have heard you say 76

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven.

If that be true, I shall see my boy again;

For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,

To him that did but yesterday suspire, 80

There was not such a gracious creature born.

But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud

And chase the native beauty from his cheek,

And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 84

As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,

And so he’ll die; and, rising so again,

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven

I shall not know him: therefore never, never 88

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Pand.

You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Const.

He talks to me, that never had a son.

K. Phi.

You are as fond of grief as of your child. 92

Const.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 96

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:

Then have I reason to be fond of grief.

Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,

I could give better comfort than you do. 100

I will not keep this form upon my head

When there is such disorder in my wit.

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! 104

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

[Exit.

K. Phi.

I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.

[Exit.

Lew.

There’s nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, 108

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;

And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.

Pand.

Before the curing of a strong disease,

Even in the instant of repair and health, 113

The fit is strongest: evils that take leave,

On their departure most of all show evil.

What have you lost by losing of this day? 116

Lew.

All days of glory, joy, and happiness.

Pand.

If you had won it, certainly you had.

No, no; when Fortune means to men most good,

She looks upon them with a threatening eye. 120

’Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

In this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you griev’d that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lew.

As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

Pand.

Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. 125

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit;

For even the breath of what I mean to speak

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,

Out of the path which shall directly lead 129

Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark.

John hath seiz’d Arthur; and it cannot be,

That whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins 132

The misplac’d John should entertain an hour,

One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest.

A sceptre snatch’d with an unruly hand

Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d;

And he that stands upon a slippery place 137

Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:

That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;

So be it, for it cannot be but so. 140

Lew.

But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?

Pand.

You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew.

And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

Pand.

How green you are and fresh in this old world! 145

John lays you plots; the times conspire with you;

For he that steeps his safety in true blood

Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. 148

This act so evilly borne shall cool the hearts

Of all his people and freeze up their zeal,

That none so small advantage shall step forth

To check his reign, but they will cherish it; 152

No natural exhalation in the sky,

No scope of nature, no distemper’d day,

No common wind, no customed event,

But they will pluck away his natural cause 156

And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,

Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,

Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lew.

May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life, 160

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Pand.

O! sir, when he shall hear of your approach,

If that young Arthur be not gone already,

Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts

Of all his people shall revolt from him 165

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change,

And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath

Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John. 168

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:

And, O! what better matter breeds for you

Than I have nam’d. The bastard Faulconbridge

Is now in England ransacking the church, 172

Offending charity: if but a dozen French

Were there in arms, they would be as a call

To train ten thousand English to their side;

Or as a little snow, tumbled about, 176

Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin!

Go with me to the king. ’Tis wonderful

What may be wrought out of their discontent

Now that their souls are topful of offence. 180

For England go; I will whet on the king.

Lew.

Strong reasons make strong actions. Let us go:

If you say ay, the king will not say no.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Northampton. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Hubert and Two Attendants.

Hub.

Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

Mercy on me! 12

Methinks nobody should be sad but I:

Yet I remember, when I was in France,

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

Only for wantonness. By my christendom, 16

So I were out of prison and kept sheep,

I should be as merry as the day is long;

And so I would be here, but that I doubt

My uncle practises more harm to me: 20

He is afraid of me, and I of him.

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son?

No, indeed, is’t not; and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Hub.

[Aside.] If I talk to him with his innocent prate 25

He will awake my mercy which lies dead:

Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Arth.

Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: 28

In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

That I might sit all night and watch with you:

I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Hub.

[Aside.] His words do take possession of my bosom. 32

Read here, young Arthur.

[Showing a paper.

[Aside.] How now, foolish rheum!

Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. 36

Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth.

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hub.

Young boy, I must.

Arth.

And will you?

Hub.

And I will. 40

Arth.

Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkercher about your brows,—

The best I had, a princess wrought it me,—

And I did never ask it you again; 44

And with my hand at midnight held your head,

And like the watchful minutes to the hour,

Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time,

Saying, ‘What lack you?’ and, ‘Where lies your grief?’ 48

Or, ‘What good love may I perform for you?’

Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick-service had a prince. 52

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning: do an if you will.

If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill,

Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? 56

These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

Hub.

I have sworn to do it;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth.

Ah! none but in this iron age would do it! 60

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears

And quench this fiery indignation

Even in the matter of mine innocence; 64

Nay, after that, consume away in rust,

But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron?

An if an angel should have come to me 68

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believ’d him; no tongue but Hubert’s.

Hub.

[Stamps.] Come forth.

Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do. 72

Arth.

O! save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub.

Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth.

Alas! what need you be so boisterousrough? 76

I will not struggle; I will stand stone-still.

For heaven’s sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert: drive these men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; 80

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,

Nor look upon the iron angerly.

Thrust but these men away, and I’ll forgive you,

Whatever torment you do put me to. 84

Hub.

Go, stand within: let me alone with him.

First Attend.

I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Arth.

Alas! I then have chid away my friend:

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart. 88

Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Hub.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth.

Is there no remedy?

Hub.

None, but to lose your eyes.

Arth.

O heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, 92

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense;

Then feeling what small things are boisterous there,

Hub.

Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, 124

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth.

O! now you look like Hubert, all this while

You were disguised.

Hub.

Peace! no more. Adieu.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead;

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports: 129

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,

That Hubert for the wealth of all the world

Will not offend thee.

Arth.

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Hub.

Silence! no more, go closely in with me: 133

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Enter King John, crowned; Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords. The King takes his state.

K. John.

Here once again we sit, once again crown’d,

And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

Pem.

This ‘once again,’ but that your highness pleas’d,

Was once superfluous: you were crown’d before,

And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off, 5

The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt;

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

With any long’d-for change or better state. 8

Sal.

Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp,

To guard a title that was rich before,

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

To throw a perfume on the violet, 12

To smooth the ice, or add another hue

Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,

Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. 16

Pem.

But that your royal pleasure must be done,

This act is as an ancient tale new told,

And in the last repeating troublesome,

Being urged at a time unseasonable. 20

Sal.

In this the antique and well-noted face

Of plain old form is much disfigured;

And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about,

Startles and frights consideration, 25

Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected,

For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

Pem.

When workmen strive to do better than well 28

They do confound their skill in covetousness;

And oftentimes excusing of a fault

Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse:

As patches set upon a little breach 32

Discredit more in hiding of the fault

Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

Sal.

To this effect, before you were newcrown’d,

We breath’d our counsel: but it pleas’d your highness 36

To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d;

Since all and every part of what we would

Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

K. John.

Some reasons of this double coronation 40

I have possess’d you with and think them strong;

And more, more strong,—when lesser is my fear,—

I shall indue you with: meantime but ask

What you would have reform’d that is not well;

And well shall you perceive how willingly 45

I will both hear and grant you your requests.

Pem.

Then I,—as one that am the tongue of these

To sound the purposes of all their hearts,— 48

Both for myself and them,—but, chief of all,

Your safety, for the which myself and them

Bend their best studies,—heartily request

The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint

Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent 53

To break into this dangerous argument:

If what in rest you have in right you hold,

Why then your fears,—which, as they say, attend

The steps of wrong,—should move you to mew up

Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days

With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth

The rich advantage of good exercise? 60

That the time’s enemies may not have this

To grace occasions, let it be our suit

That you have bid us ask, his liberty;

Which for our goods we do no further ask 64

Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,

Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

Enter Hubert.

K. John.

Let it be so: I do commit his youth

To your direction. Hubert, what news with you?

[Taking him apart.

Pem.

This is the man should do the bloody deed; 69

He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine:

The image of a wicked hemous fault

Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his 72

Does show the mood of a much troubled breast;

And I do fearfully believe ’tis done,

What we so fear’d he had a charge to do.

Sal.

The colour of the king doth come and go

Between his purpose and his conscience, 77

Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set:

His passion is so ripe it needs must break.

Pem.

And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence 80

The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.

K. John.

We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand:

Good lords, although my will to give is living,

The suit which you demand is gone and dead:

He tells us Arthur is deceas’d to-night. 85

Sal.

Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past cure.

Pem.

Indeed we heard how near his death he was

Before the child himself felt he was sick: 88

This must be answer’d, either here or hence.

K. John.

Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?

Think you I bear the shears of destiny?

Have I commandment on the pulse of life? 92

Sal.

It is apparent foul play; and ’tis shame

That greatness should so grossly offer it:

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

Pem.

Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I’ll go with thee, 96

And find the inheritance of this poor child,

His little kingdom of a forced grave.

That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle,

Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while! 100

This must not be thus borne: this will break out

To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt.

[Exeunt Lords.

K. John.

They burn in indignation. I repent:

There is no sure foundation set on blood, 104

No certain life achiev’d by others’ death.

Enter a Messenger.

A fearful eye thou hast: where is that blood

That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?

So foul a sky clears not without a storm: 108

Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

Mess.

From France to England. Never such a power

For any foreign preparation

Was levied in the body of a land. 112

The copy of your speed is learn’d by them;

For when you should be told they do prepare,

The tidings come that they are all arriv’d.

K. John.

O! where hath our intelligence been drunk? 116

Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care

That such an army could be drawn in France,

And she not hear of it?

Mess.

My liege, her ear

Is stopp’d with dust: the first of April died 120

Your noble mother; and, as I hear, my lord,

The Lady Constance in a frenzy died

Three days before: but this from rumour’s tongue

I idly heard; if true or false I know not. 124

K. John.

Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

O! make a league with me, till I have pleas’d

My discontented peers. What! mother dead!

How wildly then walks my estate in France! 128

Under whose conduct came those powers of France

That thou for truth giv’st out are landed here?

Mess.

Under the Dauphin.

K. John.

Thou hast made me giddy

With these ill tidings.

Enter the Bastard, and Peter of Pomfret.

Now, what says the world 132

To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff

My head with more ill news, for it is full.

Bast.

But if you be afeard to hear the worst,

Then let the worst unheard fall on your head.

K. John.

Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d 137

Under the tide; but now I breathe again

Aloft the flood, and can give audience

To any tongue, speak it of what it will. 140

Bast.

How I have sped among the clergymen,

The sums I have collected shall express.

But as I travell’d hither through the land,

I find the people strangely fantasied, 144

Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams,

Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.

And here’s a prophet that I brought with me

From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found 148

With many hundreds treading on his heels;

To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rimes,

That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,

Your highness should deliver up your crown. 152

K. John.

Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

Peter.

Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

K. John.

Hubert, away with him; imprison him:

And on that day at noon, whereon, he says, 156

I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d.

Deliver him to safety, and return,

For I must use thee.

[Exit Hubert, with Peter.

O my gentle cousin,

Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d?

Bast.

The French, my lord; men’s mouths are full of it: 161

Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,

With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,

And others more, going to seek the grave 164

Of Arthur, whom they say is kill’d to-night

On your suggestion.

K. John.

Gentle kinsman, go,

And thrust thyself into their companies.

I have a way to win their loves again; 168

Bring them before me.

Bast.

I will seek them out.

K. John.

Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.

O! let me have no subject enemies

When adverse foreigners affright my towns 172

With dreadful pomp of stout invasion.

Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,

And fly like thought from them to me again.

Bast.

The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. 176

K. John.

Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman.

[Exit Bastard.

Go after him; for he perhaps shall need

Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;

And be thou he.

Mess.

With all my heart, my liege.

[Exit.

K. John.

My mother dead!

Re-enter Hubert.

Hub.

My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night:

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

The other four in wondrous motion. 184

K. John.

Five moons!

Hub.

Old men and beldams in the streets

Do prophesy upon it dangerously:

Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths;

And when they talk of him, they shake their heads 188

And whisper one another in the ear;

And he that speaks, doth gripe the hearer’s wrist

Whilst he that hears makes fearful action,

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. 192

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,

The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,

With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news;

Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,

Standing on slippers,—which his nimble haste

Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,—

Told of a many thousand warlike French,

That were embattailed and rank’d in Kent. 200

Another lean unwash’d artificer

Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death.

K. John.

Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears?

Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death?

Thy hand hath murder’d him: I had a mighty cause 205

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

Hub.

No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

K. John.

It is the curse of kings to be attended 208

By slaves that take their humours for a warrant

To break within the bloody house of life,

And on the winking of authority

To understand a law, to know the meaning 212

Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns

More upon humour than advis’d respect.

Hub.

Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

K. John.

O! when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth 216

Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal

Witness against us to damnation.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds

Makes ill deeds done! Hadst not thou been by,

A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, 221

Quoted and sign’d to do a deed of shame,

This murder had not come into my mind;

But taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, 224

Finding thee fit for bloody villany,

Apt, liable to be employ’d in danger,

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death;

And thou, to be endeared to a king, 228

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

Hub.

My lord,—

K. John.

Hadst thou but shook thy head or made a pause

When I spake darkly what I purposed, 232

Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face,

As bid me tell my tale in express words,

Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,

And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me: 236

But thou didst understand me by my signs

And didst in signs again parley with sin;

Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,

And consequently thy rude hand to act 240

The deed which both our tongues held vile to name.

Out of my sight, and never see me more!

My nobles leave me; and my state is brav’d,

Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:

Nay, in the body of this fleshly land, 245

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,

Hostility and civil tumult reigns

Between my conscience and my cousin’s death.

Hub.

Arm you against your other enemies,

I’ll make a peace between your soul and you.

Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine

Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, 252

Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.

Within this bosom never enter’d yet

The dreadful motion of a murderous thought;

And you have slander’d nature in my form, 256

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. John.

Doth Arthur live? O! haste thee to the peers, 260

Throw this report on their incensed rage,

And make them tame to their obedience.

Forgive the comment that my passion made

Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, 264

And foul imaginary eyes of blood

Presented thee more hideous than thou art.

O! answer not; but to my closet bring

The angry lords, with all expedient haste. 268

I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before the Castle.

Enter Arthur, on the Walls.

Arth

The wall is high; and yet will I leap down

Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not!

There’s few or none do know me; if they did,

This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me quite. 4

I am afraid; and yet I’ll venture it.

If I get down, and do not break my limbs,

I’ll find a thousand shifts to get away:

As good to die and go, as die and stay. 8

[Leaps down.

O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones:

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

[Dies.

Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords! 21

The king by me requests your presence straight.

Sal.

The king hath dispossess’d himself of us:

We will not line his thin bestained cloak 24

With our pure honours, nor attend the foot

That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks.

Return and tell him so: we know the worst.

Bast.

Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best. 28

Sal.

Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

Bast.

But there is little reason in your grief;

Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.

Pem.

Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

Bast.

’Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else. 33

Sal.

This is the prison.

[Seeing Arthur.

What is he lies here?

Pem.

O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. 36

Sal.

Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Big.

Or when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,

Found it too precious-princely for a grave. 40

Sal.

Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld,

Or have you read, or heard? or could you think?

Or do you almost think, although you see,

That you do see? could thought, without this object, 44

Form such another? This is the very top,

The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,

Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame,

The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, 48

That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage

Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Pem.

All murders past do stand excus’d in this:

And this, so sole and so unmatchable, 52

Shall give a holiness, a purity,

To the yet unbegotten sin of times;

And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,

Exampled by this heinous spectacle. 56

Bast.

It is a damned and a bloody work;

The graceless action of a heavy hand,

If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal.

If that it be the work of any hand! 60

We had a kind of light what would ensue:

It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand;

The practice and the purpose of the king:

From whose obedience I forbid my soul, 64

Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,

And breathing to his breathless excellence

The incense of a vow, a holy vow,

Never to taste the pleasures of the world, 68

Never to be infected with delight,

Nor conversant with ease and idleness,

Till I have set a glory to this hand,

By giving it the worship of revenge. 72

Pem.

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Big.

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Enter Hubert.

Hub.

Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:

Arthur doth live: the king hath sent for you.

Sal.

O! he is bold and blushes not at death.

Avaunt, thou hateful villain! get thee gone. 77

Hub.

I am no villain.

Sal.

[Drawing his sword.] Must I rob the law?

Bast.

Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

Sal.

Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.

Hub.

Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say: 81

By heaven, I think my sword’s as sharp as yours.

I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,

Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; 84

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.

Big.

Out, dunghill! dar’st thou brave a nobleman?

Hub.

Not for my life; but yet I dare defend

My innocent life against an emperor. 89

Sal.

Thou art a murderer.

Hub.

Do not prove me so;

Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks false,

Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. 92

Pem.

Cut him to pieces.

Bast.

Keep the peace, I say.

Sal.

Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.

Bast.

Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, 96

Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,

I’ll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime:

Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron,

That you shall think the devil is come from hell.

Big.

What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? 101

Second a villain and a murderer?

Hub.

Lord Bigot, I am none.

Big.

Who kill’d this prince?

Hub.

’Tis not an hour since I left him well:

I honour’d him, I lov’d him; and will weep 105

If thou didst but consent

To this most cruel act, do but despair;

And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread

That ever spider twisted from her womb 128

Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam

To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself,

Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it shall be as all the ocean, 132

Enough to stifle such a villain up.

I do suspect thee very grievously.

Hub.

If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,

Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath 136

Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,

Let hell want pains enough to torture me.

I left him well.

Bast.

Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way 140

Among the thorns and dangers of this world.

How easy dost thou take all England up!

From forth this morsel of dead royalty,

The life, the right and truth of all this realm 144

Is fled to heaven; and England now is left

To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth

The unow’d interest of proud swelling state.

Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty 148

Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest,

And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:

Now powers from home and discontents at home

Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits,— 152

As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,—

The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

Now happy he whose cloak and ceinture can

Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child

And follow me with speed: I’ll to the king: 157

A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King John, Pandulph with the crown, and Attendants.

K. John.

Thus have I yielded up into your hand

The circle of my glory.

Pand.

[Giving John the crown.] Take again

From this my hand, as holding of the pope,

Your sovereign greatness and authority. 4

K. John.

Now keep your holy word: go meet the French,

And from his holiness use all your power

To stop their marches ’fore we are inflam’d.

Our discontented counties do revolt, 8

Our people quarrel with obedience,

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul

To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.

This inundation of mistemper’d humour 12

Rests by you only to be qualified:

Then pause not; for the present time’s so sick,

That present medicine must be minister’d,

Or overthrow incurable ensues. 16

Pand.

It was my breath that blew this tempest up

Upon your stubborn usage of the pope;

But since you are a gentle convertite,

My tongue shall hush again this storm of war 20

And make fair weather in your blustering land.

On this Ascension-day, remember well,

Upon your oath of service to the pope,

Go I to make the French lay down their arms.

[Exit.

K. John.

Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet 25

Say that before Ascension-day at noon

My crown I should give off? Even so I have:

I did suppose it should be on constraint; 28

But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast.

All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out

But Dover Castle: London hath receiv’d,

Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:

Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone 33

To offer service to your enemy;

And wild amazement hurries up and down

The little number of your doubtful friends. 36

K. John.

Would not my lords return to me again

After they heard young Arthur was alive?

Bast

They found him dead and cast into the streets,

An empty casket, where the jewel of life 40

By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away.

K. John.

That villain Hubert told me he did live.

Bast.

So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.

But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?

Be great in act, as you have been in thought; 45

Let not the world see fear and sad distrust

Govern the motion of a kingly eye:

Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; 48

Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow

Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,

That borrow their behaviours from the great,

Grow great by your example and put on 52

The dauntless spirit of resolution.

Away! and glister like the god of war

When he intendeth to become the field:

Show boldness and aspiring confidence. 56

What! shall they seek the lion in his den

And fright him there? and make him tremble there?

O! let it not be said. Forage, and run

To meet displeasure further from the doors, 60

And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh.

K. John.

The legate of the pope hath been with me,

And I have made a happy peace with him;

And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers 64

Led by the Dauphin.

Bast.

O inglorious league!

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,

Send fair-play orders and make compromise,

Insinuation, parley and base truce 68

To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,

A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields,

And flesh his spirit in a war-like soul,

Mocking the air with colours idly spread, 72

And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms:

Perchance the cardinal cannot make your peace;

Or if he do, let it at least be said

They saw we had a purpose of defence. 76

K. John.

Have thou the ordering of this present time.

Bast.

Away then, with good courage! yet, I know,

Our party may well meet a prouder foe.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Plain, near St. Edmundsbury. The French Camp.

Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot, and Soldiers.

Lew.

My Lord Melun, let this be copied out,

And keep it safe for our remembrance.

Return the precedent to these lords again;

That, having our fair order written down, 4

Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes,

May know wherefore we took the sacrament,

And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal.

Upon our sides it never shall be broken. 8

And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear

A voluntary zeal, an unurg’d faith

To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,

I am not glad that such a sore of time 12

Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt,

And heal the inveterate canker of one wound

By making many. O! it grieves my soul

That I must draw this metal from my side 16

To be a widow-maker! O! and there

Where honourable rescue and defence

Cries out upon the name of Salisbury.

But such is the infection of the time, 20

That, for the health and physic of our right,

We cannot deal but with the very hand

Of stern injustice and confused wrong.

And is’t not pity, O my grieved friends! 24

That we, the sons and children of this isle,

Were born to see so sad an hour as this;

Wherein we step after a stranger march

Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up 28

Her enemies’ ranks,—I must withdraw and weep

Upon the spot of this enforced cause,—

To grace the gentry of a land remote,

And follow unacquainted colours here? 32

What, here? O nation! that thou couldst remove;

That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about,

Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,

And gripple thee unto a pagan shore; 36

Where these two Christian armies might combine

The blood of malice in a vein of league,

And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

Lew.

A noble temper dost thou show in this;

And great affections wrestling in thy bosom 41

Do make an earthquake of nobility.

O! what a noble combat hast thou fought

Between compulsion and a brave respect. 44

Let me wipe off this honourable dew,

That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:

My heart hath melted at a lady’s tears,

Being an ordinary inundation; 48

But this effusion of such manly drops,

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,

Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz’d

Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven 52

Figur’d quite o’er with burning meteors.

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,

And with a great heart heave away this storm:

Commend these waters to those baby eyes 56

That never saw the giant world enrag’d;

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,

Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep 60

Into the purse of rich prosperity

As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all,

That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

Enter Pandulph attended.

And even there, methinks, an angel spake: 64

Look, where the holy legate comes apace,

To give us warrant from the hand of heaven,

And on our actions set the name of right

With holy breath.

Pand.

Hail, noble prince of France! 68

The next is this: King John hath reconcil’d

Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in

That so stood out against the holy church,

The great metropolis and see of Rome. 72

Therefore thy threat’ning colours now wind up,

And tame the savage spirit of wild war,

That, like a lion foster’d up at hand,

It may lie gently at the foot of peace, 76

And be no further harmful than in show.

Lew.

Your grace shall pardon me; I will not back:

I am too high-born to be propertied,

To be a secondary at control, 80

Or useful serving-man and instrument

To any sovereign state throughout the world.

Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars

Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself, 84

And brought in matter that should feed this fire;

And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out

With that same weak wind which enkindled it.

You taught me how to know the face of right, 88

Acquainted me with interest to this land,

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;

And come you now to tell me John hath made

His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? 92

I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,

After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;

And, now it is half-conquer’d, must I back

Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? 96

Am I Rome’s slave? What penny hath Rome borne,

What men provided, what munition sent,

To underprop this action? is’t not I

That undergo this charge? who else but I, 100

And such as to my claim are liable,

Sweat in this business and maintain this war?

Have I not heard these islanders shout out,

Vive le roy! as I have bank’d their towns? 104

Have I not here the best cards for the game

To win this easy match play’d for a crown?

And shall I now give o’er the yielded set?

No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. 108

Pand.

You look but on the outside of this work.

Lew.

Outside or inside, I will not return

Till my attempt so much be glorified

As to my ample hope was promised 112

Before I drew this gallant head of war,

And cull’d these fiery spirits from the world,

To outlook conquest and to win renown

Even in the jaws of danger and of death. 116

[Trumpet sounds.

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

Enter the Bastard, attended.

Bast.

According to the fair play of the world,

Let me have audience; I am sent to speak:

My holy Lord of Milan, from the king 120

I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;

And, as you answer, I do know the scope

And warrant limited unto my tongue.

Pand.

The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,

And will not temporize with my entreaties: 125

He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.

Bast.

By all the blood that ever fury breath’d,

The youth says well. Now hear our English king; 128

For thus his royalty doth speak in me.

He is prepar’d; and reason too he should:

This apish and unmannerly approach,

This harness’d masque and unadvised revel, 132

This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops,

The king doth smile at; and is well prepar’d

To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,

From out the circle of his territories. 136

That hand which had the strength, even at your door,

To cudgel you and make you take the hatch;

To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells;

To crouch in litter of your stable planks: 140

To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks;

To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out

In vaults and prisons; and to thrill and shake,

Even at the crying of your nation’s crow, 144

Thinking this voice an armed Englishman:

Shall that victorious hand be feebled here

That in your chambers gave you chastisement?

No! Know, the gallant monarch is in arms, 148

And like an eagle o’er his aiery towers,

To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb 152

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame:

For your own ladies and pale-visag’d maids

Like Amazons come tripping after drums,

Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, 156

Their neelds to lances, and their gentle hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lew.

There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;

We grant thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;

We hold our time too precious to be spent 161

With such a brabbler.

Pand.

Give me leave to speak.

Bast.

No, I will speak.

Lew.

We will attend to neither.

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war 164

Plead for our interest and our being here.

Bast.

Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;

And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start

An echo with the clamour of thy drum, 168

And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d

That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;

Sound but another, and another shall

As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear 172

And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand,—

Not trusting to this halting legate here,

Whom he hath us’d rather for sport than need,—

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits 176

A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day

To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lew.

Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Bast.

And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

Be of good comfort: for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here,

Are wrack’d three nights ago on Goodwin sands.

This news was brought to Richard but even now.

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. 13

K. John.

Ay me! this tyrant fever burns me up,

And will not let me welcome this good news.

Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;

Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. 17

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Another Part of the Same.

Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, Bigot, and Others.

Sal.

I did not think the king so stor’d with friends.

Pem.

Up once again; put spirit in the French:

If they miscarry we miscarry too.

Sal.

That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. 5

Pem.

They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field.

Enter Melun wounded, and led by Soldiers.

Mel.

Lead me to the revolts of England here.

Sal.

When we were happy we had other names.

Pem.

It is the Count Melun.

Sal.

Wounded to death.

Mel.

Fly, noble English; you are bought and sold;

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again discarded faith. 12

Seek out King John and fall before his feet;

For if the French be lords of this loud day,

He means to recompense the pains you take

By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn,

And I with him, and many moe with me, 17

Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;

Even on that altar where we swore to you

Dear amity and everlasting love. 20

Sal.

May this be possible? may this be true?

Mel.

Have I not hideous death within my view,

Retaining but a quantity of life,

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax 24

Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire?

What in the world should make me now deceive,

Since I must lose the use of all deceit?

Why should I then be false, since it is true 28

That I must die here and live hence by truth?

I say again, if Lewis do win the day,

He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours

Behold another day break in the east: 32

But even this night, whose black contagious breath

Already smokes about the burning crest

Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,

Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire,

Paying the fine of rated treachery 37

Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,

If Lewis by your assistance win the day.

Commend me to one Hubert with your king; 40

The love of him, and this respect besides,

For that my grandsire was an Englishman,

Awakes my conscience to confess all this.

In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence 44

From forth the noise and rumour of the field,

Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts

In peace, and part this body and my soul

With contemplation and devout desires. 48

Sal.

We do believe thee: and beshrew my soul

But I do love the favour and the form

Of this most fair occasion, by the which

We will untread the steps of damned flight, 52

And like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d,

And calmly run on in obedience, 56

Even to our ocean, to our great King John.

My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence,

For I do see the cruel pangs of death

Right in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight;

And happy newness, that intends old right. 61

[Exeunt, leading off Melun.

Scene V.— The Same. The French Camp.

Enter Lewis and his Train.

Lew.

The sun of heaven methought was loath to set,

But stay’d and made the western welkin blush,

When the English measur’d backward their own ground

In faint retire. O! bravely came we off, 4

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night,

And wound our tottering colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it! 8

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lew.

Here: what news?

Mess.

The Count Melun is slain; the English lords,

By his persuasion, are again fall’n off;

And your supply, which you have wish’d so long,

Are cast away and sunk, on Goodwin sands. 13

Lew.

Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart!

I did not think to be so sad to-night

As this hath made me. Who was he that said 16

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Mess.

Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lew.

Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night: 20

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

What’s that to thee? Why may not I demand 4

Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine?

Bast.

Hubert, I think?

Hub.

Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will upon all hazards well believe

Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well. 8

Who art thou?

Bast.

Who thou wilt: and if thou please,

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub.

Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night 12

Have done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent breaking from thy tongue

Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Bast.

Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? 16

Hub.

Why, here walk I in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

Bast

Brief, then; and what’s the news?

Hub.

O! my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. 20

Bast.

Show me the very wound of this ill news:

I am no woman; I’ll not swound at it.

Hub.

The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk:

I left him almost speechless; and broke out 24

To acquaint you with this evil, that you might

The better arm you to the sudden time

Than if you had at leisure known of this.

Bast.

How did he take it? who did taste to him? 28

Hub.

A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king

Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover.

Bast.

Whom didst thou leave to tend his majesty? 32

Hub.

Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,

And brought Prince Henry in their company;

At whose request the king hath pardon’d them,

And they are all about his majesty. 36

Bast.

Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!

I’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; 40

These Lincoln Washes have devoured them:

Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap’d.

Away before! conduct me to the king;

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot.

P. Hen.

It is too late: the life of all his blood

Is touch’d corruptibly; and his pure brain,—

Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house,—

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, 4

Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke.

Pem

His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief

That, being brought into the open air,

It would allay the burning quality 8

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

P. Hen.

Let him be brought into the orchard here.

Doth he still rage?

[Exit Bigot.

Pem.

He is more patient

Than when you left him: even now he sung. 12

P. Hen.

O, vanity of sickness! fierce extremes

In their continuance will not feel themselves.

Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts,

Leaves them invisible; and his siege is now 16

Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds

With many legions of strange fantasies,

Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,

Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing. 20

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest 24

Sal.

Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born

To set a form upon that indigest

Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

Re-enter Bigot and Attendants carrying King John in a chair.

K. John.

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; 28

It would not out at windows, nor at doors.

There is so hot a summer in my bosom

That all my bowels crumble up to dust:

I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen 32

Upon a parchment, and against this fire

Do I shrink up.

P. Hen.

How fares your majesty?

K. John.

Poison’d, ill-fare; dead, forsook, cast off;

And none of you will bid the winter come 36

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;

Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course

Through my burn’d bosom; nor entreat the north

To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips 40

And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much:

I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait

And so ingrateful you deny me that.

P. Hen.

O! that there were some virtue in my tears, 44

That might relieve you.

K John.

The salt in them is hot.

Within me is a hell; and there the poison

Is as a fiend confin’d to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemned blood. 48

Enter the Bastard.

Bast.

O! I am scalded with my violent motion

And spleen of speed to see your majesty.

K. John.

O cousin! thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d, 52

And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail

Are turned to one thread, one little hair;

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,

Which holds but till thy news be uttered; 56

And then all this thou seest is but a clod

And module of confounded royalty.

Bast.

The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where heaven he knows how we shall answer him: 60

For in a night the best part of my power,

As I upon advantage did remove,

Were in the Washes all unwarily

Devoured by the unexpected flood. 64

[The King dies.

Sal.

You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.

My liege! my lord! But now a king, now thus.

P. Hen.

Even so must I run on, and even so stop.

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,

When this was now a king, and now is clay? 69

Bast.

Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind

To do the office for thee of revenge,

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,

As it on earth hath been thy servant still. 73

Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres,

Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths,

And instantly return with me again, 76

To push destruction and perpetual shame

Out of the weak door of our fainting land.

Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought:

The Dauphin rages at our very heels. 80

Sal.

It seems you know not then so much as we.

The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,

Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin,

And brings from him such offers of our peace 84

As we with honour and respect may take,

With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast.

He will the rather do it when he sees

Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. 88

Sal.

Nay, it is in a manner done already;

For many carriages he hath dispatch’d

To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel

To the disposing of the cardinal: 92

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,

If you think meet, this afternoon will post

To consummate this business happily.

Bast

Let it be so. And you, my noble prince,

With other princes that may best be spar’d, 97

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.

P. Hen.

At Worcester must his body be interr’d;

For so he will’d it.

Bast.

Thither shall it then. 100

And happily may your sweet self put on

The lineal state and glory of the land!

To whom, with all submission, on my knee,

I do bequeath my faithful services 104

And true subjection everlastingly.

Sal.

And the like tender of our love we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore.

P. Hen.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, 108

And knows not how to do it but with tears.

Bast.

O! let us pay the time but needful woe

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.

This England never did, nor never shall, 112

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,

But when it first did help to wound itself.

Now these her princes are come home again,

Come the three corners of the world in arms, 116

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,

If England to itself do rest but true.

[Exeunt.

THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Richard the Second.
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, }	Uncles to the King.
Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, }	Uncles to the King.
Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, Son to John of Gaunt: afterwards King Henry IV.
Duke of Aumerle,	Son to the Duke of York.
Thomas Mowbray,	Duke of Norfolk.
Duke of Surrey.
Earl of Salisbury.
Lord Berkeley.
Bushy, }	Servants to King Richard.
Bagot, }
Green, }
Earl of Northumberland.
Henry Percy,	surnamed Hotspur, his Son.
Lord Ross.
Lord Willoughby.
Lord Fitzwater.
Bishop of Carlisle.
Abbot of Westminster.
Lord Marshal.
Sir Pierce of Exton.
Sir Stephen Scroop.
Captain of a Band of Welshmen.
Queen to King Richard.
Duchess of Gloucester.
Duchess of York.
Lady attending on the Queen.
Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Dispersedly in England and Wales.

ACT I.

Re-enter Attendants, with Bolingbroke and Mowbray.

Boling.

Many years of happy days befall 20

My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Mow.

Each day still better other’s happiness;

Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,

Add an immortal title to your crown! 24

K. Rich.

We thank you both: yet one but flatters us,

As well appeareth by the cause you come;

Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.

Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object 28

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.

First,—heaven be the record to my speech!—

In the devotion of a subject’s love,

Tendering the precious safety of my prince, 32

And free from other misbegotten hate,

Come I appellant to this princely presence.

Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,

And mark my greeting well; for what I speak 36

My body shall make good upon this earth,

Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.

Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;

Too good to be so and too bad to live, 40

Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,

The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.

Once more, the more to aggravate the note,

With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat; 44

And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,

What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

Mow.

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:

’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war, 48

The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,

Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;

The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this:

Yet can I not of such tame patience boast 52

As to be hush’d and nought at all to say.

First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me

From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;

Which else would post until it had return’d 56

These terms of treason doubled down his throat.

Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,

And let him be no kinsman to my liege,

I do defy him, and I spit at him; 60

Call him a slanderous coward and a villain:

Which to maintain I would allow him odds,

And meet him, were I tied to run afoot

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 64

Or any other ground inhabitable,

Wherever Englishman durst set his foot.

Meantime let this defend my loyalty:

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. 68

Boling.

Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,

Disclaiming here the kindred of the king;

And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,

Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except: 72

If guilty dread have left thee so much strength

As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop:

By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,

Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, 76

What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Mow.

I take it up; and by that sword I swear,

Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,

I’ll answer thee in any fair degree, 80

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:

And when I mount, alive may I not light,

If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge? 84

It must be great that can inherit us

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.

Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;

That Mowbray hath receiv’d eight thousand nobles 88

In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers,

The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments,

Like a false traitor and injurious villain.

Besides I say and will in battle prove, 92

Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge

That ever was survey’d by English eye,

That all the treasons for these eighteen years

Complotted and contrived in this land, 96

Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.

Further I say and further will maintain

Upon his bad life to make all this good,

That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death,

Suggest his soon believing adversaries, 101

And consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluic’d out his innocent soul through streams of blood:

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries, 104

Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,

To me for justice and rough chastisement;

And, by the glorious worth of my descent,

This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. 108

K. Rich.

How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?

Mow.

O! let my sovereign turn away his face

And bid his ears a little while be deaf, 112

Till I have told this slander of his blood

How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.

Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears:

Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir,—

As he is but my father’s brother’s son,— 117

Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow,

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood

Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize 120

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mow.

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, 124

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais

Disburs’d I duly to his highness’ soldiers;

The other part reserv’d I by consent, 128

For that my sovereign liege was in my debt

Upon remainder of a dear account,

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.

Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death, 132

I slew him not; but to mine own disgrace

Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe, 136

Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;

But ere I last receiv’d the sacrament

I did confess it, and exactly begg’d 140

Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.

This is my fault: as for the rest appeal’d,

It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor; 144

Which in myself I boldly will defend,

And interchangeably hurl down my gage

Upon this overweening traitor’s foot,

To prove myself a loyal gentleman 148

Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom.

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray

Your highness to assign our trial day.

K. Rich.

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d by me; 152

Let’s purge this choler without letting blood:

This we prescribe, though no physician;

Deep malice makes too deep incision:

Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed, 156

Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt.

To be a make-peace shall become my age: 160

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.

K. Rich.

And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt.

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

K. Rich.

Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. 164

Mow.

Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.

My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:

The one my duty owes; but my fair name,—

Despite of death that lives upon my grave,— 168

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have.

I am disgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffled here,

Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood 172

Which breath’d this poison.

K. Rich.

Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.

Mow.

Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, 176

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest 180

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.

Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;

Take honour from me, and my life is done:

Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;

In that I live and for that will I die. 185

K. Rich.

Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.

Boling.

O! God defend my soul from such deep sin.

Shall I seem crest fall’n in my father’s sight, 188

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this out-dar’d dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear 192

The slavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.

[Exit Gaunt.

K. Rich.

We were not born to sue, but to command: 196

Which since we cannot do to make you friends,

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert’s day:

There shall your swords and lances arbitrate 200

The swelling difference of your settled hate:

Since we cannot atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor’s chivalry.

Marshal, command our officers-at-arms 204

Be ready to direct these home alarms.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke of Lancaster’s Palace.

Enter Gaunt and Duchess of Gloucester.

Gaunt.

Alas! the part I had in Woodstock’s blood

Doth more solicit me than your exclaims,

To stir against the butchers of his life.

But since correction lieth in those hands 4

Which made the fault that we cannot correct,

Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;

Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,

Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads. 8

Duch.

Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?

Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one,

Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, 12

Or seven fair branches springing from one root:

Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course,

Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,

One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, 17

One flourishing branch of his most royal root,

Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt;

Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all vaded,

By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. 21

Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,

That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee

Made him a man; and though thou liv’st and breath’st, 24

Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent

In some large measure to thy father’s death

In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,

Who was the model of thy father’s life. 28

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d

Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee: 32

That which in mean men we entitle patience

Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,

The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death.

Gaunt.

God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute, 37

His deputy anointed in his sight,

Hath caus’d his death; the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift 40

An angry arm against his minister.

Duch.

Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt.

To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

Duch.

Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou go’st to Coventry, there to behold 45

Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight:

O! sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear,

That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast. 48

Or if misfortune miss the first career,

Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom

That they may break his foaming courser’s back,

And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 52

A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife

With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt.

Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.

As much good stay with thee as go with me! 57

Duch.

Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:

I take my leave before I have begun, 60

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.

Lo! this is all: nay, yet depart not so;

Though this be all, do not so quickly go; 64

I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what?—

With all good speed at Plashy visit me.

Alack! and what shall good old York there see

But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls, 68

Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?

And what hear there for welcome but my groans?

Therefore commend me; let him not come there,

To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. 72

Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die:

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal and Aumerle.

Mar.

My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?

Aum.

Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.

The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,

Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet. 4

Aum.

Why then, the champions are prepar’d, and stay

For nothing but his majesty’s approach.

Flourish. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his Throne; Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and Others, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within. Then enter Mowbray, in armour, defendant, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.

Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms: 8

Ask him his name, and orderly proceed

To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.

In God’s name, and the king’s, say who thou art,

And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in arms,

Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel. 13

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thine oath:

As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

Mow.

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, 16

Who hither come engaged by my oath,—

Which God defend a knight should violate!—

Both to defend my loyalty and truth

To God, my king, and his succeeding issue, 20

Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;

And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,

To prove him, in defending of myself,

A traitor to my God, my king, and me: 24

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

[He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, appellant, in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.

Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,

Both who he is and why he cometh hither

Thus plated in habiliments of war; 28

And formally, according to our law,

Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.

What is thy name? and wherefore com’st thou hither,

Before King Richard in his royal lists? 32

Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Boling.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, 36

To prove by God’s grace and my body’s valour,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

That he’s a traitor foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me: 40

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Mar.

On pain of death, no person be so bold

Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,

Except the marshal and such officers 44

Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.

Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty:

For Mowbray and myself are like two men 48

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;

Then let us take a ceremonious leave

And loving farewell of our several friends.

Mar.

The appellant in all duty greets your highness, 52

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

K. Rich.

[Descends from his throne.] We will descend and fold him in our arms.

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,

So be thy fortune in this royal fight! 56

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling.

O! let no noble eye profane a tear

For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear. 60

As confident as is the falcon’s flight

Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.

My loving lord, I take my leave of you;

Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; 64

Not sick, although I have to do with death,

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.

Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:

O thou, the earthly author of my blood, 69

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,

Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up

To reach at victory above my head, 72

Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,

And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point,

That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat,

And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt, 76

Even in the lusty haviour of his son.

Gaunt.

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, 80

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque

Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Boling.

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!

[He takes his seat.

Mow.

[Rising.] However God or fortune cast my lot, 85

There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.

Never did captive with a freer heart 88

Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace

His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement,

More than my dancing soul doth celebrate

This feast of battle with mine adversary. 92

Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,

Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.

As gentle and as jocund as to jest,

Go I to fight: truth has a quiet breast. 96

K. Rich.

Farewell, my lord: securely I espy

Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.

Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

[The King and the Lords return to their seats.

Mar.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 100

Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

Boling.

[Rising.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry ‘amen.’

Mar.

[To an Officer.] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

First Her.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 104

Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,

A traitor to his God, his king, and him; 108

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

Sec. Her.

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himself and to approve 112

Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,

To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;

Courageously and with a free desire,

Attending but the signal to begin. 116

Mar.

Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

[A charge sounded.

Stay, stay, the king hath thrown his warderdown.

K. Rich.

Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again: 120

Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound

While we return these dukes what we decree.

[A long flourish.

[To the Combatants.] Draw near,

And list what with our council we have done.

For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d 125

With that dear blood which it hath fostered;

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect

Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ swords; 128

And for we think the eagle-winged pride

Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,

With rival-hating envy, set on you

To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle 132

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;

Which so rous’d up with boist’rous untun’d drums,

With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 136

Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace

And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood:

Therefore, we banish you our territories:

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, 140

Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields,

Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling.

Your will be done: this must my comfort be, 144

That sun that warms you here shall shine on me;

And those his golden beams to you here lent

Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, 148

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:

The sly slow hours shall not determinate

The dateless limit of thy dear exile;

The hopeless word of ‘never to return’ 152

Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mow.

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth:

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 156

As to be cast forth in the common air,

Have I deserved at your highness’ hands.

The language I have learn’d these forty years,

My native English, now I must forego; 160

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more

Than an unstringed viol or a harp,

Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up,

Or, being open, put into his hands 164

That knows no touch to tune the harmony:

Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue,

Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips;

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance 168

Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,

Too far in years to be a pupil now:

What is thy sentence then but speechless death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? 173

K. Rich.

It boots thee not to be compassionate:

After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Mow.

Then, thus I turn me from my country’s light, 176

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

[Retiring.

K. Rich.

Return again, and take an oath with thee.

Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands;

Swear by the duty that you owe to God— 180

Our part therein we banish with yourselves—

To keep the oath that we administer.

You never shall,—so help you truth and God!—

Embrace each other’s love in banishment; 184

Nor never look upon each other’s face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This low’ring tempest of your home-bred hate;

Nor never by advised purpose meet 188

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill

’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.

I swear.

Mow.

And I, to keep all this. 192

Boling.

Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy:—

By this time, had the king permitted us,

One of our souls had wander’d in the air,

Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, 196

As now our flesh is banish’d from this land:

Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;

Since thou hast far to go, bear not along

The clogging burden of a guilty soul. 200

Mow.

No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,

My name be blotted from the book of life,

And I from heaven banish’d as from hence!

But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; 204

And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.

Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;

Save back to England, all the world’s my way.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes 208

I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect

Hath from the number of his banish’d years

Pluck’d four away.—[To Bolingbroke.] Six frozen winters spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

Boling.

How long a time lies in one little word! 213

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs

End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt.

I thank my liege, that in regard of me

He shortens four years of my son’s exile; 217

But little vantage shall I reap thereby:

For, ere the six years that he hath to spend

Can change their moons and bring their times about, 220

My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light

Shall be extinct with age and endless night;

My inch of taper will be burnt and done,

And blindfold death not let me see my son. 224

K. Rich.

Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.

But not a minute, king, that thou canst give:

Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;

Thou canst help time to furrow me with age. 229

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;

Thy word is current with him for my death,

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.

Thy son is banish’d upon good advice, 233

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lower?

Gaunt.

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. 236

You urg’d me as a judge; but I had rather

You would have bid me argue like a father.

O! had it been a stranger, not my child,

To smooth his fault I should have been more mild: 240

A partial slander sought I to avoid,

And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.

Alas! I look’d when some of you should say,

I was too strict to make mine own away; 244

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue

Against my will to do myself this wrong.

K. Rich.

Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:

Six years we banish him, and he shall go. 248

[Flourish. Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Aum.

Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

Mar.

My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,

As far as land will let me, by your side. 252

Gaunt.

O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling.

I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal 256

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage. 264

Gaunt.

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

Boling.

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make 268

Will but remember me what a deal of world

I wander from the jewels that I love.

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood

To foreign passages, and in the end, 272

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else

But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt.

All places that the eye of heaven visits

Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. 276

Teach thy necessity to reason thus;

There is no virtue like necessity.

Think not the king did banish thee,

But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit,

Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 281

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,

And not the king exil’d thee; or suppose

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 284

And thou art flying to a fresher clime.

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it

To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st.

Suppose the singing birds musicians, 288

The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d,

The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more

Than a delightful measure or a dance;

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 292

The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Boling.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 296

By bare imagination of a feast?

Or wallow naked in December snow

By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat?

O, no! the apprehension of the good 300

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:

Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more

Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.

Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way. 304

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Boling.

Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu:

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!

Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, 308

Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the King’s Castle.

Enter King Richard, Bagot, and Green at one door; Aumerle at another.

K. Rich

We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.

I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

But to the next highway, and there I left him. 4

K. Rich.

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.

Faith, none for me; except the northeast wind,

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

Awak’d the sleeping rheum, and so by chance 8

Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.

What said our cousin when you parted with him?

Aum.

‘Farewell:’

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue 12

Should so profane the word, that taught me craft

To counterfeit oppression of such grief

That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s grave.

Marry, would the word ‘farewell’ have lengthen’d hours 16

And added years to his short banishment,

He should have had a volume of farewells;

But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.

He is our cousin, cousin; but ’tis doubt, 20

When time shall call him home from banishment,

Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green

Observ’d his courtship to the common people, 24

How he did seem to dive into their hearts

With humble and familiar courtesy,

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,

Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles

And patient underbearing of his fortune, 29

As ’twere to banish their affects with him.

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;

A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, 32

And had the tribute of his supple knee,

With ‘Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;’

As were our England in reversion his,

And he our subjects’ next degree in hope. 36

Green.

Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.

Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland;

Expedient manage must be made, my liege,

Ere further leisure yield them further means 40

For their advantage and your highness’ loss.

K. Rich.

We will ourself in person to this war.

And, for our coffers with too great a court

And liberal largess are grown somewhat light,

We are enforc’d to farm our royal realm; 45

The revenue whereof shall furnish us

For our affairs in hand. If that come short,

Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;

Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich, 49

They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,

And send them after to supply our wants;

For we will make for Ireland presently. 52

Enter Bushy.

Bushy, what news?

Bushy.

Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,

Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste

To entreat your majesty to visit him. 56

K. Rich.

Where lies he?

Bushy.

At Ely House.

K. Rich.

Now, put it, God. in his physician’s mind

To help him to his grave immediately! 60

The lining of his coffers shall make coats

To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.

Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him:

Pray God we may make haste, and come too late.

All.

Amen.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— London. An Apartment in Ely House.

Gaunt on a couch; the Duke of York and Others standing by him.

Gaunt.

Will the king come, that I may breathe my last

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York.

Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. 4

Gaunt.

O! but they say the tongues of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony:

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. 8

He that no more must say is listen’d more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives before:

The setting sun, and music at the close, 12

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,

Writ in remembrance more than things long past:

Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear,

My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. 16

York.

No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds,

As praises of his state: then there are fond

Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

The open ear of youth doth always listen: 20

Report of fashions in proud Italy,

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation

Limps after in base imitation.

Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,— 24

So it be new there’s no respect how vile,—

That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,

Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. 28

Direct not him whose way himself will choose:

’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspir’d,

And thus expiring do foretell of him: 32

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,

For violent fires soon burn out themselves;

Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;

He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; 36

With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, 40

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war, 44

This happy breed of men, this little world,

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house, 48

Against the envy of less happier lands,

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, 52

Renowned for their deeds as far from home,—

For Christian service and true chivalry,—

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry

Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son: 56

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leas’d out,—I die pronouncing it,—

Like to a tenement, or pelting farm: 60

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,

With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds: 64

That England, that was wont to conquer others,

Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,

How happy then were my ensuing death. 68

Enter King Richard and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross, and Willoughby.

York.

The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;

For young hot colts, being rag’d, do rage the more.

Queen.

How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.

What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt? 72

Gaunt.

O! how that name befits my composition;

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; 75

And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?

For sleeping England long time have I watch’d;

Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.

The pleasure that some fathers feed upon

Is my strict fast, I mean my children’s looks; 80

I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. 92

Gaunt.

Now, he that made me knows I see thee ill;

Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.

Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land

Wherein thou liest in reputation sick: 96

And thou, too careless patient as thou art,

Committ’st thy anointed body to the cure

Of those physicians that first wounded thee:

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, 100

Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;

And yet, incaged in so small a verge,

The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.

O! had thy grandsire, with a prophet’s eye, 104

Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons,

From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,

Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d,

Which art possess’d now to depose thyself. 108

Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,

It were a shame to let this land by lease;

But for thy world enjoying but this land,

Is it not more than shame to shame it so? 112

Landlord of England art thou now, not king:

Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law,

And—

K. Rich.

And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool,

Presuming on an ague’s privilege, 116

Dar’st with thy frozen admonition

Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood

With fury from his native residence.

Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty, 120

Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son,—

This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head

Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.

Gaunt.

O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son, 124

For that I was his father Edward’s son.

That blood already, like the pelican,

Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly carous’d:

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,—

Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!— 129

May be a precedent and witness good

That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood:

Join with the present sickness that I have; 132

And thy unkindness be like crooked age,

To crop at once a too-long wither’d flower.

Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!

These words hereafter thy tormentors be! 136

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:

Love they to live that love and honour have.

[Exit, borne out by his Attendants.

K. Rich.

And let them die that age and sullens have;

For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

York.

I do beseech your majesty, impute his words 141

To wayward sickliness and age in him:

He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear

As Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here. 144

K. Rich.

Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

Enter Northumberland.

North.

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.

What says he? 148

North.

Nay, nothing; all is said:

His tongue is now a stringless instrument;

Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! 152

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.

The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he:

His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.

So much for that. Now for our Irish wars. 156

We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,

Which live like venom where no venom else

But only they have privilege to live.

And for these great affairs do ask some charge,

Towards our assistance we do seize to us 161

The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.

York.

How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long 164

Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,

Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,

Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke 168

About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,

Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,

Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.

I am the last of noble Edward’s sons, 172

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first;

In war was never lion rag’d more fierce,

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,

Than was that young and princely gentleman.

His face thou hast, for even so look’d he, 177

Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours;

But when he frown’d, it was against the French,

And not against his friends; his noble hand 180

Did win what he did spend, and spent not that

Which his triumphant father’s hand had won:

His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,

But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 184

O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.

Why, uncle, what’s the matter?

York.

O! my liege.

Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas’d 188

Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.

Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands

The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?

Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true? 193

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?

Is not his heir a well-deserving son?

Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time

His charters and his customary rights; 197

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;

Be not thyself; for how art thou a king

But by fair sequence and succession? 200

Now, afore God,—God forbid I say true!—

If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,

Call in the letters-patent that he hath

By his attorneys-general to sue 204

His livery, and deny his offer’d homage,

You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,

You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,

And prick my tender patience to those thoughts

Which honour and allegiance cannot think. 209

K. Rich.

Think what you will: we seize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.

I’ll not be by the while: my liege, farewell: 212

What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell;

But by bad courses may be understood

That their events can never fall out good.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight: 216

Bid him repair to us to Ely House

To see this business. To-morrow next

We will for Ireland; and ’tis time, I trow:

And we create, in absence of ourself, 220

Our uncle York lord governor of England;

For he is just, and always lov’d us well.

Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;

Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

[Flourish.

[Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green, and Bagot.

North.

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. 225

Ross.

And living too; for now his son is duke.

Willo.

Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.

Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.

My heart is great; but it must break with silence, 229

Ere’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue.

North.

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Willo.

Tends that thou’dst speak to the Duke of Hereford? 233

If it be so, out with it boldly, man;

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.

No good at all that I can do for him, 236

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.

Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne

In him, a royal prince, and many more 240

Of noble blood in this declining land.

The king is not himself, but basely led

By flatterers; and what they will inform,

Merely in hate, ’gainst any of us all, 244

That will the king severely prosecute

’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.

The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes,

And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin’d 248

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Willo.

And daily new exactions are devis’d;

As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:

But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?

North.

Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not, 253

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achiev’d with blows.

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

Ross.

The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. 257

Willo.

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, 280

That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint, 284

All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Britaine,

With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,

Are making hither with all due expedience,

And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.

Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay 289

The first departing of the king for Ireland.

If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,

Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,

Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown,

Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,

And make high majesty look like itself,

Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh; 296

But if you faint, as fearing to do so,

Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross.

To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Willo.

Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot.

Bushy.

Madam, your majesty is too much sad:

You promis’d, when you parted with the king,

To lay aside life-harming heaviness,

And entertain a cheerful disposition. 4

Queen.

To please the king I did; to please myself

I cannot do it; yet I know no cause

Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,

Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 8

As my sweet Richard: yet, again, methinks,

Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb,

Is coming towards me, and my inward soul 11

With nothing trembles; at some thing it grieves

More than with parting from my lord the king.

Bushy.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,

Which show like grief itself, but are not so.

For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, 16

Divides one thing entire to many objects;

Like perspectives, which rightly gaz’d upon

Show nothing but confusion; ey’d awry

Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty, 20

Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,

Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;

Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows

Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,

More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’s not seen; 25

Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye,

Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Queen.

It may be so; but yet my inward soul

Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be, 29

I cannot but be sad, so heavy sad,

As, though in thinking on no thought I think,

Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.

’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. 33

Queen.

’Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d

From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

For nothing hath begot my something grief; 36

Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:

’Tis in reversion that I do possess;

But what it is, that is not yet known; what

I cannot name; ’tis nameless woe, I wot. 40

Enter Green.

Green.

God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

I hope the king is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.

Queen.

Why hop’st thou so? ’tis better hope he is, 43

For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:

Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d?

Green.

That he, our hope, might have retir’d his power,

And driven into despair an enemy’s hope,

Who strongly hath set footing in this land: 48

The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,

And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d

At Ravenspurgh.

Queen.

Now God in heaven forbid!

Green.

Ah! madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse, 52

The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,

The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,

With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.

Why have you not proclaim’d Northumberland 56

And all the rest of the revolted faction traitors?

Green.

We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester

Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship,

And all the household servants fled with him 60

Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts: 77

Comfort’s in heaven; and we are on the earth,

Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.

Your husband, he is gone to save far off, 80

Whilst others come to make him lose at home:

Here am I left to underprop his land,

Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.

Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;

Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.

My lord, your son was gone before I came.

York.

He was? Why, so! go all which way it will!

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold, 88

And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.

Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;

Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.

Hold, take my ring. 92

Serv.

My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:

To-day, as I came by, I called there;

But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.

What is’t, knave? 96

Serv.

An hour before I came the duchess died.

York.

God for his mercy! what a tide of woes

Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!

I know not what to do: I would to God,— 100

So my untruth had not provok’d him to it,—

The king had cut off my head with my brother’s.

What! are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland?

How shall we do for money for these wars? 104

Come, sister,—cousin, I would say,—pray, pardon me.—

Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts

And bring away the armour that is there.

[Exit Servant.

Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know

How or which way to order these affairs 109

Thus thrust disorderly into my hands,

Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:

The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath

And duty bids defend; the other again 113

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,

Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, 116

I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,

And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.

I should to Plashy too:

But time will not permit. All is uneven, 120

And every thing is left at six and seven.

[Exeunt York and Queen.

Bushy.

The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,

But none returns. For us to levy power

Proportionable to the enemy 124

Is all unpossible.

Green.

Besides, our nearness to the king in love

Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot.

And that’s the wavering commons; for their love 128

Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,

By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.

Wherein the king stands generally condemn’d.

Bagot.

If judgment lie in them, then so do we,

Because we ever have been near the king. 133

Green.

Well, I’ll for refuge straight to Bristol Castle;

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.

Thither will I with you; for little office 136

Will the hateful commons perform for us,

Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.

Will you go along with us?

Bagot.

No; I will to Ireland to his majesty.

Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain, 141

We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.

Bushy.

That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green.

Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes 144

Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry:

Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.

Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.

Bushy.

Well, we may meet again.

Bagot.

I fear me, never. 148

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Wolds in Gloucestershire.

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces.

Boling.

How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

North.

Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways 4

Draw out our miles and make them wearisome;

But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable.

But I bethink me what a weary way 8

From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,

Which, I protest, hath very much beguil’d

The tediousness and process of my travel: 12

But theirs is sweeten’d with the hope to have

The present benefit which I possess;

And hope to joy is little less in joy

Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords 16

Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done

By sight of what I have, your noble company.

Boling.

Of much less value is my company

Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter Henry Percy.

North.

It is my son, young Harry Percy, 21

Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.

Harry, how fares your uncle?

H. Percy.

I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his health of you. 24

North.

Why, is he not with the queen?

H. Percy.

No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office, and dispers’d

The household of the king.

North.

What was his reason? 28

He was not so resolv’d when last we spake together.

H. Percy.

Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,

To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, 32

And sent me over by Berkeley to discover

What power the Duke of York had levied there;

Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurgh.

North.

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy? 36

H. Percy.

No, my good lord; for that is not forgot

Which ne’er I did remember: to my knowledge

I never in my life did look on him.

North.

Then learn to know him now: this is the duke. 40

H. Percy.

My gracious lord, I tender you my service,

Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,

Which elder days shall ripen and confirm

To more approved service and desert. 44

Boling.

I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure

I count myself in nothing else so happy

As in a soul remembering my good friends;

And as my fortune ripens with thy love, 48

It shall be still thy true love’s recompense:

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.

How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir

Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

H. Percy.

There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, 53

Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have heard;

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour;

None else of name and noble estimate. 56

Enter Ross and Willoughby.

North.

Here comes his Grace in person.

My noble uncle!

[Kneels.

York.

Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceivable and false. 84

Boling.

My gracious uncle—

York.

Tut, tut!

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:

I am no traitor’s uncle; and that word ‘grace’

In an ungracious mouth is but profane. 89

Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs

Dar’d once to touch a dust of England’s ground?

But then, more ‘why?’ why have they dar’d to march 92

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

Frighting her pale-fac’d villages with war

And ostentation of despised arms?

Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence?

Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind, 97

And in my loyal bosom lies his power.

Were I but now the lord of such hot youth

As when brave Gaunt thy father, and myself, 100

Rescu’d the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,

From forth the ranks of many thousand French,

O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,

Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee 104

And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.

My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:

On what condition stands it and wherein?

York.

Even in condition of the worst degree,

In gross rebellion and detested treason: 109

Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come

Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign. 112

Boling.

As I was banish’d, I was banish’d Hereford;

But as I come, I come for Lancaster.

And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace

Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye: 116

You are my father, for methinks in you

I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,

Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d

A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties

Pluck’d from my arms perforce and given away

To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?

If that my cousin king be King of England,

It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. 124

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;

Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,

He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,

To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.

I am denied to sue my livery here, 129

And yet my letters-patent give me leave:

My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold,

And these and all are all amiss employ’d. 132

What would you have me do? I am a subject,

And challenge law: attorneys are denied me,

And therefore personally I lay my claim

To my inheritance of free descent. 136

North.

The noble duke hath been too much abus’d.

Ross.

It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

Willo.

Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.

My lords of England, let me tell you this: 140

I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs,

And labour’d all I could to do him right;

But in this kind to come, in braving arms,

Be his own carver and cut out his way, 144

To find out right with wrong, it may not be;

And you that do abet him in this kind

Cherish rebellion and are rebels all.

North.

The noble duke hath sworn his coming is 148

But for his own; and for the right of that

We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;

And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath!

York.

Well, well, I see the issue of these arms: 152

I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,

Because my power is weak and all ill left;

But if I could, by him that gave me life,

I would attach you all and make you stoop 156

Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;

But since I cannot, be it known to you

I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;

Unless you please to enter in the castle 160

And there repose you for this night.

Boling.

An offer, uncle, that we will accept:

But we must win your Grace to go with us

To Bristol Castle; which they say is held 164

By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,

The caterpillars of the commonwealth,

Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

York.

It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause; 168

For I am loath to break our country’s laws.

Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are:

Things past redress are now with me past care.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Camp in Wales.

Enter Salisbury and a Captain.

Cap.

My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten days,

And hardly kept our countrymen together,

And yet we hear no tidings from the king;

Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell. 4

Sal.

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:

The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap.

’Tis thought the king is dead: we will not stay.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d 8

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven,

The pale-fac’d moon looks bloody on the earth

And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change,

Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,

The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, 13

The other to enjoy by rage and war:

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.

Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled, 16

As well assur’d Richard their king is dead.

[Exit.

Sal.

Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind

I see thy glory like a shooting star

Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 20

Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,

Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.

Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,

And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Bristol. Bolingbroke’s Camp.

Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Henry Percy, Willoughby, Ross; Officers behind, with Bushy and Green prisoners.

Boling.

Bring forth these men.

Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls—

Since presently your souls must part your bodies—

With too much urging your pernicious lives, 4

For ’twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood

From off my hands, here in the view of men

I will unfold some causes of your deaths.

You have misled a prince, a royal king, 8

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,

By you unhappied and disfigur’d clean:

You have in manner with your sinful hours

Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, 12

Broke the possession of a royal bed,

And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks

With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.

Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth, 16

Near to the king in blood, and near in love

Till you did make him misinterpret me,

Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries,

And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds,

Eating the bitter bread of banishment; 21

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Dispark’d my parks, and felled my forest woods,

From mine own windows torn my household coat, 24

Raz’d out my impress, leaving me no sign,

Save men’s opinions and my living blood,

To show the world I am a gentleman.

This and much more, much more than twice all this, 28

Condemns you to the death. See them deliver’d over

To execution and the hand of death.

Bushy.

More welcome is the stroke of death to me

Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell.

Green.

My comfort is, that heaven will take our souls 33

And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.

My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch’d.

[Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Bushy and Green.

Uncle, you say the queen is at your house; 36

For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated:

Tell her I send to her my kind commends;

Take special care my greetings be deliver’d.

York.

A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d

With letters of your love to her at large. 41

Boling.

Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,

To fight with Glendower and his complices:

Awhile to work, and after holiday.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view.

Flourish: drams and trumpets. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.

Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

Aum.

Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air,

After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

K. Rich.

Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy 4

To stand upon my kingdom once again.

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,

Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs:

As a long-parted mother with her child 8

Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,

So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,

And do thee favour with my royal hands.

Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, 12

Nor with thy sweets comfort his revenous sense;

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,

And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 16

Which with usurping steps do trample thee.

Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,

Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder 20

Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch

Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.

Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:

This earth shall have a feeling and these stones

Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 25

Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

Car.

Fear not, my lord: that power that made you king

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. 28

The means that heaven yields must be embrac’d,

And not neglected; else, if heaven would,

And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse,

The proffer’d means of succour and redress. 32

Aum.

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,

Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

K. Rich.

Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not 36

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid

Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,

In murders and in outrage bloody here; 40

But when, from under this terrestrial ball

He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines

And darts his light through every guilty hole,

Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, 44

The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,

Who all this while hath revell’d in the night 48

Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,

Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,

His treasons will sit blushing in his face,

Not able to endure the sight of day, 52

But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose 56

The deputy elected by the Lord.

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay 60

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

Enter Salisbury.

Welcome, my lord: how far off lies your power?

Sal.

Nor near nor further off, my gracious lord, 64

Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.

One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. 68

O! call back yesterday, bid time return,

And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men:

To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late,

O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; 72

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled.

Aum.

Comfort, my liege! why looks your Grace so pale?

K. Rich.

But now, the blood of twenty thousand men 76

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;

And till so much blood thither come again

Have I not reason to look pale and dead?

All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; 80

For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.

Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.

K. Rich.

I had forgot myself. Am I not king?

Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleepest. 84

Is not the king’s name twenty thousand names?

Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes

At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,

Ye favourites of a king: are we not high? 88

High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York

Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?

Enter Sir Stephen Scroop.

Scroop.

More health and happiness betide my liege

Than can my care-tun’d tongue deliver him! 92

K. Rich.

Mine ear is open and my heart prepar’d:

The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.

Say, is my kingdom lost? why, ’twas my care;

And what loss is it to be rid of care? 96

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?

Greater he shall not be: if he serve God

We’ll serve him too, and be his fellow so:

Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; 100

They break their faith to God as well as us:

Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Scroop.

Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d 104

To bear the tidings of calamity.

Like an unseasonable stormy day

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,

As if the world were all dissolv’d to tears, 108

So high above his limits swells the rage

Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land

With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.

White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps 112

Against thy majesty; and boys, with women’s voices,

Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints

In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown;

Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows 116

Of double-fatal yew against thy state;

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills

Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,

And all goes worse than I have power to tell. 120

K. Rich.

Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill.

Where is the duke my father with his power?

K. Rich.

No matter where. Of comfort no man speak: 144

Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;

Let’s choose executors and talk of wills: 148

And yet not so—for what can we bequeath

Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s,

And nothing can we call our own but death, 152

And that small model of the barren earth

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.

For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings: 156

How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,

Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;

All murder’d: for within the hollow crown 160

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits,

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;

Allowing him a breath, a little scene, 164

To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks,

Infusing him with self and vain conceit

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and humour’d thus

Comes at the last, and with a little pin 169

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence: throw away respect, 172

Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,

For you have but mistook me all this while:

I live with bread like you, feel want,

Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, 176

How can you say to me I am a king?

Car.

My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes,

But presently prevent the ways to wail.

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,

Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe,

And so your follies fight against yourself.

Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight:

And fight and die is death destroying death; 184

Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

Aum.

My father hath a power; inquire of him

And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.

Thou chid’st me well. Proud Boling broke, I come 188

To change blows with thee for our day of doom.

This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;

An easy task it is, to win our own.—

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?

Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

Scroop.

Men judge by the complexion of the sky

The state and inclination of the day;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye, 196

My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.

I play the torturer, by small and small

To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.

Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke, 200

And all your northern castles yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen in arms

Upon his party.

K. Rich.

Thou hast said enough.

[To Aumerle.] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth 204

Of that sweet way I was in to despair!

What say you now? What comfort have we now?

By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly

That bids me be of comfort any more. 208

Go to Flint Castle: there I’ll pine away;

A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey.

That power I have, discharge; and let them go

To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,

For I have none: let no man speak again 213

To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.

My liege, one word.

K. Rich.

He does me double wrong,

That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.

Discharge my followers: let them hence away,

From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Wales. Before Flint Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; York, Northumberland, and Others.

Boling.

So that by this intelligence we learn

The Welshmen are dispers’d and Salisbury

Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed

With some few private friends upon this coast. 4

North.

The news is very fair and good, my lord:

Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

York.

It would beseem the Lord Northumberland

To say, ‘King Richard:’ alack the heavy day 8

When such a sacred king should hide his head!

North.

Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief

Left I his title out.

York.

The time hath been,

Would you have been so brief with him, he would 12

Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,

For taking so the head, your whole head’s length.

Boling.

Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

York.

Take not, good cousin, further than you should, 16

Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our heads.

Boling.

I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself

Against their will. But who comes here?

Enter Henry Percy.

Welcome, Harry: what, will not this castle yield? 20

H. Percy.

The castle royally is mann’d, my lord,

Against thy entrance.

Boling.

Royally!

Why, it contains no king?

H. Percy.

Yes, my good lord, 24

It doth contain a king: King Richard lies

Within the limits of yon lime and stone;

And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,

Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman 28

Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

North.

O! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Boling.

[To North.] Noble lord,

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle, 32

Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley

Into his ruin’d ears, and thus deliver:

Henry Bolingbroke

On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand,

And sends allegiance and true faith of heart 37

To his most royal person; hither come

Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,

Provided that my banishment repeal’d, 40

And lands restor’d again be freely granted.

If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power,

And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood

Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen: 44

The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke

It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench

The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land,

My stooping duty tenderly shall show. 48

Go, signify as much, while here we march

Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.

Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum,

That from the castle’s totter’d battlements 52

Our fair appointments may be well perus’d.

Methinks King Richard and myself should meet

With no less terror than the elements

Of fire and water, when their thundering shock

At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.

Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water:

The rage be his, while on the earth I rain

My waters; on the earth, and not on him. 60

March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

A Parley sounded, and answered by a Trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the Walls King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop, and Salisbury.

H. Percy.

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,

As doth the blushing discontented sun

From out the fiery portal of the east, 64

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent

To dim his glory and to stain the track

Of his bright passage to the occident.

York.

Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye,

As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth 69

Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe,

That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.

[To Northumberland.] We are amaz’d; and thus long have we stood 72

To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,

Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:

And if we be, how dare thy joints forget

To pay their awful duty to our presence? 76

If we be not, show us the hand of God

That hath dismiss’d us from our stewardship;

For well we know, no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, 80

Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.

And though you think that all, as you have done,

Have torn their souls by turning them from us,

And we are barren and bereft of friends; 84

Yet know, my master, God omnipotent,

Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf

Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike

Your children yet unborn and unbegot, 88

That lift your vassal hands against my head

And threat the glory of my precious crown.

Tell Bolingbroke,—for yond methinks he is,—

That every stride he makes upon my land 92

Is dangerous treason: he is come to open

The purple testament of bleeding war;

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,

Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons 96

Shall ill become the flower of England’s face,

Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace

To scarlet indignation, and bedew

Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood.

North.

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king 101

Should so with civil and uncivil arms

Be rush’d upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;

And by the honourable tomb he swears, 105

That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones,

And by the royalties of both your bloods,

Currents that spring from one most gracious head, 108

And by the buried hand of war-like Gaunt,

And by the worth and honour of himself,

Comprising all that may be sworn or said,

His coming hither hath no further scope 112

Than for his lineal royalties and to beg

Enfranchisement immediate on his knees:

Which on thy royal party granted once,

His glittering arms he will commend to rust, 116

His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart

To faithful service of your majesty.

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;

And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him. 120

K. Rich.

Northumberland, say, thus the king returns:

His noble cousin is right welcome hither;

And all the number of his fair demands

Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction: 124

With all the gracious utterance thou hast

Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.

[Northumberland retires to Bolingbroke.

[To Aumerle.] We do debase ourself, cousin, do we not,

To look so poorly and to speak so fair? 128

Shall we call back Northumberland and send

Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Aum.

No, good my lord; let’s fight with gentle words,

Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords. 132

K. Rich.

O God! O God! that e’er this tongue of mine,

That laid the sentence of dread banishment

On yond proud man, should take it off again

With words of sooth. O! that I were as great

As is my grief, or lesser than my name, 137

Or that I could forget what I have been,

Or not remember what I must be now.

Swell’st thou, proud heart? I’ll give thee scope to beat, 140

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.

Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.

What must the king do now? Must he submit?

The king shall do it: must he be depos’d? 144

The king shall be contented: must he lose

The name of king? o’ God’s name, let it go:

I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, 148

My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,

My figur’d goblets for a dish of wood,

My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff,

My subjects for a pair of carved saints, 152

And my large kingdom for a little grave,

A little little grave, an obscure grave;

Or I’ll be buried in the king’s highway,

Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet

May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head;

For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;

And buried once, why not upon my head? 159

Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted cousin!

We’ll make foul weather with despised tears;

Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn,

And make a dearth in this revolting land.

Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, 164

And make some pretty match with shedding tears?

As thus; to drop them still upon one place,

Till they have fretted us a pair of graves

Within the earth; and, there inlaid: ‘There lies

Two kinsmen digg’d their graves with weeping eyes.’ 169

Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see

I talk but idly and you laugh at me.

Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,

What says King Bolingbroke? will his majesty

Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?

You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

North.

My lord, in the base court he doth attend 176

To speak with you; may’t please you to come down?

K. Rich.

Down, down, I come; like glistering Phaethon,

Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, 180

To come at traitors’ calls and do them grace.

In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!

For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.

[Exeunt from above.

Boling.

What says his majesty?

North.

Sorrow and grief of heart 184

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:

Yet he is come.

Well you deserve: they well deserve to have 200

That know the strong’st and surest way to get.

Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes;

Tears show their love, but want their remedies.

Cousin, I am too young to be your father, 204

Though you are old enough to be my heir.

What you will have I’ll give, and willing too;

For do we must what force will have us do.

Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so? 208

Boling.

Yea, my good lord.

K. Rich.

Then I must not say no.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Langley. The Duke of York’s Garden.

Enter the Queen and two Ladies.

Queen.

What sport shall we devise here in this garden,

To drive away the heavy thought of care?

First Lady.

Madam, we’ll play at bowls.

Queen.

’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs; 4

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy: 16

For what I have I need not to repeat,

And what I want it boots not to complain.

First Lady.

Madam, I’ll sing.

Queen.

’Tis well that thou hast cause;

But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep. 20

First Lady.

I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

Queen.

And I could sing would weeping do me good,

And never borrow any tear of thee.

But stay, here come the gardeners: 24

Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.

My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

They’ll talk of state; for every one doth so

Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. 28

[Queen and Ladies retire.

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

Gard.

Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,

Which, like unruly children, make their sire

Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:

Give some supportance to the bending twigs. 32

Go thou, and like an executioner,

Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays,

That look too lofty in our commonwealth:

All must be even in our government. 36

You thus employ’d, I will go root away

The noisome weeds, that without profit suck

The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

First Serv.

Why should we in the compass of a pale 40

Keep law and form and due proportion,

Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,

When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,

Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok’d up, 44

Her fruit-trees all unprun’d, her hedges ruin’d,

Her knots disorder’d, and her wholesome herbs

Swarming with caterpillars?

Gard.

Hold thy peace:

He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring 48

Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;

The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,

That seem’d in eating him to hold him up,

Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke; 52

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

First Serv.

What! are they dead?

Gard.

They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seiz’d the wasteful king. O! what pity is it

That he hath not so trimm’d and dress’d his land

As we this garden. We at time of year 57

Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,

Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood,

With too much riches it confound itself: 60

Had he done so to great and growing men,

They might have liv’d to bear and he to taste

Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches

We lop away that bearing boughs may live: 64

Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,

Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

First Serv.

What! think you then the king shall be depos’d?

Gard.

Depress’d he is already, and depos’d

’Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night 69

To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s,

That tell black tidings.

Queen.

O! I am press’d to death through want of speaking.

[Coming forward.

Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, 73

How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?

What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee

To make a second fall of cursed man? 76

Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d?

Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth,

Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how

Cam’st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch. 80

Gard.

Pardon me, madam: little joy have I

To breathe these news, yet what I say is true.

King Richard, he is in the mighty hold

Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh’d:

In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, 85

And some few vanities that make him light;

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,

Besides himself, are all the English peers, 88

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

Post you to London and you’ll find it so;

I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen.

Nimble mischance. that art so light of foot, 92

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O! thou think’st

To serve me last, that I may longest keep

Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go, 96

To meet at London London’s king in woe.

What! was I born to this, that my sad look

Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?

Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, 100

Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow.

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies.

Gard.

Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse,

I would my skill were subject to thy curse.

Here did she fall a tear; here, in this place, 104

I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace;

Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,

In the remembrance of a weeping queen.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— London. Westminster Hall.

The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne: the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey, Northumberland, Henry Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. Officers behind with Bagot.

Boling.

Call forth Bagot.

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;

What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death,

Who wrought it with the king, and who perform’d 4

The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot.

Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

Boling.

Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot.

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue 8

Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d.

In that dead time when Gloucester’s death was plotted,

I heard you say, ‘Is not my arm of length,

That reacheth from the restful English court 12

As far as Calais, to my uncle’s head?’

Amongst much other talk, that very time,

I heard you say that you had rather refuse

The offer of a hundred thousand crowns 16

Than Bolingbroke’s return to England;

Adding withal, how blest this land would be

In this your cousin’s death.

Aum.

Princes and noble lords,

What answer shall I make to this base man? 20

Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,

On equal terms to give him chastisement?

Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d

With the attainder of his slanderous lips. 24

There is my gage, the manual seal of death,

That marks thee out for hell: I say thou liest,

And will maintain what thou hast said is false

In thy heart-blood, though being all too base 28

To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling.

Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.

Excepting one, I would he were the best

In all this presence that hath mov’d me so. 32

Fitz.

If that thy valour stand on sympathies,

There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine:

By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand’st,

I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak’st it,

That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s death. 37

If thou deny’st it twenty times, thou liest;

And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,

Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. 40

Aum.

Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz.

Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

Aum.

Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this.

H. Percy.

Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true 44

In this appeal as thou art all unjust;

And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,

Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie 68

In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull.

In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn:

Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st.

Fitz.

How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse! 72

If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,

I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,

And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,

And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith 76

To tie thee to my strong correction.

As I intend to thrive in this new world,

Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:

Besides, I heard the banish’d Norfolk say 80

That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men

To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum.

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage.

That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this, 84

If he may be repeal’d to try his honour.

Boling.

These differences shall all rest under gage

Till Norfolk be repeal’d: repeal’d he shall be,

And though mine enemy, restor’d again 88

To all his lands and signories; when he’s return’d,

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Car.

That honourable day shall ne’er be seen.

Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought 92

For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,

Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross

Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;

And toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself 96

To Italy; and there at Venice gave

His body to that pleasant country’s earth,

And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,

Under whose colours he had fought so long. 100

Boling.

Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Car.

As surely as I live, my lord.

Boling.

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom

Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, 104

Your differences shall all rest under gage

Till we assign you to your days of trial.

Enter York, attended.

York.

Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee

From plume-pluck’d Richard; who with willing soul 108

Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields

To the possession of thy royal hand.

Ascend his throne, descending now from him;

And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

Boling.

In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne. 113

Car.

Marry, God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 116

Would God that any in this noble presence

Were enough noble to be upright judge

Of noble Richard! then, true noblesse would

Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 120

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject?

Thieves are not judg’d but they are by to hear,

Although apparent guilt be seen in them; 124

And shall the figure of God’s majesty,

His captain, steward, deputy elect,

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Be judg’d by subject and inferior breath, 128

And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,

That in a Christian climate souls refin’d

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed.

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 132

Stirr’d up by God thus boldly for his king.

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king;

And if you crown him, let me prophesy, 136

The blood of English shall manure the ground

And future ages groan for this foul act;

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,

And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars 140

Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;

Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d

The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. 144

O! if you rear this house against this house,

It will the woefullest division prove

That ever fell upon this cursed earth.

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, 148

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you ‘woe!’

North.

Well have you argu’d, sir; and, for your pains,

Of capital treason we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge 152

To keep him safely till his day of trial.

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit?

Boling.

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may surrender; so we shall proceed 156

Without suspicion.

York.

I will be his conduct.

[Exit.

Boling.

Lords, you that here are under our arrest,

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.

[To Carlisle.] Little are we beholding to your love, 160

And little look’d for at your helping hands.

Re-enter York, with King Richard, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich.

Alack! why am I sent for to a king

Before I have shook off the regal thoughts

Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d

To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs:

Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me

To this submission. Yet I well remember

The favours of these men: were they not mine? 168

Did they not sometime cry, ‘All haill’ to me?

So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve,

Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.

God save the king! Will no man say, amen? 172

Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.

God save the king! although I be not he;

And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.

To do what service am I sent for hither? 176

York.

To do that office of thine own good will

Which tired majesty did make thee offer,

The resignation of thy state and crown

To Henry Bolingbroke. 180

K. Rich.

Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown;

Here cousin,

On this side my hand and on that side thine.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well 184

That owes two buckets filling one another;

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

Are you contented to resign the crown? 200

K. Rich.

Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.

Now mark me how I will undo myself:

I give this heavy weight from off my head, 204

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;

With mine own tears I wash away my balm,

With mine own hands I give away my crown, 208

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,

With mine own breath release all duteous rites:

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

My manors, rents, revenues, I forego; 212

My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny:

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!

God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev’d,

And thou with all pleas’d, that hast all achiev’d!

Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!

God save King Henry, unking’d Richard says,

And send him many years of sunshine days! 221

What more remains?

North.

[Offering a paper.] No more, but that you read

These accusations and these grievous crimes

Committed by your person and your followers

Against the state and profit of this land; 225

That, by confessing them, the souls of men

May deem that you are worthily depos’d.

K. Rich.

Must I do so? and must I ravel out

My weav’d-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,

If thy offences were upon record,

Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop

To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst, 232

There shouldst thou find one heinous article,

Containing the deposing of a king,

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,

Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of heaven.

Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me, 237

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 240

Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross,

And water cannot wash away your sin.

North.

My lord, dispatch; read o’er these articles.

K. Rich.

Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see: 244

And yet salt water blinds them not so much

But they can see a sort of traitors here.

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,

I find myself a traitor with the rest; 248

For I have given here my soul’s consent

To undeck the pompous body of a king;

Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,

Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant, 252

North.

My lord,—

K. Rich.

No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,

Nor no man’s lord; I have no name, no title,

No, not that name was given me at the font, 256

But ’tis usurp’d: alack the heavy day!

That I have worn so many winters out,

And know not now what name to call myself.

O! that I were a mockery king of snow, 260

Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,

To melt myself away in water-drops.

Good king, great king,—and yet not greatly good,

An if my word be sterling yet in England, 264

Let it command a mirror hither straight,

That it may show me what a face I have,

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Boling.

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

[Exit an Attendant.

North.

Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come. 269

K. Rich.

Fiend! thou torment’st me ere I come to hell.

Boling.

Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.

The commons will not then be satisfied.

K. Rich.

They shall be satisfied: I’ll read enough 273

When I do see the very book indeed

Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.

Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.

Give me the glass, and therein will I read. 276

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck

So many blows upon this face of mine

And made no deeper wounds? O, flattering glass!

Like to my followers in prosperity, 280

Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face

That every day under his household roof

Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face

That like the sun did make beholders wink? 284

Was this the face that fac’d so many follies,

And was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face; 288

[Dashes the glass against the ground.

For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,

How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face.

Boling.

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d 292

The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.

Say that again.

The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let’s see:

’Tis very true, my grief lies all within;

And these external manners of laments 296

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul;

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,

For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st 300

Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way

Go, some of you convey him to the Tower. 316

K. Rich.

O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,

That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.

[Exeunt King Richard and Guard.

Boling.

On Wednesday next we solemnly set down

Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves. 320

[Exeunt all except the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Aumerle.

Abbot.

A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop.

The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.

You holy clergymen, is there no plot

To rid the realm of this pernicious blot? 325

Abbot.

My lord,

Before I freely speak my mind herein,

You shall not only take the sacrament 328

To bury mine intents, but also to effect

Whatever I shall happen to devise.

I see your brows are full of discontent,

Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:

Come home with me to supper; I will lay 333

A plot shall show us all a merry day.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— London. A Street leading to the Tower.

Enter the Queen and Ladies.

Queen.

This way the king will come; this is the way

To Julius Cæsar’s ill-erected tower,

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord

Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. 4

Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth

Have any resting for her true king’s queen.

Enter King Richard and Guard.

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,

My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold, 8

That you in pity may dissolve to dew,

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.

Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand,

Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb,

And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, 13

Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodg’d in thee,

When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich.

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, 16

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,

To think our former state a happy dream;

From which awak’d, the truth of what we are

Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,

To grim Necessity, and he and I 21

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,

And cloister thee in some religious house:

Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, 24

Which our profane hours here have stricken down.

Queen.

What! is my Richard both in shape and mind

Transform’d and weaken’d! Hath Bolingbroke depos’d

Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart? 28

The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage

To be o’erpower’d; and wilt thou, pupil-like,

Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 32

And fawn on rage with base humility,

Which art a lion and a king of beasts?

K. Rich.

A king of beasts indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy king of men. 36

Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France,

Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st,

As from my death-bed, my last living leave.

In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire 40

With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales

Of woeful ages, long ago betid;

And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, 44

And send the hearers weeping to their beds:

For why the senseless brands will sympathize

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

And in compassion weep the fire out; 48

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter Northumberland, attended.

North.

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang’d;

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. 52

And, madam, there is order ta’en for you;

With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich.

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

The time shall not be many hours of age 57

More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head

Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,

Though he divide the realm and give thee half,

It is too little, helping him to all; 61

And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne’er so little urg’d, another way 64

To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

The love of wicked friends converts to fear;

That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both

To worthy danger and deserved death. 68

North.

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.

Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.

Doubly divorc’d! Bad men, ye violate

A two-fold marriage; ’twixt my crown and me,

And then, betwixt me and my married wife. 73

Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me;

And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made.

Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,

Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; 77

My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp,

She came adorned hither like sweet May,

So two, together weeping, make one woe.

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;

Better far off, than near, be ne’er the near. 88

Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.

Queen.

So longest way shall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.

Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart. 92

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,

Since, wedding it, thero is such length in grief.

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. 96

[They kiss.

Queen.

Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part

To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.

[They kiss again.

So, now I have mine own again, be gone,

That I may strive to kill it with a groan. 100

K. Rich.

We make woe wanton with this fond delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke of York’s Palace.

Enter York and his Duchess.

Duch.

My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off,

Of our two cousins coming into London.

York.

Where did I leave?

Duch.

At that sad stop, my lord, 4

Where rude misgovern’d hands, from windows’ tops,

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.

York.

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 8

Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

While all tongues cried, ‘God save thee, Bolingbroke!’

You would have thought the very windows spake, 12

So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes

Upon his visage, and that all the walls

With painted imagery had said at once 16

‘Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!’

Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,

Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed’s neck,

Bespake them thus, ‘I thank you, countrymen:’

And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along. 21

Duch.

Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

York.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage, 24

Are idly bent on him that enters next,

Thinking his prattle to be tedious;

Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes

Did scowl on Richard: no man cried, ‘God save him;’ 28

No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;

But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,

Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,

His face still combating with tears and smiles, 32

The badges of his grief and patience,

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,

And barbarism itself have pitied him. 36

But heaven hath a hand in these events,

To whose high will we bound our calm contents.

To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honour I for aye allow. 40

Duch.

Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.

Aumerle that was;

But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,

And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.

I am in parliament pledge for his truth 44

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter Aumerle.

Duch.

Welcome, my son: who are the violets now

That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Aum.

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not: 48

God knows I had as lief be none as one.

York.

Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,

Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime.

What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs? 52

Aum.

For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York.

York.

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

I fear, I fear,—

Duch.

What should you fear? 64

’Tis nothing but some bond he’s enter’d into

Duch.

Why, what is it, my lord? 76

York.

Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.

Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

[Exit Servant.

Duch.

What’s the matter?

York.

York.

Give me my boots, I say.

Duch.

Why, York, what wilt thou do? 88

Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?

Have we more sons, or are we like to have?

Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?

And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,

And rob me of a happy mother’s name? 93

Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.

Thou fond, mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? 96

A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,

And interchangeably set down their hands,

To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.

He shall be none;

We’ll keep him here: then, what is that to him?

York.

Away, fond woman! were he twenty times 101

My son, I would appeach him.

Duch.

Hadst thou groan’d for him

As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect

That I have been disloyal to thy bed, 105

And that he is a bastard, not thy son:

Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:

He is as like thee as a man may be, 108

Not like to me, nor any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

York.

Make way, unruly woman!

[Exit.

Duch.

After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;

Spur post, and get before him to the king, 112

And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.

I’ll not be long behind; though I be old,

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:

And never will I rise up from the ground 116

Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away! be gone.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Bolingbroke as King; Henry Percy, and other Lords.

Boling.

Can no man tell of my unthrifty son?

’Tis full three months since I did see him last.

If any plague hang over us, ’tis he.

I would to God, my lords, he might be found: 4

Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there,

For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,

With unrestrained loose companions,

Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes 8

And beat our watch and rob our passengers;

While he, young wanton and effeminate boy,

Takes on the point of honour to support

So dissolute a crew. 12

H. Percy.

My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,

And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling.

And what said the gallant?

H. Percy.

His answer was: he would unto the stews, 16

And from the common’st creature pluck a glove,

And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling.

As dissolute as desperate; yet, through both, 20

I see some sparkles of a better hope,

Which elder days may happily bring forth.

But who comes here?

Enter Aumerle.

Aum.

Where is the king?

Boling.

What means

Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?

Aum.

God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty, 26

To have some conference with your Grace alone.

Boling

Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

[Exeunt H. Percy and Lords.

What is the matter with our cousin now? 29

Aum.

[Kneels.] For ever may my knees grow to the earth,

My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,

Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. 32

Boling.

Intended or committed was this fault?

If on the first, how heinous e’er it be,

To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Aum.

Then give me leave that I may turn the key, 36

That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling.

Have thy desire.

[Aumerle locks the door.

York.

[Within.] My liege, beware! look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. 40

Boling.

[Drawing.] Villain, I’ll make thee safe.

Aum.

Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

York.

[Within.] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face? 44

Open the door, or I will break it open.

[Bolingbroke unlocks the door; and afterwards relocks it.

Enter York.

Boling.

What is the matter, uncle? speak;

Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it. 48

York.

Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Aum.

Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise pass’d:

I do repent me; read not my name there; 52

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York.

’Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king;

Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. 56

Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove

A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.

O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!

O loyal father of a treacherous son! 60

Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,

From whence this stream through muddy passages

Hath held his current and defil’d himself!

Thy overflow of good converts to bad, 64

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse

This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York.

So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd,

And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,

As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold. 69

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,

Or my sham’d life in his dishonour lies:

Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath, 72

The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.

Duch.

[Within.] What ho, my liege! for God’s sake let me in.

Boling.

What shrill-voic’d suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duch.

York.

Against them both my true joints bended be.

[Kneels.

Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace!

Duch.

Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face; 100

His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;

His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:

He prays but faintly and would be denied;

We pray with heart and soul and all beside: 104

His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;

Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:

His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;

Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. 108

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have

That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

Boling.

Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.

Nay, do not say ‘stand up;’

But ‘pardon’ first, and afterwards ‘stand up.’

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 113

‘Pardon’ should be the first word of thy speech.

I never long’d to hear a word till now;

Say ‘pardon,’ king; let pity teach thee how: 116

The word is short, but not so short as sweet;

No word like ‘pardon,’ for kings’ mouths so meet.

York.

Speak it in French, king; say, ‘pardonnez moy.’

Duch.

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? 120

Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,

That sett’st the word itself against the word.

Speak ‘pardon’ as ’tis current in our land;

The chopping French we do not understand. 124

Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,

But for our trusty brother-in-law and the abbot,

With all the rest of that consorted crew,

Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.

Good uncle, help to order several powers 140

To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are:

They shall not live within this world, I swear,

But I will have them, if I once know where.

Uncle, farewell: and cousin too, adieu: 144

Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true.

Duch.

Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Room in the Castle.

Enter Exton and a Servant.

Exton.

Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?

‘Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?’

Was it not so?

Serv.

Those were his very words.

Exton.

‘Have I no friend?’ quoth he: he spake it twice, 4

And urg’d it twice together, did he not?

Serv.

He did.

Exton.

And speaking it, he wistly looked on me,

As who should say, ‘I would thou wert the man

That would divorce this terror from my heart;’

Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let’s go:

I am the king’s friend, and will rid his foe.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle.

Enter King Richard.

K. Rich.

I have been studying how I may compare

This prison where I live unto the world:

And for because the world is populous,

And here is not a creature but myself, 4

I cannot do it; yet I’ll hammer it out.

My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul;

My soul the father: and these two beget

A generation of still-breeding thoughts, 8

And these same thoughts people this little world

In humours like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d 12

With scruples, and do set the word itself

Against the word:

As thus, ‘Come, little ones;’ and then again,

‘It is as hard to come as for a camel 16

To thread the postern of a needle’s eye.’

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot

Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails

May tear a passage through the flinty ribs 20

Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;

And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves

That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, 24

Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars

Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,

That many have and others must sit there:

And in this thought they find a kind of ease, 28

Bearing their own misfortune on the back

Of such as have before endur’d the like.

Thus play I in one person many people,

And none contented: sometimes am I king; 32

Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,

And so I am: then crushing penury

Persuades me I was better when a king;

Then am I king’d again; and by and by 36

Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke,

And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be,

Nor I nor any man that but man is

With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas’d 40

With being nothing. Music do I hear?

[Music.

Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is

When time is broke and no proportion kept!

So is it in the music of men’s lives. 44

And here have I the daintiness of ear

To check time broke in a disorder’d string;

But for the concord of my state and time

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. 48

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

For now hath time made me his numbering clock:

My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar

Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, 52

Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.

Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is

Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart

Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans

Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time

Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,

While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock.

This music mads me: let it sound no more; 61

For though it have holp madmen to their wits,

In me it seems it will make wise men mad.

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! 64

For ’tis a sign of love, and love to Richard

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Enter Groom of the Stable.

Groom.

Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich.

Thanks, noble peer;

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. 68

What art thou? and how comest thou hither, man,

Where no man never comes but that sad dog

That brings me food to make misfortune live?

Groom.

I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,

When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York, 73

With much ado at length have gotten leave

To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face.

O! how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld 76

In London streets, that coronation day

When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,

That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,

That horse that I so carefully have dress’d. 80

K. Rich.

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

Groom.

So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.

K. Rich.

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! 84

That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.

Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down,—

Since pride must have a fall,—and break the neck 88

Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,

Since thou, created to be aw’d by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; 92

And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

Spur-gall’d and tir’d by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep.

[To the Groom.] Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

K. Rich.

If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away. 96

Groom.

What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

Help, help, help!

Enter Exton and Servants, armed.

K. Rich.

How now! what means death in this rude assault?

Villain, thine own hand yields thy death’s instrument.

[Snatching a weapon and killing one.

Go thou and fill another room in hell. 108

[He kills another: then Exton strikes him down.

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire

That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand

Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own land.

Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high, 112

Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

[Dies.

Exton.

As full of valour as of royal blood:

Both have I spilt; O! would the deed were good;

For now the devil, that told me I did well, 116

Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.

This dead king to the living king I’ll bear.

Take hence the rest and give them burial here.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

Flourish.

Enter Bolingbroke and York, with Lords and Attendants.

Boling.

Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

Is that the rebels have consum’d with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. 4

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

North.

First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.

The next news is: I have to London sent

The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. 8

The manner of their taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

Boling.

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. 12

Enter Fitzwater.

Fitz.

My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London

The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,

Two of the dangerous consorted traitors

That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. 16

Boling.

Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Henry Percy, with the Bishop of Carlisle.

H. Percy.

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,

With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, 20

Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Boling.

Carlisle, this is your doom: 24

Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,

More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;

So, as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:

For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, 28

High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a coffin

Exton.

Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, 32

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.

Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought

A deed of slander with thy fatal hand

Upon my head and all this famous land. 36

Exton.

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Boling.

They love not poison that do poison need,

Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,

I hate the murderer, love him murdered. 40

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word nor princely favour:

With Cain go wander through the shade of night,

And never show thy head by day nor light. 44

Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:

Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,

And put on sullen black incontinent. 48

I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.

March sadly after; grace my mournings here,

In weeping after this untimely bier.

[Exeunt.

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales, }	Sons to the King.
John of Lancaster, }	Sons to the King.
Earl of Westmoreland.
Sir Walter Blunt.
Thomas Percy,	Earl of Worcester.
Henry Percy,	Earl of Northumberland.
Henry Percy,	surnamed Hotspur, his son.
Edmund Mortimer,	Earl of March.
Richard Scroop,	Archbishop of York.
Archibald,	Earl of Douglas.
Owen Glendower.
Sir Richard Vernon.
Sir John Falstaff.
Sir Michael,	a Friend to the Archbishop of York.
Poins.
Gadshill.
Peto.
Bardolph.
Lady Percy,	Wife to Hotspur, and Sister to Mortimer.
Lady Mortimer,	Daughter to Glendower, and Wife to Mortimer.
Mistress Quickly,	Hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern in Eastcheap.
Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

Scene.—England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. The Palace.

Enter King Henry, Westmoreland, and Others.

K. Hen.

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenc’d in stronds afar remote. 4

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood;

No more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs 8

Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,

Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock 12

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way, and be no more oppos’d

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies: 16

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,—

Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross 20

We are impressed and engag’d to fight,—

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were moulded in their mother’s womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields 24

Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet

Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old, 28

And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go:

Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,

What yesternight our council did decree 32

In forwarding this dear expedience.

West.

My liege, this haste was hot in question,

And many limits of the charge set down

But yesternight; when all athwart there came

A post from Wales loaden with heavy news; 37

Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower, 40

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

And a thousand of his people butchered;

Upon whose dead corpse’ there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation 44

By those Welshwomen done, as may not be

Without much shame re-told or spoken of.

K. Hen.

It seems then that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land. 48

West.

This match’d with other like, my gracious lord;

For more uneven and unwelcome news

Came from the north and thus it did import:

On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there, 52

Young Harry Percy and brave Archibald,

That ever-valiant and approved Scot,

At Holmedon met,

Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour;

As by discharge of their artillery, 57

And shape of likelihood, the news was told;

For he that brought them, in the very heat

And pride of their contention did take horse, 60

Uncertain of the issue any way.

K. Hen.

Here is a dear and true industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,

Stain’d with the variation of each soil 64

Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours;

And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;

Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights, 68

Balk’d in their own blood did Sir Walter see

On Holmedon’s plains: of prisoners Hotspur took

Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son

To beaten Douglas, and the Earls of Athol, 72

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.

And is not this an honourable spoil?

A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

West.

In faith, 76

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

K. Hen.

Yea, there thou mak’st me sad and mak’st me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son, 80

A son who is the theme of honour’s tongue;

Amongst a grove the very straightest plant;

Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride:

Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, 84

See riot and dishonour stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O! that it could be prov’d

That some night-tripping fairy had exchang’d

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, 88

And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet.

Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.

But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz,

Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners, 92

Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d,

To his own use he keeps, and sends me word,

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

West.

This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester, 96

Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Hen.

But I have sent for him to answer this; 100

And for this cause a while we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we

Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords: 104

But come yourself with speed to us again;

For more is to be said and to be done

Than out of anger can be uttered.

West.

Prince.

I know you all, and will awhile uphold 217

The unyok’d humour of your idleness:

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world, 221

That when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. 225

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work;

But when they seldom come, they wish’d for come,

And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 229

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am 232

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;

And like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glittering o’er my fault,

Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set it off. 237

I’ll so offend to make offence a skill;

Redeeming time when men think least I will.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. The Palace.

Enter King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, and Others.

K. Hen.

My blood hath been too cold and temperate,

Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me; for accordingly

You tread upon my patience: but, be sure, 4

I will from henceforth rather be myself,

Mighty, and to be fear’d, than my condition,

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,

And therefore lost that title of respect 8

Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.

Wor.

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be us’d on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands 12

Have holp to make so portly.

North.

My lord,—

K. Hen.

Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye. 16

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,

And majesty might never yet endure

The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us; when we need

Your use and counsel we shall send for you. 21

[Exit Worcester.

[To Northumberland.] You were about to speak.

North.

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 24

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is deliver’d to your majesty:

Either envy, therefore, or misprision

Is guilty of this fault and not my son. 28

Hot.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners:

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 32

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d,

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home:

He was perfumed like a milliner, 36

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took’t away again;

Who therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talk’d;

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corpse 44

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question’d me; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your majesty’s behalf. 48

I then all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pester’d with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience

Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what, 52

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman

Of guns, and drums, and wounds,—God save the mark!— 56

And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villanous saltpetre should be digg’d 60

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier. 64

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answer’d indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report

Come current for an accusation 68

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Blunt.

The circumstance consider’d, good my lord,

Whatever Harry Percy then had said

To such a person and in such a place, 72

At such a time, with all the rest re-told,

May reasonably die and never rise

To do him wrong, or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now. 76

K. Hen.

Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,

But with proviso and exception,

That we at our own charge shall ransom straight

His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; 80

Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against the great magician, damn’d Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 85

Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we buy treason, and indent with fears,

When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve; 89

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 92

Hot.

Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war: to prove that true

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 96

Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,

When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank,

In single opposition, hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour 100

In changing hardiment with great Glendower.

Three times they breath’d and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 104

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank

Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.

Never did base and rotten policy 108

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;

Nor never could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly:

Then let him not be slander’d with revolt. 112

K. Hen.

Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him:

He never did encounter with Glendower:

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the devil alone 116

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not asham’d? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 120

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,

We license your departure with your son.

Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it. 124

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and Train.

Hot.

An if the devil come and roar for them,

I will not send them: I will after straight

And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,

Albeit I make a hazard of my head. 128

North.

What! drunk with choler? stay, and pause awhile:

Here comes your uncle.

Re-enter Worcester.

Hot.

Speak of Mortimer!

’Zounds! I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy if I do not join with him: 132

In his behalf I’ll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop i’ the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high i’ the air as this unthankful king, 136

As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.

North.

Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.

Wor.

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

Hot.

He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;

And when I urg’d the ransom once again 141

Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale,

And on my face he turn’d an eye of death,

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 144

Wor.

I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim’d

By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

North.

He was; I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy king,— 148

Whose wrongs in us God pardon!—did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he, intercepted, did return

To be depos’d, and shortly murdered. 152

Wor.

And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth

Live scandaliz’d and foully spoken of.

Hot.

But, soft! I pray you, did King Richard then

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer 156

Heir to the crown?

North.

He did; myself did hear it.

Hot.

Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown 160

Upon the head of this forgetful man,

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murd’rous subornation, shall it be,

That you a world of curses undergo, 164

Being the agents, or base second means,

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather?

O! pardon me that I descend so low,

To show the line and the predicament 168

Wherein you range under this subtle king.

Shall it for shame be spoken in these days,

Or fill up chronicles in time to come,

That men of your nobility and power, 172

Did gage them both in’an unjust behalf,

As both of you—God pardon it!—have done,

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,

And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?

And shall it in more shame be further spoken,

That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook off

By him for whom these shames ye underwent?

No; yet time serves wherein you may redeem 180

Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves

Into the good thoughts of the world again;

Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt

Of this proud king, who studies day and night

To answer all the debt he owes to you, 185

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.

Therefore, I say,—

Wor.

Peace, cousin! say no more:

And now I will unclasp a secret book, 188

And to your quick-conceiving discontents

I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

Those same noble Scots 212

That are your prisoners,—

Hot.

I’ll keep them all;

By God, he shall not have a Scot of them:

No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:

I’ll keep them, by this hand.

Wor.

You start away, 216

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hot.

Nay, I will; that’s flat:

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer; 220

But I will find him when he lies asleep,

And in his ear I’ll holla ‘Mortimer!’

Nay,

I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak 224

Nothing but ‘Mortimer,’ and give it him,

To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor.

Hear you, cousin; a word.

Hot.

All studies here I solemnly defy, 228

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke:

And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,

But that I think his father loves him not,

And would be glad he met with some mischance,

I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale. 233

Wor.

Farewell, kinsman: I will talk to you

When you are better temper’d to attend.

North.

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool 236

Art thou to break into this woman’s mood,

Before the game’s afoot thou still lett’st slip.

Hot.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Rochester. An Inn-Yard.

Enter a Carrier, with a lanthorn in his hand.

First Car.

Heigh-ho! An’t be not four by the day I’ll be hanged: Charles’ Wain is over the new chimney, and yet our horse not packed. What, ostler! 4

Ost.

[Within.] Anon, anon.

First Car.

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put a few flocks in the point; the poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all cess. 8

Godsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved. What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear? An ’twere not as good a deed as drink to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged! hast no faith in thee?

Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugs, we’ll call up the gentlemen: they will along with company, for they have great charge.

[Exeunt Carriers.

Gads.

What, ho! chamberlain! 52

Cham.

[Within.] ‘At hand, quoth pick-purse.’

Gads.

That’s even as fair as, ‘at hand, quoth the chamberlain’; for thou variest no more from picking of purses than giving direction doth from labouring; thou layest the plot how. 57

Go to; homo is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. 106

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Road by Gadshill.

Enter the Prince and Poins.

Poins.

Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

Prince.

Stand close. 4

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

Prince.

Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! What a brawling dost thou keep!

Fal.

Where’s Poins, Hal? 8

Prince.

He is walked up to the top of the hill: I’ll go seek him.

Gads.

Stand.

Fal.

So I do, against my will.

Poins.

Prince.

[Aside to Poins.] Ned, where are our disguises?

Poins.

Here, hard by; stand close.

[Exeunt Prince and Poins.

Fal.

Now my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business. 85

Enter Travellers.

First Trav.

Come, neighbour; the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we’ll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs. 88

Thieves.

Stand!

Travellers.

Jesu bless us!

Fal.

Strike; down with them; cut the villains’ throats: ah! whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: down with them; fleece them.

Travellers.

O! we are undone, both we and ours for ever. 96

Fal.

Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No, ye fat chuffs; I would your store were here! On, bacons, on! What! ye knaves, young men must live. You are grand-jurors are ye? We’ll jure ye, i’ faith. 101

[Here they rob and bind them. Exeunt.

Re-enter the Prince and Poins.

Prince.

The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I rob the thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever. 106

Poins.

Stand close; I hear them coming.

Re-enter Thieves.

Fal.

Come, my masters; let us share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring: there’s no more valour in that Poins than in a wild duck. 112

Prince.

Your money!

Poins.

Villains!

[As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them. They all run away; and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs away too, leaving the booty behind.

Prince

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:

The thieves are scatter’d and possess’d with fear

So strongly that they dare not meet each other;

Each takes his fellow for an officer.

Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death

And lards the lean earth as he walks along: 120

Were’t not for laughing I should pity him.

Poins.

How the rogue roar’d!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Hotspur, reading a letter.

But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.

He could be contented; why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears our house: he shows in this he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see some more.

The purpose you undertake is dangerous;— 8

Why, that’s certain: ’tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 12

The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain; the time itself unsorted; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition. 16

Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot and the general course of the action. ’Zounds! an I were now by this rascal, I could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there not besides the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next month, and are they not some of them set forward already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now in very sincerity of fear and cold heart, will he to the king and lay open all our proceedings. O! I could divide myself and go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skim milk with so honourable an action. Hang him! let him tell the king; we are prepared. I will set forward to-night. 40

Enter Lady Percy.

How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.

Lady P.

O, my good lord! why are you thus alone?

For what offence have I this fortnight been

A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed? 44

Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee

Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?

Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

And start so often when thou sitt’st alone? 48

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,

And given my treasures and my rights of thee

To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d, 52

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,

Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed,

Cry, ‘Courage! to the field!’ And thou hast talk’d

Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, 56

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight. 60

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream; 64

And in thy face strange motions have appear’d,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hest. O! what portents are these?

Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, 68

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

Hot.

What, ho!

Enter Servant.

That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O, Esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. 77

As you are toss’d with. In faith, 84

I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will.

I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir

About his title, and hath sent for you

To line his enterprise. But if you go— 88

Hot.

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady P.

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly unto this question that I ask.

In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, 92

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Hot.

Away,

Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,

I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world 96

To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:

We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns,

And pass them current too. God’s me, my horse!

What sayst thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me? 100

Lady P.

Do you not love me? do you not, indeed?

Well, do not, then; for since you love me not,

I will not love myself. Do you not love me?

Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. 104

Hot.

Come, wilt thou see me ride?

And when I am o’ horseback, I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;

I must not have you henceforth question me 108

Whither I go, nor reason whereabout.

Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,

This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.

I know you wise; but yet no further wise 112

Than Harry Percy’s wife: constant you are,

But yet a woman: and for secrecy,

No lady closer; for I well believe

Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know;

And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. 117

Lady P.

How! so far?

Hot.

Not an inch further. But, hark you, Kate;

Whither I go, thither shall you go too; 120

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.

Will this content you, Kate?

Lady P.

Let them alone awhile, and then open the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins! 97

Re-enter Poins.

Poins.

Anon, anon, sir.

Prince.

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door: shall we be merry? 100

Poins.

As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye; what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? come, what’s the issue? 104

Prince.

I am now of all humours that have show’d themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock at midnight. [Francis crosses the stage, with wine.] What’s o’clock, Francis? 110

Fran.

Anon, anon, sir.

[Exit.

Prince.

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is up-stairs and down-stairs; his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, ‘Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.’ ‘O my sweet Harry,’ says she, ‘how many hast thou killed to-day?’ ‘Give my roan horse a drench,’ says he, and answers, ‘Some fourteen,’ an hour after, ‘a trifle, a trifle.’ I prithee call in Falstaff: I’ll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife. ‘Rivo!’ says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow. 127

Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, Peto, and Francis.

Poins.

Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been?

Fal.

Fal.

Faith, and I’ll send him packing.

Prince.

Well, here is my leg.

[Exeunt Mistress Quickly, Francis, and Bardolph.

Re-enter Bardolph, running.

Bard.

O! my lord, my lord, the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

Fal.

[Exeunt all but the Prince and Peto.

Prince.

Call in the sheriff.

Enter Sheriff and Carrier.

Now, master sheriff, what’s your will with me?

Sher.

First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry 564

Hath follow’d certain men unto this house.

Prince.

What men?

Sher.

One of them is well known, my gracious lord,

A gross fat man.

Car.

As fat as butter. 568

Prince.

The man, I do assure you, is not here,

For I myself at this time have employ’d him.

And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee,

That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time, 572

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For anything he shall be charg’d withal:

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

Sher.

I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen 576

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

Prince.

It may be so: if he have robb’d these men,

He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

Sher.

Good night, my noble lord. 580

Prince.

I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Sher.

Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.

[Exeunt Sheriff and Carrier.

Prince.

This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s.

Go, call him forth. 584

Peto.

Falstaff! fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

Prince.

Hark, how hard he fetches breath.

Search his pockets. [He searcheth his pockets, and findeth certain papers.] What hast thou found? 590

Peto.

Nothing but papers, my lord.

Prince.

Let’s see what they be: read them.

Peto.

Item, A capon	2s. 2d.
Item, Sauce	4l.
Item, Sack, two gallons	5s. 8l.
Item, Anchovies and sack after supper	2s. 6l.
Item, Bread	ob.

Prince.

O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we’ll read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day. I’ll to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be honourable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and, I know, his death will be a march of twelve-score. The money shall be paid back again with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning; and so good morrow, Peto. 608

Peto.

Good morrow, good my lord.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower.

Mort.

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Hot.

Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,

Will you sit down? 4

And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it!

I have forgot the map.

Glend.

No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur;

For by that name as oft as Lancaster 8

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with

A rising sigh he wishes you in heaven.

Hot.

And you in hell, as often as he hears

Owen Glendower spoke of. 12

Glend.

I cannot blame him: at my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the earth 16

Shak’d like a coward.

Hot.

Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born. 20

Glend.

I say the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot.

And I say the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glend.

The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble. 24

Hot.

O! then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,

And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth 28

Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d

By the imprisoning of unruly wind

Within her womb; which, for enlargement striving,

Shakes the old beldam earth, and topples down

Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth 33

Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.

Glend.

Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave 36

To tell you once again that at my birth

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds

Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.

These signs have mark’d me extraordinary; 41

And all the courses of my life do show

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipp’d in with the sea 44

That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,

Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman’s son

Can trace me in the tedious ways of art 48

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot.

I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh.

I’ll to dinner.

Mort.

Peace, cousin Percy! you will make him mad. 52

Glend.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hot.

Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

Glend.

Why, I can teach thee, cousin, to command 56

The devil.

Hot.

And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil

By telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil.

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, 60

And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O! while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Mort.

Come, come;

No more of this unprofitable chat. 64

Glend.

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him

Bootless home and weather-beaten back. 68

Hot.

Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?

Glend.

Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order ta’en? 72

Mort.

The archdeacon hath divided it

Into three limits very equally.

England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,

By south and east, is to my part assign’d: 76

All westward, Wales beyond the Severn shore,

And all the fertile land within that bound,

To Owen Glendower: and, dear coz, to you

The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. 80

And our indentures tripartite are drawn,

Which being sealed interchangeably,

A business that this night may execute,

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I 84

And my good Lord of Worcester will set forth

To meet your father and the Scottish power,

As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury.

My father Glendower is not ready yet, 88

Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.

[To Glendower.] Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glend.

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords; 92

And in my conduct shall your ladies come,

From whom you now must steal and take no leave;

For there will be a world of water shed

Upon the parting of your wives and you. 96

Hot.

Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here,

In quantity equals not one of yours:

See how this river comes me cranking in,

And cuts me from the best of all my land 100

A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.

I’ll have the current in this place damm’d up,

And here the smug and silver Trent shall run

In a new channel, fair and evenly: 104

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glend.

Not wind! it shall, it must; you see it doth.

Mort.

Yea, but 108

Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side;

Gelding the opposed continent as much,

As on the other side it takes from you. 112

Wor.

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,

And on this north side win this cape of land;

Glend.

I can speak English, lord, as well as you,

For I was train’d up in the English court;

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty lovely well, 124

And gave the tongue an helpful ornament;

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot.

Marry, and I’m glad of it with all my heart.

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew 128

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers;

I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree;

And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,

Nothing so much as mincing poetry: 133

’Tis like the forc’d gait of a shuffling nag.

Glend.

Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.

Hot.

I do not care: I’ll give thrice so much land 136

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark you me,

I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

Glend.

The moon shines fair, you may away by night: 141

I’ll haste the writer and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence:

I am afraid my daughter will run mad, 144

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

[Exit.

Mort.

Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hot.

I cannot choose: sometimes he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, 149

And of a dragon, and a finless fish,

A clip-wing’d griffin, and a moulten raven,

A couching lion, and a ramping cat, 152

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I’ll tell thee what;

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils’ names 156

That were his lackeys: I cried ‘hum!’ and ‘well, go to.’

But mark’d him not a word. O! he’s as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live

With cheese and garlick in a windmill, far, 161

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort.

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, 164

Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments, valiant as a lion

And wondrous affable, and as bountiful

As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? 168

He holds your temper in a high respect,

And curbs himself even of his natural scope

When you do cross his humour; faith, he does.

I warrant you, that man is not alive 172

Might so have tempted him as you have done,

Without the taste of danger and reproof:

But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

Wor.

In faith, my lord, you are too wilfulblame; 176

And since your coming hither have done enough

To put him quite beside his patience.

You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault:

Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,— 180

And that’s the dearest grace it renders you,—

Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,

Defect of manners, want of government,

Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain: 184

The least of which haunting a nobleman

Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain

Upon the beauty of all parts besides,

Beguiling them of commendation. 188

Hot.

Well, I am school’d; good manners be your speed!

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.

Re-enter Glendower, with the Ladies.

Mort.

This is the deadly spite that angers me,

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. 192

Glend.

My daughter weeps; she will not part with you:

She’ll be a soldier too: she’ll to the wars.

Mort.

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy,

Shall follow in your conduct speedily. 196

[Glendower speaks to Lady Mortimer in Welsh, and she answers him in the same.

Glend.

She’s desperate here; a peevish self-will’d harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon.

[She speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.

Mort.

I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh 200

Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley would I answer thee.

[She speaks again.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine, 204

And that’s a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower, 209

With ravishing division, to her lute.

Glend.

Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

[She speaks again.

Mort.

O! I am ignorance itself in this. 212

Glend.

She bids you

Upon the wanton rushes lay you down

And rest your gentle head upon her lap,

And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,

And on your eye-lids crown the god of sleep, 217

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference between day and night 220

The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team

Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mort.

With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing:

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

Glend.

Do so; 225

And those musicians that shall play to you

Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,

And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend. 228

Hot.

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady P.

Go, ye giddy goose. 232

[Glendower speaks some Welsh words, and music is heard.

Hot.

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;

And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.

Peace! she sings. 248

[A Welsh song sung by Lady Mortimer.

Hot.

Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.

Lady P.

Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot.

Not yours, ‘in good sooth!’ Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker’s wife! Not you, ‘in good sooth;’ and, ‘as true as I live;’ and, ‘as God shall mend me;’ and, ‘as sure as day:’

And giv’st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou never walk’dst further than Finsbury. 256

Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath; and leave ‘in sooth,’

And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,

To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. 260

Come, sing.

Lady P.

I will not sing.

Hot.

’Tis the next way to turn tailor or be red-breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I’ll away within these two hours; and so, come in when ye will.

[Exit.

Glend.

Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go. 268

By this our book is drawn; we will but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

Mort.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, the Prince, and Lords.

K. Hen.

Lords, give us leave; the Prince of Wales and I

Must have some private conference: but be near at hand,

For we shall presently have need of you.

[Exeunt Lords.

I know not whether God will have it so, 4

For some displeasing service I have done,

That, in his secret doom, out of my blood

He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me;

But thou dost in thy passages of life 8

Make me believe that thou art only mark’d

For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven

To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,

Could such inordinate and low desires, 12

Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,

Such barren pleasures, rude society,

As thou art match’d withal and grafted to,

Accompany the greatness of thy blood 16

And hold their level with thy princely heart?

Prince.

So please your majesty, I would I could

Quit all offences with as clear excuse

As well as I am doubtless I can purge 20

Myself of many I am charg’d withal:

Yet such extenuation let me beg,

As, in reproof of many tales devis’d,

Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,

By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wander’d and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission. 28

K. Hen.

God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections, which do hold a wing

Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.

Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost, 32

Which by thy younger brother is supplied,

And art almost an alien to the hearts

Of all the court and princes of my blood.

The hope and expectation of thy time 36

Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man

Prophetically do forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men, 40

So stale and cheap to vulgar company,

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

Had still kept loyal to possession

And left me in reputeless banishment, 44

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir,

But like a comet I was wonder’d at;

That men would tell their children, ‘This is he;’

Others would say, ‘Where? which is Bolingbroke?’ 49

And then I stole all courtesy from heaven,

And dress’d myself in such humility

That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts,

Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,

Even in the presence of the crowned king.

Thus did I keep my person fresh and new;

My presence, like a robe pontifical, 56

Ne’er seen but wonder’d at: and so my state,

Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,

And won by rareness such solemnity.

The skipping king, he ambled up and down 60

With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits,

Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state,

Mingled his royalty with capering fools,

Had his great name profaned with their scorns,

And gave his countenance, against his name, 65

To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative;

Grew a companion to the common streets, 68

Enfeoff’d himself to popularity;

That, being daily swallow’d by men’s eyes,

They surfeited with honey and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little

More than a little is by much too much. 73

So, when he had occasion to be seen,

He was but as the cuckoo is in June,

Heard, not regarded; seen, but with such eyes

As, sick and blunted with community, 77

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; 80

But rather drows’d and hung their eyelids down,

Slept in his face, and render’d such aspect

As cloudy men use to their adversaries,

Being with his presence glutted, gorg’d, and full.

And in that very line, Harry, stand’st thou; 85

For thou hast lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation: not an eye

But is aweary of thy common sight, 88

Save mine, which hath desir’d to see thee more;

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

Prince.

I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord, 92

Be more myself.

K. Hen.

For all the world,

As thou art to this hour was Richard then

When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh;

And even as I was then is Percy now. 96

Now, by my sceptre and my soul to boot,

He hath more worthy interest to the state

Than thou the shadow of succession;

For of no right, nor colour like to right, 100

He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,

Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws,

And, being no more in debt to years than thou,

Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on 104

To bloody battles and to bruising arms.

What never-dying honour hath he got

Against renowned Douglas! whose high deeds,

Whose hot incursions and great name in arms,

Holds from all soldiers chief majority, 109

And military title capital,

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, 112

This infant warrior, in his enterprises

Discomfited great Douglas; ta’en him once,

Enlarged him and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up 116

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,

The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,

Capitulate against us and are up. 120

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?

Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,

Which art my near’st and dearest enemy?

Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,

Base inclination, and the start of spleen, 125

To fight against me under Percy’s pay,

To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate. 128

Prince.

Do not think so; you shall not find it so:

And God forgive them, that so much have sway’d

Your majesty’s good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy’s head, 132

And in the closing of some glorious day

Be bold to tell you that I am your son;

When I will wear a garment all of blood

And stain my favours in a bloody mask, 136

Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it:

And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights,

That this same child of honour and renown,

This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, 140

And your unthought of Harry chance to meet.

For every honour sitting on his helm,—

Would they were multitudes, and on my head

My shames redoubled!—for the time will come

That I shall make this northern youth exchange

His glorious deeds for my indignities.

Percy is but my factor, good my lord,

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; 148

And I will call him to so strict account

That he shall render every glory up,

Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,

Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. 152

This, in the name of God, I promise here:

The which, if he be pleas’d I shall perform,

I do beseech your majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance: 156

If not, the end of life cancels all bands,

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths

Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

K. Hen.

A hundred thousand rebels die in this: 160

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

How now, good Blunt! thy looks are full of speed.

Blunt.

So hath the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word 164

That Douglas and the English rebels met,

The eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury.

A mighty and a fearful head they are,—

If promises be kept on every hand,— 168

As ever offer’d foul play in a state.

K. Hen.

The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day,

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old. 172

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;

On Thursday we ourselves will march: our meeting

Is Bridgenorth; and Harry, you shall march

Through Gloucestershire; by which account, 176

Our business valued, some twelve days hence

Our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.

Our hands are full of business: let’s away;

Advantage feeds him fat while men delay. 180

Fal.

How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup; ’sblood! an he were here, I would cudgel him like a dog, if he would say so. 100

Enter the Prince and Poins marching. Falstaff meets them, playing on his truncheon like a fife.

Fal

How now, lad! is the wind in that door, i’ faith? must we all march?

Bard.

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

Quick.

My lord, I pray you, hear me. 104

Prince.

Bard.

My lord? 216

Prince.

Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,

To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.

Go, Poins, to horse, to horse! for thou and I

Have thirty miles to ride ere dinner-time. 220

Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple-hall

At two o’clock in the afternoon:

There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive

Money and order for their furniture. 224

The land is burning; Percy stands on high;

And either we or they must lower lie.

[Exeunt the Prince, Poins, and Bardolph.

Fal.

Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast; come!

O! I could wish this tavern were my drum. 228

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas.

Hot.

Well said, my noble Scot: if speaking truth

In this fine age were not thought flattery,

Such attribution should the Douglas have,

As not a soldier of this season’s stamp 4

Should go so general current through the world.

By God, I cannot flatter; do defy

The tongues of soothers; but a braver place

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself. 8

Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

Doug.

Thou art the king of honour:

No man so potent breathes upon the ground

But I will beard him.

Hot.

Do so, and ’tis well. 12

Enter a Messenger, with letters.

Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect 28

The very life-blood of our enterprise;

’Tis catching hither, even to our camp,

He writes me here, that inward sickness—

And that his friends by deputation could not 32

So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet

To lay so dangerous and dear a trust

On any soul remov’d but on his own.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement, 36

That with our small conjunction we should on,

To see how fortune is dispos’d to us;

For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,

Because the king is certainly possess’d 40

Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

Wor.

Your father’s sickness is a maim to us.

Hot.

A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off:

And yet, in faith, ’tis not; his present want 44

Seems more than we shall find it. Were it good

To set the exact wealth of all our states

All at one cast? to set so rich a main

On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? 48

It were not good; for therein should we read

The very bottom and the soul of hope,

The very list, the very utmost bound

Of all our fortunes.

Doug.

Faith, and so we should; 52

Where now remains a sweet reversion:

We may boldly spend upon the hope of what

Is to come in:

A comfort of retirement lives in this. 56

Hot.

A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,

If that the devil and mischance look big

Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

Wor.

But yet, I would your father had been here. 60

The quality and hair of our attempt

Brooks no division. It will be thought

By some, that know not why he is away,

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike 64

Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence.

And think how such an apprehension

May turn the tide of fearful faction

And breed a kind of question in our cause; 68

For well you know we of the offering side

Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement,

And stop all sight-holes, every loop from whence

The eye of reason may pry in upon us: 72

This absence of your father’s draws a curtain,

That shows the ignorant a kind of fear

Before not dreamt of.

Hot.

You strain too far.

I rather of his absence make this use: 76

It lends a lustre and more great opinion,

A larger dare to our great enterprise,

Than if the earl were here; for men must think,

If we without his help, can make a head 80

To push against the kingdom, with his help

We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down.

Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

Doug.

As heart can think: there is not such a word 84

Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

Enter Sir Richard Vernon.

Hot.

My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

Ver.

Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,

Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.

Hot.

No harm: what more?

Ver.

And further, I have learn’d,

The king himself in person is set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily, 92

With strong and mighty preparation.

Hot.

He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,

And his comrades, that daff’d the world aside, 96

And bid it pass?

Ver.

All furnish’d, all in arms,

All plum’d like estridges that wing the wind,

Baited like eagles having lately bath’d,

Glittering in golden coats, like images, 100

As full of spirit as the month of May,

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer,

Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 104

His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,

Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury,

And vaulted with such ease into his seat,

As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds,

To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus 109

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Hot.

No more, no more: worse than the sun in March

This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;

They come like sacrifices in their trim, 113

And to the fire-ey’d maid of smoky war

All hot and bleeding will we offer them:

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit 116

Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire

To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh

And yet not ours. Come, let me taste my horse,

Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt 120

Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:

Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,

Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse.

O! that Glendower were come.

Ver.

There is more news: 124

I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along,

He cannot draw his power these fourteen days.

Doug.

That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet.

Wor.

Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. 123

Hot.

What may the king’s whole battle reach unto?

Ver.

To thirty thousand.

Hot.

Forty let it be:

My father and Glendower being both away,

The powers of us may serve so great a day. 132

Come, let us take a muster speedily:

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

Doug.

Talk not of dying: I am out of fear

Of death or death’s hand for this one half year.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A public Road near Coventry.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph.

Fal.

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through: we’ll to Sutton-Co’fil’ to-night.

Bard.

Will you give me money, captain? 4

Fal.

Lay out, lay out.

Bard.

This bottle makes an angel.

Fal.

An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it make twenty, take them all, I’ll answer the coinage. Bid my Lieutenant Peto meet me at the town’s end. 10

Bard.

I will, captain: farewell.

[Exit.

Fal.

You do not counsel well:

You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

Ver

Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,—

And I dare well maintain it with my life,— 9

If well-respected honour bid me on,

I hold as little counsel with weak fear

As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives:

Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle 13

Which of us fears.

Doug.

Yea, or to-night.

Ver.

Content.

Hot.

To-night, say I.

Ver.

Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, 16

Being men of such great leading as you are,

That you foresee not what impediments

Drag back our expedition: certain horse

Of my cousin Vernon’s are not yet come up: 20

Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but to-day;

And now their pride and mettle is asleep,

Their courage with hard labour tame and dull,

That not a horse is half the half of himself. 24

Hot.

So are the horses of the enemy

In general, journey-bated and brought low:

The better part of ours are full of rest.

Wor.

The number of the king exceedeth ours:

For God’s sake, cousin, stay till all come in. 29

[The trumpet sounds a parley.

Enter Sir Walter Blunt.

Blunt.

I come with gracious offers from the king,

If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

Hot.

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God 32

You were of our determination!

Some of us love you well; and even those some

Envy your great deservings and good name,

Because you are not of our quality, 36

But stand against us like an enemy.

Blunt.

And God defend but still I should stand so,

So long as out of limit and true rule

You stand against anointed majesty. 40

But, to my charge. The king hath sent to know

The nature of your griefs, and whereupon

You conjure from the breast of civil peace

Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land 44

Audacious cruelty. If that the king

Have any way your good deserts forgot,—

Which he confesseth to be manifold,—

He bids you name your griefs; and with all speed 48

You shall have your desires with interest,

And pardon absolute for yourself and these

Herein misled by your suggestion.

Hot.

The king is kind; and well we know the king 52

Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.

My father and my uncle and myself

Did give him that same royalty he wears;

And when he was not six-and-twenty strong, 56

Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low,

A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,

My father gave him welcome to the shore;

And when he heard him swear and vow to God

He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, 61

To sue his livery and beg his peace,

With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,

My father, in kind heart and pity mov’d, 64

Swore him assistance and perform’d it too.

Now when the lords and barons of the realm

Perceiv’d Northumberland did lean to him,

The more and less came in with cap and knee;

Met him in boroughs, cities, villages, 69

Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes,

Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths,

Gave him their heirs as pages, follow’d him 72

Even at the heels in golden multitudes.

He presently, as greatness knows itself,

Steps me a little higher than his vow

Made to my father, while his blood was poor, 76

Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh;

And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform

Some certain edicts and some strait decrees

That lie too heavy on the commonwealth, 80

Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep

Over his country’s wrongs; and by this face,

This seeming brow of justice, did he win

The hearts of all that he did angle for; 84

Proceeded further; cut me off the heads

Of all the favourites that the absent king

In deputation left behind him here,

When he was personal in the Irish war. 88

Blunt.

Tut, I came not to hear this.

Hot.

Then to the point.

In short time after, he depos’d the king;

Soon after that, depriv’d him of his life;

And, in the neck of that, task’d the whole state;

To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March— 93

Who is, if every owner were well plac’d,

Indeed his king—to be engag’d in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited; 96

Disgrac’d me in my happy victories;

Sought to entrap me by intelligence;

Rated my uncle from the council-board;

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court; 100

Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong;

And in conclusion drove us to seek out

This head of safety; and withal to pry

Into his title, the which we find 104

Too indirect for long continuance.

Blunt.

Shall I return this answer to the king?

Hot.

Not so, Sir Walter: we’ll withdraw awhile.

Go to the king; and let there be impawn’d 108

Some surety for a safe return again,

And in the morning early shall my uncle

Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.

Blunt.

I would you would accept of grace and love. 112

Hot.

And may be so we shall.

Blunt.

Pray God, you do!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.

The special head of all the land together: 28

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

The noble Westmoreland, and war-like Blunt;

And many moe corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms. 32

Sir M.

Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos’d.

Arch.

I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear;

And, to prevent the worse, Sir Michael, speed:

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king 36

Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,

For he hath heard of our confederacy,

And ’tis but wisdom to make strong against him:

Therefore make haste. I must go write again 40

To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff.

K. Hen.

How bloodily the sun begins to peer

Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale

At his distemperature.

Prince.

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, 4

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

K. Hen.

Then with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 8

[Trumpet sounds.

Enter Worcester and Vernon.

How now, my Lord of Worcester! ’tis not well

That you and I should meet upon such terms

As now we meet. You have deceiv’d our trust,

And made us doff our easy robes of peace, 12

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel:

This is not well, my lord; this is not well.

What say you to it? will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, 16

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhal’d meteor,

A prodigy of fear and a portent 20

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

Wor.

Hear me, my liege.

For mine own part, I could be well content

To entertain the lag-end of my life 24

With quiet hours; for I do protest

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

K. Hen.

You have not sought it! how comes it then?

Fal.

Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.

Prince.

Peace, chewet, peace! 29

Wor.

It pleas’d your majesty to turn your looks

Of favour from myself and all our house;

And yet I must remember you, my lord, 32

We were the first and dearest of your friends.

For you my staff of office did I break

In Richard’s time; and posted day and night

To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, 36

When yet you were in place and in account

Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.

It was myself, my brother, and his son,

That brought you home and boldly did outdare

The dangers of the time. You swore to us, 41

And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,

That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state,

Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right,

The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster. 45

To this we swore our aid: but, in short space

It rain’d down fortune showering on your head,

And such a flood of greatness fell on you, 48

What with our help, what with the absent king,

What with the injuries of a wanton time,

The seeming sufferances that you had borne,

And the contrarious winds that held the king 52

So long in his unlucky Irish wars,

That all in England did repute him dead:

And from this swarm of fair advantages

You took occasion to be quickly woo’d 56

To gripe the general sway into your hand;

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;

And being fed by us you us’d us so

As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, 60

Useth the sparrow: did oppress our nest,

Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk

That even our love durst not come near your sight

For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing 64

We were enforc’d, for safety’s sake, to fly

Out of your sight and raise this present head;

Whereby we stand opposed by such means

As you yourself have forg’d against yourself 68

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.

K. Hen.

These things indeed, you have articulate, 72

Proclaim’d at market-crosses, read in churches,

To face the garment of rebellion

With some fine colour that may please the eye

Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, 76

Which gape and rub the elbow at the news

Of hurlyburly innovation:

And never yet did insurrection want

Such water-colours to impaint his cause; 80

Nor moody beggars, starving for a time

Of pell-mell havoc and confusion.

Prince.

In both our armies there is many a soul

Shall pay full dearly for this encounter, 84

If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,

The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world

In praise of Henry Percy: by my hopes,

This present enterprise set off his head, 88

I do not think a braver gentleman,

More active-valiant or more valiant-young,

More daring or more bold, is now alive

To grace this latter age with noble deeds. 92

For my part, I may speak it to my shame,

I have a truant been to chivalry;

And so I hear he doth account me too;

Yet this before my father’s majesty— 96

I am content that he shall take the odds

Of his great name and estimation,

And will, to save the blood on either side,

Try fortune with him in a single fight. 100

K. Hen.

And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,

Albeit considerations infinite

Do make against it. No, good Worcester, no,

We love our people well; even those we love 104

That are misled upon your cousin’s part;

And, will they take the offer of our grace,

Both he and they and you, yea, every man

Shall be my friend again, and I’ll be his. 108

So tell your cousin, and bring me word

What he will do; but if he will not yield,

Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,

And they shall do their office. So, be gone: 112

We will not now be troubled with reply;

We offer fair, take it advisedly.

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon.

Prince.

It will not be accepted, on my life.

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together 116

Are confident against the world in arms.

K. Hen.

Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;

For, on their answer, will we set on them;

And God befriend us, as our cause is just! 120

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and John of Lancaster.

Fal.

Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.

Prince.

Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.

Fal.

I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well. 126

Prince.

Why, thou owest God a death.

[Exit.

Fal.

’Tis not due yet: I would be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? a word. What is that word, honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. It is insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it: honour is a mere scutcheon; and so ends my catechism. 143

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

Enter Worcester and Vernon.

Wor.

O, no! my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,

The liberal kind offer of the king.

Ver.

’Twere best he did.

Wor.

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be, 4

The king should keep his word in loving us;

He will suspect us still, and find a time

To punish this offence in other faults:

Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes; 8

For treason is but trusted like the fox,

Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d, and lock’d up,

Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.

Look how we can, or sad or merrily, 12

Interpretation will misquote our looks,

And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,

The better cherish’d, still the nearer death.

My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot, 16

It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood;

And an adopted name of privilege,

A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen.

All his offences live upon my head 20

And on his father’s: we did train him on;

And, his corruption being ta’en from us,

We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all.

Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know 24

In any case the offer of the king.

Ver.

Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so.

Here comes your cousin.

Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.

Hot.

My uncle is return’d: deliver up 28

My Lord of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news?

Wor.

The king will bid you battle presently.

Doug.

Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland.

Hot.

Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. 32

Doug.

Marry, and shall, and very willingly.

[Exit.

Wor.

There is no seeming mercy in the king.

Hot.

Did you beg any? God forbid!

Wor.

I told him gently of our grievances, 36

Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,

By now forswearing that he is forsworn:

He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge

With haughty arms this hateful name in us. 40

Re-enter Douglas.

Doug.

Arm, gentlemen! to arms! for I have thrown

A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth,

And Westmoreland, that was engag’d, did bear it;

Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

Wor.

The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the king, 45

And, nephew, challeng’d you to single fight.

Hot.

O! would the quarrel lay upon our heads,

And that no man might draw short breath to-day 48

But I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell me,

How show’d his tasking? seem’d it in contempt?

Ver.

No, by my soul; I never in my life

Did hear a challenge urg’d more modestly, 52

Unless a brother should a brother dare

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.

He gave you all the duties of a man,

Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue,

Spoke your deservings like a chronicle, 57

Making you ever better than his praise,

By still dispraising praise valu’d with you;

And, which became him like a prince indeed, 60

He made a blushing cital of himself,

And chid his truant youth with such a grace

As if he master’d there a double spirit

Of teaching and of learning instantly. 64

There did he pause. But let me tell the world,

If he outlive the envy of this day,

England did never owe so sweet a hope,

So much misconstru’d in his wantonness. 68

Hot.

Cousin, I think thou art enamoured

On his follies: never did I hear

Of any prince so wild a libertine.

But be he as he will, yet once ere night 72

I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm,

That he shall shrink under my courtesy.

Arm, arm, with speed! And, fellows, soldiers, friends,

Better consider what you have to do, 76

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,

Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, here are letters for you.

Hot.

I cannot read them now. 80

O gentlemen! the time of life is short;

To spend that shortness basely were too long,

If life did ride upon a dial’s point,

Still ending at the arrival of an hour. 84

An if we live, we live to tread on kings;

If die, brave death, when princes die with us!

Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair,

When the intent of bearing them is just. 88

Enter another Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, prepare; the king comes on apace.

Hot.

I thank him that he cuts me from my tale,

For I profess not talking. Only this,—

Let each man do his best: and here draw I 92

A sword, whose temper I intend to stain

With the best blood that I can meet withal

In the adventure of this perilous day.

Now, Esperance! Percy! and set on. 96

Sound all the lofty instruments of war,

And by that music let us all embrace;

For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall

A second time do such a courtesy. 100

[The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt.

Scene III.— Between the Camps.

Excursions and Parties fighting. Alarum to the Battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt, meeting.

Blunt.

What is thy name, that in the battle thus

Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek

Upon my head?

Doug.

Know then, my name is Douglas;

And I do haunt thee in the battle thus 4

Because some tell me that thou art a king.

Blunt.

They tell thee true.

Doug.

The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought

Thy likeness; for, instead of thee, King Harry, 8

This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.

Blunt.

I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge 12

Lord Stafford’s death.

[They fight, and Blunt is slain.

Enter Hotspur.

Hot.

O, Douglas! hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,

Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;

I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,

Until I meet the king.

Hot.

Up, and away! 28

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

[Exeunt.

Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt. 53

Prince.

Give it me. What! is it in the case?

Fal.

Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ’tis hot: there’s that will sack a city. 56

[The Prince draws out a bottle of sack.

Prince.

What! is’t a time to jest and dally now?

[Throws it at him, and exit.

Fal.

Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his, willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland.

K. Hen.

I prithee,

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed’st too much.

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.

Lanc.

Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too. 4

Prince.

I beseech your majesty, make up,

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.

K. Hen.

I will do so.

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. 8

West.

Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.

Prince.

Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help:

And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive

The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, 12

Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on,

And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres!

Lanc.

We breathe too long: come, cousin Westmoreland,

Our duty this way lies: for God’s sake, come. 16

[Exeunt John of Lancaster and Westmoreland.

Prince.

By God, thou hast deceiv’d me, Lancaster;

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit:

Before, I lov’d thee as a brother, John;

But now, I do respect thee as my soul. 20

K. Hen.

I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point

With lustier maintenance than I did look for

Of such an ungrown warrior.

Prince.

O! this boy

Lends mettle to us all.

[Exit.

Alarums. Enter Douglas.

Doug.

Another king! they grow like Hydra’s heads: 25

I am the Douglas, fatal to all those

That wear those colours on them: what art thou,

That counterfeit’st the person of a king? 28

K. Hen.

The king himself; who, Douglas, grieves at heart

So many of his shadows thou hast met

And not the very king. I have two boys

Seek Percy and thyself about the field: 32

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily,

I will assay thee; so defend thyself.

Doug.

I fear thou art another counterfeit;

And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king:

But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be,

And thus I win thee.

[They fight. King Henry being in danger, re-enter the Prince.

Prince.

Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again! the spirits 40

Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms:

It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,

Who never promiseth but he means to pay.

[They fight: Douglas flies.

Cheerly, my lord: how fares your Grace? 44

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,

And so hath Clifton: I’ll to Clifton straight.

K. Hen.

Stay, and breathe awhile.

Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion, 48

And show’d thou mak’st some tender of my life,

In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.

Prince.

O God! they did me too much injury

That ever said I hearken’d for your death. 52

If it were so, I might have let alone

The insulting hand of Douglas over you;

Which would have been as speedy in your end

As all the poisonous potions in the world, 56

And sav’d the treacherous labour of your son.

K. Hen.

Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

[Exit.

Enter Hotspur.

Hot.

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

Prince.

Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name. 60

Hot.

My name is Harry Percy.

Prince.

Why, then, I see

A very valiant rebel of that name.

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

To share with me in glory any more: 64

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere;

Nor can one England brook a double reign,

Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.

Hot.

Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come 68

To end the one of us; and would to God

Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!

Prince.

I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee;

And all the budding honours on thy crest 72

I’ll crop, to make a garland for my head.

Hot.

I can no longer brook thy vanities.

[They fight.

Enter Falstaff.

Fal.

Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you. 76

Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is wounded, and falls.

Hot.

O, Harry! thou hast robb’d me of my youth.

I better brook the loss of brittle life

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;

They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh: 80

But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool;

And time, that takes survey of all the world,

Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy,

But that the earthy and cold hand of death 84

Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,

And food for—

[Dies.

Prince.

For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!

Ill-weav’d ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit, 89

A kingdom for it was too small a bound;

But now, two paces of the vilest earth

Is room enough: this earth, that bears thee dead, 92

Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

If thou wert sensible of courtesy,

I should not make so dear a show of zeal:

But let my favours hide thy mangled face, 96

And, even in thy behalf, I’ll thank myself

For doing these fair rites of tenderness.

Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!

Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave, 100

But not remember’d in thy epitaph!

[He spies Falstaff on the ground.

What! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh

Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!

I could have better spar’d a better man. 104

O! I should have a heavy miss of thee

If I were much in love with vanity.

Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,

Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. 108

Embowell’d will I see thee by and by:

Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.

[Exit.

Fal.

[Rising.] Embowelled! if thou embowel me to-day, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too, to-morrow. ’Sblood! ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit: to die, is to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion; in the which better part, I have saved my life. ’Zounds! I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy though he be dead: how, if he should counterfeit too and rise? By my faith I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me: therefore, sirrah [stabbing him], with a new wound in your thigh come you along with me.

[He takes Hotspur on his back.

Re-enter the Prince and John of Lancaster.

Prince.

Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh’d 132

Thy maiden sword.

Lanc.

But, soft! whom have we here?

Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?

Prince.

I did; I saw him dead,

Breathless and bleeding on the ground. 136

Art thou alive? or is it fantasy

That plays upon our eyesight? I prithee, speak;

We will not trust our eyes without our ears:

Thou art not what thou seem’st. 140

Fal.

No, that’s certain; I am not a double man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy [throwing the body down]: if your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.

Prince.

Why, Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead. 147

Fal.

Didst thou? Lord, Lord! how this world is given to lying. I grant you I was down and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads. I’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: if the man were alive and would deny it, ’zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my sword. 157

Lanc.

This is the strangest tale that e’er I heard.

Prince.

This is the strangest fellow, brother John.

Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 161

I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.

[A retreat is sounded.

The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.

Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field,

To see what friends are living, who are dead. 165

[Exeunt the Prince and John of Lancaster.

Fal.

I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I’ll grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman should do.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, the Prince, John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, and Others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.

K. Hen.

Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.

Ill-spirited Worcester! did we not send grace,

Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?

And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary? 4

Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust?

Three knights upon our party slain to-day,

A noble earl and many a creature else

Had been alive this hour, 8

If like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne

Betwixt our armies true intelligence.

Wor.

What I have done my safety urg’d me to;

And I embrace this fortune patiently, 12

Since not to be avoided it falls on me.

K. Hen.

Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon too:

Other offenders we will pause upon.

[Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded.

How goes the field? 16

Prince.

The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw

The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him,

The noble Percy slain, and all his men

Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest; 20

And falling from a hill he was so bruis’d

That the pursuers took him. At my tent

The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace

I may dispose of him.

K. Hen.

With all my heart. 24

Prince.

Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you

This honourable bounty shall belong.

Go to the Douglas, and deliver him

Up to his pleasure, ransomless, and free: 28

His valour shown upon our crests to-day

Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds,

Even in the bosom of our adversaries.

Lanc.

I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, 32

Which I shall give away immediately.

K. Hen.

Then this remains, that we divide our power.

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland

Towards York shall bend you, with your dearest speed, 36

To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,

Who, as we hear, are busily in arms:

Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales,

To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.

Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, 41

Meeting the check of such another day:

And since this business so fair is done,

Let us not leave till all our own be won.

[Exeunt.

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Rumour, the Presenter.
King Henry the Fourth.
Henry, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Henry the Fifth. }	His Sons.
George, Duke of Clarence, }
John of Lancaster, }
Humphrey of Gloucester, }
Earl of Warwick, }	Of the King’s party.
Earl of Westmoreland, }
Earl of Surrey, }
Gower, }
Harcourt, }
Blunt, }
Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.
A Servant of the Chief Justice.
Earl of Northumberland, }	Opposites to the King.
Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York, }
Lord Mowbray, }
Lord Hastings, }
Lord Bardolph, }
Sir John Colevile, }
Travers and Morton,	Retainers of Northumberland.
Sir John Falstaff.
His Page.
Bardolph.
Pistol.
Poins.
Peto.
Shallow and Silence,	Country Justices.
Davy,	Servant to Shallow.
Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bullcalf,	Recruits.
Fang and Snare,	Sheriff’s Officers.
A Porter.
A Dancer, Speaker of the Epilogue.
Lady Northumberland.
Lady Percy.
Mistress Quickly,	Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap.
Doll Tearsheet.
Lords and Attendants; Officers, Soldiers, Messenger, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, &c.

Scene.—England.

INDUCTION.

Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues

Ram.

Open your ears; for which of you will stop

The vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks?

I, from the orient to the drooping west,

Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold 4

The acts commenced on this ball of earth:

Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,

The which in every language I pronounce,

Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. 8

I speak of peace, while covert enmity

Under the smile of safety wounds the world:

And who but Rumour, who but only I,

Make fearful musters and prepar’d defence, 12

Whilst the big year, swoln with some other grief,

Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war,

And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe

Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, 16

And of so easy and so plain a stop

That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,

The still-discordant wavering multitude,

Can play upon it. But what need I thus 20

My well-known body to anatomize

Among my household? Why is Rumour here?

I run before King Harry’s victory;

Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury 24

Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,

Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

Even with the rebels’ blood. But what mean I

To speak so true at first? my office is 28

To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell

Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword,

And that the king before the Douglas’ rage

Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death. 32

This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns

Between the royal field of Shrewsbury

And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,

Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland,

Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on, 37

And not a man of them brings other news

Than they have learn’d of me: from Rumour’s tongues

They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs.

[Exit.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Lord Bardolph.

L. Bard.

Who keeps the gate here? ho!

[The Porter opens the gate.

Where is the earl?

Port.

What shall I say you are?

L. Bard.

Tell thou the earl

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

Port.

His Lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard: 4

Please it your honour knock but at the gate,

And he himself will answer.

Enter Northumberland.

L. Bard.

Here comes the earl.

[Exit Porter.

North.

What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem. 8

The times are wild; contention, like a horse

Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose

And bears down all before him.

L. Bard.

Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. 12

North.

Good, an God will!

L. Bard.

As good as heart can wish.

The king is almost wounded to the death;

And, in the fortune of my lord your son,

Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts 16

Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John

And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field.

And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk Sir John,

Is prisoner to your son: O! such a day, 20

So fought, so follow’d, and so fairly won,

Came not till now to dignify the times

Since Cæsar’s fortunes.

North.

How is this deriv’d?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

L. Bard.

I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence; 25

A gentleman well bred and of good name,

That freely render’d me these news for true.

North.

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent 28

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

L. Bard.

My lord, I over-rode him on the way;

And he is furnish’d with no certainties

More than he haply may retail from me. 32

Enter Travers.

North.

Now, Travers, what good tidings come with you?

Tra.

My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back

With joyful tidings; and, being better hors’d,

Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard 36

A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,

That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse.

He ask’d the way to Chester; and of him

I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. 40

He told me that rebellion had bad luck,

And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold.

With that he gave his able horse the head,

And, bending forward struck his armed heels 44

Against the panting sides of his poor jade

Up to the rowel-head, and, starting so,

He seem’d in running to devour the way,

Staying no longer question.

North.

Ha! Again: 48

Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?

Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

L. Bard.

My lord, I’ll tell you what:

If my young lord your son have not the day, 52

Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I’ll give my barony: never talk of it.

North.

Why should the gentleman that rode by Travers

Give then such instances of loss?

L. Bard.

Who, he? 56

He was some hilding fellow that had stolen

The horse he rode on, and, upon my life,

Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.

Enter Morton.

North.

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf, 60

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood

Hath left a witness’d usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

Mor.

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

To fright our party.

North.

How doth my son and brother?

Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek

Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 69

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, 72

And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d;

But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,

And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it.

This thou wouldst say, ‘Your son did thus and thus; 76

Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas;’

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to stop mine ear indeed,

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, 80

Ending with ‘Brother, son, and all are dead.’

Mor.

Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;

But, for my lord your son,—

North.

Why, he is dead.—

See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! 84

He that but fears the thing he would not know

Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes

That what he fear’d is chanced. Yet speak, Morton:

Tell thou thy earl his divination lies, 88

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

Mor.

You are too great to be by me gainsaid;

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain. 92

North.

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye:

Thou shak’st thy head, and hold’st it fear or sin

To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so; 96

The tongue offends not that reports his death:

And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,

Not he which says the dead is not alive.

Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news 100

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

Remember’d knolling a departing friend.

L. Bard.

I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead. 104

Mor.

I am sorry I should force you to believe

That which I would to God I had not seen;

But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,

Rendering faint quittance, wearied and outbreath’d, 108

To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down

The never-daunted Percy to the earth,

From whence with life he never more sprung up.

In few, his death,—whose spirit lent a fire 112

Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,—

Being bruited once, took fire and heat away

From the best-temper’d courage in his troops;

For from his metal was his party steel’d; 116

Which once in him abated, all the rest

Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead:

And as the thing that’s heavy in itself,

Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, 120

So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss,

Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear

That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim

Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, 124

Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester

Too soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot,

The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword

Had three times slain the appearance of the king, 128

’Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame

Of those that turn’d their backs; and in his flight,

Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all

Is, that the king hath won, and hath sent out

A speedy power to encounter you, my lord, 133

Under the conduct of young Lancaster

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

North.

For this I shall have time enough to mourn. 136

In poison there is physic; and these news,

Having been well, that would have made me sick,

Being sick, have in some measure made me well:

And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints,

Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, 141

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,

Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag’d with grief, 144

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!

A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel

Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly quoif!

Thou art a guard too wanton for the head 148

Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit.

Now bind my brows with iron; and approach

The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring

To frown upon the enrag’d Northumberland! 152

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not nature’s hand

Keep the wild flood confin’d! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a lingering act; 156

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,

And darkness be the burier of the dead! 160

Tra.

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

L. Bard.

Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

Mor.

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er

To stormy passion must perforce decay. 165

You cast the event of war, my noble lord,

And summ’d the account of chance, before you said,

‘Let us make head.’ It was your presurmise 168

That in the dole of blows your son might drop:

You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o’er;

You were advis’d his flesh was capable 172

Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger rang’d:

Yet did you say, ‘Go forth;’ and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain 176

The stiff-borne action: what hath then befallen,

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth,

More than that being which was like to be?

L. Bard.

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventur’d on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought out life ’twas ten to one;

And yet we ventur’d, for the gain propos’d

Chok’d the respect of likely peril fear’d; 184

And since we are o’erset, venture again.

Come, we will all put forth, body and goods.

Mor.

’Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and do speak the truth, 188

The gentle Archbishop of York is up,

With well-appointed powers: he is a man

Who with a double surety binds his followers.

My lord your son had only but the corpse’, 192

But shadows and the shows of men to fight;

For that same word, rebellion, did divide

The action of their bodies from their souls;

And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d,

As men drink potions, that their weapons only

Seem’d on our side: but, for their spirits and souls,

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up,

As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop 200

Turns insurrection to religion:

Suppos’d sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He’s follow’d both with body and with mind,

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood 204

Of fair King Richard, scrap’d from Pomfret stones;

Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;

Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,

Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; 208

And more and less do flock to follow him.

North.

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wip’d it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man 212

The aptest way for safety and revenge:

Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed:

Never so few, and never yet more need.

Scene III.— York. A Room in the Archbishop’s Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York, Lord Hastings, Mowbray, and Bardolph.

Arch.

Thus have you heard our cause and known our means;

And, my most noble friends, I pray you all,

Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes:

And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it? 4

Mowb.

I well allow the occasion of our arms;

But gladly would be better satisfied

How in our means we should advance ourselves

To look with forehead bold and big enough 8

Upon the power and puissance of the king.

Hast.

Our present musters grow upon the file

To five-and-twenty thousand men of choice;

And our supplies live largely in the hope 12

Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns

With an incensed fire of injuries.

L. Bard.

The question, then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:

Whether our present five-and-twenty thousand

May hold up head without Northumberland. 17

Hast.

Which if we find outweighs ability,

What do we then but draw anew the model

In fewer offices, or at last desist

To build at all? Much more, in this great work,—

Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down 49

And set another up,—should we survey

The plot of situation and the model,

Consent upon a sure foundation, 52

Question surveyors, know our own estate,

How able such a work to undergo,

To weigh against his opposite; or else,

We fortify in paper, and in figures, 56

Using the names of men instead of men:

Like one that draws the model of a house

Beyond his power to build it; who, half through,

Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost 60

A naked-subject to the weeping clouds,

And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.

Hast.

Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,

Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d

The utmost man of expectation; 65

I think we are a body strong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the king.

L. Bard.

What! is the king but five-and-twenty thousand? 68

Hast.

To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph.

For his divisions, as the times do brawl,

Are in three heads: one power against the French,

And one against Glendower; perforce, a third 72

Must take up us: so is the unfirm king

In three divided, and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

Arch.

That he should draw his several strengths together 76

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.

Hast.

If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh

Baying him at the heels: never fear that. 80

L. Bard.

Who is it like should lead his forces hither?

Hast.

The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth:

But who is substituted ’gainst the French 84

I have no certain notice.

Arch.

Let us on

And publish the occasion of our arms.

The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;

Their over-greedy love hath surfeited. 88

A habitation giddy and unsure

Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.

O thou fond many! with what loud applause

Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke 92

Before he was what thou wouldst have him be:

And being now trimm’d in thine own desires,

Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him

That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up. 96

So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge

Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard,

And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,

And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times? 100

They that, when Richard liv’d, would have him die,

Are now become enamour’d on his grave:

Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head,

When through proud London he came sighing on 104

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

An I but fist him once; an a’ come but within my vice,—

Quick.

I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he’s an infinitive thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure: good Master Snare, let him not ’scape. A’ comes continuantly to Pie-corner—saving your manhoods—to buy a saddle, and he’s indited to dinner to the Lubber’s Head in Lumbert-Street, to Master Smooth’s the silkman: I pray ye, since my exion is entered, and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne, and borne; and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off, and fubbed off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass, and a beast, to bear every knave’s wrong. Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmseynose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and Master Snare; do me, do me, do me your offices. 47

Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe. 68

Enter the Lord Chief Justice, attended.

Ch. Just.

What is the matter? keep the peace here, ho!

Quick.

Good my lord, be good to me! I beseech you, stand to me! 72

Ch. Just.

How now, Sir John! what! are you brawling here?

No more words; let’s have her.

Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord? 193

Ch. Just.

You shall have letters of me presently.

Come, go along with me, good Master Gower.

Fal

My lord! 196

Ch. Just.

What’s the matter?

Fal.

Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner?

Gow.

I must wait upon my good lord here;

Page.

Marry, my lord, Althea dreamed she was delivered of a firebrand; and therefore I call him her dream. 100

Prince.

A crown’s worth of good interpretation. There it is, boy.

Bard.

I have no tongue, sir.

Page.

And for mine, sir, I will govern it. 180

Prince.

Fare ye well; go. [Exeunt Bardolph and Page.] This Doll Tearsheet should be some road.

Poins.

I warrant you, as common as the way between Saint Alban’s and London. 185

Prince.

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen? 188

Poins.

Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers. 191

Prince.

From a god to a bull! a heavy descension! it was Jove’s case. From a prince to a prentice! a low transformation! that shall be mine; for in every thing the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Warkworth. Before Northumberland’s Castle.

Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland, and Lady Percy.

North.

I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter,

Give even way unto my rough affairs:

Put not you on the visage of the times,

And be like them to Percy troublesome. 4

Lady N.

I have given over, I will speak no more:

Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.

North.

Alas! sweet wife, my honour is at pawn;

And, but my going, nothing can redeem it. 8

Lady P.

O! yet for God’s sake, go not to these wars.

The time was, father, that you broke your word

When you were more endear’d to it than now;

When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry, 12

Threw many a northward look to see his father

Bring up his powers; but he did long in vain.

Who then persuaded you to stay at home?

There were two honours lost, yours and your son’s: 16

For yours, the God of heaven brighten it!

For his, it stuck upon him as the sun

In the grey vault of heaven; and by his light

Did all the chivalry of England move 20

To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass

Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves:

He had no legs, that practis’d not his gait;

And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, 24

Became the accents of the valiant;

For those that could speak low and tardily,

Would turn their own perfection to abuse,

To seem like him: so that, in speech, in gait, 28

In diet, in affections of delight,

In military rules, humours of blood,

He was the mark and glass, copy and book,

That fashion’d others. And him, O wondrous him! 32

O miracle of men! him did you leave,—

Second to none, unseconded by you,—

To look upon the hideous god of war

In disadvantage; to abide a field 36

Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s name

Did seem defensible: so you left him.

Never, O! never, do his ghost the wrong

To hold your honour more precise and nice 40

With others than with him: let them alone.

The marshal and the archbishop are strong:

Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,

To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur’s neck, 44

Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.

North.

Beshrew your heart,

Fair daughter! you do draw my spirits from me

With new lamenting ancient oversights.

But I must go and meet with danger there, 48

Or it will seek me in another place,

And find me worse provided.

Lady N.

O! fly to Scotland,

Till that the nobles and the armed commons

Have of their puissance made a little taste. 52

Lady P.

If they get ground and vantage of the king,

Then join you with them, like a rib of steel,

To make strength stronger; but, for all our loves,

First let them try themselves. So did your son; 56

He was so suffer’d: so came I a widow;

And never shall have length of life enough

To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,

That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven,

For recordation to my noble husband. 61

North.

Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis with my mind

As with the tide swell’d up unto its height,

That makes a still-stand, running neither way: 64

Fain would I go to meet the archbishop,

But many thousand reasons hold me back.

Why, that’s well said; a good heart’s worth gold. Lo! here comes Sir John.

Enter Falstaff, singing.

Quick.

Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest man my house, nor no cheater; but I do not love swaggering, by my troth; I am the worse, when one says swagger. Feel, masters, how I shake; look you, I warrant you. 113

Dol.

So you do, hostess.

Quick.

Pist.

These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack-horses, 176

And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty miles a day,

Compare with Cæsars, and with Cannibals,

And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with 180

King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.

Shall we fall foul for toys?

Quick.

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words. 184

Bard.

Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to a brawl anon.

Pist.

Dio men like dogs! give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here? 188

Quick.

O’ my word, captain, there’s none such here. What the good-year! do you think I would deny her? for God’s sake! be quiet.

Pist.

Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give’s some sack. 193

Si fortuna me tormente, sperato me contento.

Fear we broadsides? no, let the fiend give fire:

Give me my rapier, boy.

Dol.

I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. 216

Fal.

Get you down stairs.

[Drawing.

Quick.

Here’s a goodly tumult! I’ll forswear keeping house, afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now. Alas, alas! put up your naked weapons; put up your naked weapons.

[Exeunt Bardolph and Pistol.

Dol.

I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal’s gone. Ah! you whoreson little valiant villain, you! 225

Quick.

Are you not hurt i’ the groin? methought a’ made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Do, an thou darest for thy heart: an thou dost, I’ll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

Enter Music.

Page.

The music is come, sir. 244

Fal.

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! the rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

Dol.

Quick.

Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis.

Enter Peto.

Prince.

Peto, how now! what news? 388

Peto.

The king your father is at Westminster;

And there are twenty weak and wearied posts

Come from the north: and as I came along,

I met and overtook a dozen captains, 392

Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,

And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

Prince.

By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time, 396

When tempest of commotion, like the south,

Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt

And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.

Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good night.

[Exeunt the Prince, Poins, Peto, and Bardolph.

Fal.

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked. [Knocking within.] More knocking at the door! 404

Re-enter Bardolph.

How now! what’s the matter?

Bard.

You must away to court, sir, presently;

A dozen captains stay at door for you. 407

Fal.

[To the Page]. Pay the musicians, sirrah. Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit are sought after: the undeserver may sleep when the man of action is called on. Farewell, good wenches. If I be not sent away post, I will see you again ere I go. 414

Dol.

I cannot speak; if my heart be not ready to burst,—well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself. 417

Fal.

But, ere they come, bid them o’er-read these letters,

And well consider of them. Make good speed.

[Exit Page.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects 4

Are at this hour asleep! O sleep! O gentle sleep!

Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down

And steep my senses in forgetfulness? 8

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,

Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great, 12

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile

In loathsome beds, and leav’st the kingly couch

A watch-case or a common ’larum bell? 17

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seel up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 20

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them

With deaf’ning clamour in the slippery clouds,

That with the hurly death itself awakes? 25

Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,

And in the calmest and most stillest night, 28

With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Enter Warwick and Surrey.

War.

Many good morrows to your majesty!

K. Hen.

Is it good morrow, lords? 33

War.

’Tis one o’clock, and past.

K. Hen.

Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords.

Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you?

War.

We have, my liege. 37

K. Hen.

Then you perceive the body of our kingdom,

How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,

And with what danger, near the heart of it. 40

War.

It is but as a body, yet, distemper’d,

Which to his former strength may be restor’d

With good advice and little medicine:

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d. 44

K. Hen.

O God! that one might read the book of fate,

And see the revolution of the times

Make mountains level, and the continent,—

Weary of solid firmness,—melt itself 48

Into the sea! and, other times, to see

The beachy girdle of the ocean

Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances mock,

And changes fill the cup of alteration 52

With divers liquors! O! if this were seen,

The happiest youth, viewing his progress through,

What perils past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.

’Tis not ten years gone 57

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,

Did feast together, and in two years after

Were they at wars: it is but eight years since 60

This Percy was the man nearest my soul,

Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs

And laid his love and life under my foot;

Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard 64

Gave him defiance. But which of you was by,—

[To Warwick.] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember,—

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears,

Then check’d and rated by Northumberland, 68

Did speak these words, now prov’d a prophecy?

‘Northumberland, thou ladder, by the which

My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne;’

Though then, God knows, I had no such intent,

But that necessity so bow’d the state 73

That I and greatness were compelled to kiss:

‘The time shall come,’ thus did he follow it,

‘The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head, 76

Shall break into corruption:’—so went on,

Foretelling this same time’s condition

And the division of our amity.

War.

There is a history in all men’s lives, 80

Figuring the nature of the times deceas’d;

The which observ’d, a man may prophesy,

With a near aim, of the main chance of things

As yet not come to life, which in their seeds 84

And weak leginnings lie intreasured.

Such things become the hatch and brood of time;

And by the necessary form of this

King Richard might create a perfect guess 88

That great Northumberland, then false to him,

Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness,

Which should not find a ground to root upon,

Unless on you.

K. Hen.

Are these things then necessities?

Then let us meet them like necessities; 93

And that same word even now cries out on us.

They say the bishop and Northumberland

Are fifty thousand strong.

War.

It cannot be, my lord!

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, 97

The numbers of the fear’d. Please it your Grace

To go to bed: upon my soul, my lord,

The powers that you already have sent forth 100

Shall bring this prize in very easily.

To comfort you the more, I have receiv’d

A certain instance that Glendower is dead.

Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill, 104

And these unseason’d hours perforce must add

Unto your sickness.

K. Hen.

I will take your counsel:

Bard.

Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word. ‘Phrase,’ call you it? By this good day, I know not the phrase; but I will maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of exceeding good command, by heaven. Accommodated; that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated; or, when a man is, being, whereby, a’ may be thought to be accommodated, which is an excellent thing. 89

Fal.

Shal.

That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith, Sir John, we have. Our watchword was, ‘Hem, boys!’ Come, let’s to dinner; come, let’s to dinner. Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, come. 237

[Exeunt Falstaff, Shallow, and Silence.

Bull.

Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend, and here’s four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged, sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather, because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends: else, sir, I did not care, for mine own part, so much. 245

Bard.

Go to; stand aside.

Moul.

And, good Master corporal captain, for my old dame’s sake, stand my friend: she has nobody to do any thing about her, when I am gone; and she is old, and cannot help herself. You shall have forty, sir.

Bard.

Go to; stand aside. 252

Fee.

By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death. I’ll ne’er bear a base mind: an’t be my destiny, so; an’t be not, so. No man’s too good to serve’s prince; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.

Bard.

Well said; thou’rt a good fellow.

Fee.

Here stand, my lords, and send discovers forth,

To know the numbers of our enemies. 4

Hast.

We have sent forth already.

Arch.

’Tis well done.

My friends and brethren in these great affairs,

I must acquaint you that I have receiv’d

New-dated letters from Northumberland; 8

Their cold intent, tenour and substance, thus:

Here doth he wish his person, with such powers

As might hold sortance with his quality;

The which he could not levy; whereupon 12

He is retir’d, to ripe his growing fortunes,

To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers

That your attempts may overlive the hazard

And fearful meeting of their opposite. 16

Mowb.

Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground

And dash themselves to pieces.

Enter a Messenger.

Hast.

Now, what news?

Mess.

West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,

In goodly form comes on the enemy; 20

And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number

Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.

Mowb.

The just proportion that we gave them out.

Let us sway on and face them in the field. 24

Enter Westmoreland.

Arch.

What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

Mowb.

I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.

West.

Health and fair greeting from our general.

The Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

Arch.

Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace, 29

What doth concern your coming.

West.

Then, my lord,

Unto your Grace do I in chief address

The substance of my speech. If that rebellion

Came like itself, in base and abject routs, 33

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

And countenanc’d by boys and beggary;

I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d, 36

In his true, native, and most proper shape,

You, reverend father, and these noble lords

Had not been here, to dress the ugly form

Of base and bloody insurrection 40

With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d,

Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d,

Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d, 44

Whose white investments figure innocence,

The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself

Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace

Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war; 49

Turning your books to greaves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine

To a loud trumpet and a point of war? 52

Arch.

Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

Briefly to this end: we are all diseas’d;

And, with our surfeiting and wanton hours

Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, 56

And we must bleed for it: of which disease

Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.

But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,

I take not on me here as a physician, 60

Nor do I as an enemy to peace

Troop in the throngs of military men;

But rather show a while like fearful war,

To diet rank minds sick of happiness 64

And purge the obstructions which begin to stop

Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly:

I have in equal balance justly weigh’d

What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer, 68

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

We see which way the stream of time doth run

And are enforc’d from our most quiet sphere

By the rough torrent of occasion; 72

And have the summary of all our griefs,

When time shall serve, to show in articles,

Which long ere this we offer’d to the king,

And might by no suit gain our audience. 76

When we are wrong’d and would unfold our griefs,

We are denied access unto his person

Even by those men that most have done us wrong.

The dangers of the days but newly gone,— 80

Whose memory is written on the earth

With yet appearing blood,—and the examples

Of every minute’s instance, present now,

Have put us in these ill-beseeming arms; 84

Not to break peace, or any branch of it,

But to establish here a peace indeed,

Concurring both in name and quality.

West.

When ever yet was your appeal denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king? 89

What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you,

That you should seal this lawless bloody book

Of forg’d rebellion with a seal divine, 92

And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge?

Arch.

My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born an household cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular. 96

West.

There is no need of any such redress;

Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

Mowb.

Why not to him in part, and to us all

That feel the bruises of the days before, 100

And suffer the condition of these times

To lay a heavy and unequal hand

Upon our honours?

West.

O! my good Lord Mowbray,

Construe the times to their necessities, 104

And you shall say indeed, it is the time,

And not the king, that doth you injuries.

Yet, for your part, it not appears to me

Either from the king or in the present time 108

That you should have an inch of any ground

To build a grief on: were you not restor’d

To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories,

Your noble and right well-remember’d father’s?

Mowb.

What thing, in honour, had my father lost, 113

That need to be reviv’d and breath’d in me?

The king that lov’d him as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compell’d to banish him:

And then that Harry Bolingbroke and he, 117

Being mounted and both roused in their seats,

Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,

Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,

Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel, 121

And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay’d

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, 124

O! when the king did throw his warder down,

His own life hung upon the staff he threw;

Then threw he down himself and all their lives

That by indictment and by dint of sword 128

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

West.

You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the most valiant gentleman: 132

Who knows on whom Fortune would then have smil’d?

But if your father had been victor there,

He ne’er had borne it out of Coventry;

For all the country in a general voice 136

Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And bless’d and grac’d indeed, more than the king.

But this is mere digression from my purpose. 140

Here come I from our princely general

To know your griefs; to tell you from his Grace

That he will give you audience; and wherein

It shall appear that your demands are just, 144

You shall enjoy them; every thing set off

That might so much as think you enemies.

Mowb.

But he hath forc’d us to compel this offer,

And it proceeds from policy, not love. 148

West.

Mowbray, you overween to take it so.

This offer comes from mercy, not from fear:

For, lo! within a ken our army lies

Upon mine honour, all too confident 152

To give admittance to a thought of fear.

Our battle is more full of names than yours,

Our men more perfect in the use of arms,

Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;

Then reason will our hearts should be as good:

Say you not then our offer is compell’d.

Mowb.

Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.

West.

That argues but the shame of your offence: 160

A rotten case abides no handling.

Hast.

Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear and absolutely to determine 164

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

West.

That is intended in the general’s name.

I muse you make so slight a question.

Arch.

Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule, 168

For this contains our general grievances:

Each several article herein redress’d;

All members of our cause, both here and hence,

That are insinew’d to this action, 172

Acquitted by a true substantial form

And present execution of our wills

To us and to our purposes consign’d;

We come within our awful banks again 176

And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

West.

This will I show the general. Please you, lords,

In sight of both our battles we may meet;

And either end in peace, which God so frame!

Or to the place of difference call the swords 181

Which must decide it.

Arch.

My lord, we will do so.

[Exit Westmoreland.

Mowb.

There is a thing within my bosom tells me

That no conditions of our peace can stand. 184

Hast.

Fear you not that: if we can make our peace

Upon such large terms, and so absolute

As our condition shall consist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Mowb.

Yea, but our valuation shall be such

That every slight and false-derived cause,

Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason

Shall to the king taste of this action; 192

That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,

We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff

And good from bad find no partition. 196

Arch.

No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is weary

Of dainty and such picking grievances:

For he hath found to end one doubt by death

Revives two greater in the heirs of life; 200

And therefore will he wipe his tables clean,

And keep no tell-tale to his memory

That may repeat and history his loss

To new remembrance; for full well he knows

He cannot so precisely weed this land 205

As his misdoubts present occasion:

His foes are so enrooted with his friends

That, plucking to unfix an enemy, 208

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend.

So that this land, like an offensive wife,

That hath enrag’d him on to offer strokes,

As he is striking, holds his infant up 212

And hangs resolv’d correction in the arm

That was uprear’d to execution.

Hast.

Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods

On late offenders, that he now doth lack 216

The very instruments of chastisement;

So that his power, like to a fangless lion,

May offer, but not hold.

Arch.

’Tis very true:

And therefore be assur’d, my good lord marshal,

If we do now make our atonement well, 221

Our peace will, like a broken limb united,

Grow stronger for the breaking.

Mowb.

Be it so.

Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland. 224

Re-enter Westmoreland.

West.

The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship,

To meet his Grace just distance ’tween our armies?

Mowb.

Your Grace of York, in God’s name then, set forward.

Arch.

Before, and greet his Grace: my lord, we come.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Another Part of the Forest.

Enter, from one side, Mowbray, the Archbishop, Hastings, and Others: from the other side, John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Officers, and Attendants.

Lanc.

You are well encounter’d here, my cousin Mowbray:

Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop;

And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all.

My Lord of York, it better show’d with you, 4

When that your flock, assembled by the bell,

Encircled you to hear with reverence

Your exposition on the holy text

Than now to see you here an iron man, 8

Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,

Turning the word to sword and life to death.

That man that sits within a monarch’s heart

And ripens in the sunshine of his favour, 12

Would he abuse the countenance of the king,

Alack! what mischief might he set abroach

In shadow of such greatness. With you, lord bishop,

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken 16

How deep you were within the books of God?

To us, the speaker in his parliament;

To us the imagin’d voice of God himself;

The very opener and intelligencer 20

Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven,

And our dull workings. O! who shall believe

But you misuse the reverence of your place,

Employ the countenance and grace of heaven, 24

As a false favourite doth his prince’s name,

In deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,

Under the counterfeited zeal of God,

The subjects of his substitute, my father; 28

And both against the peace of heaven and him

Have here upswarm’d them.

Arch.

Good my Lord of Lancaster,

I am not here against your father’s peace;

But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, 32

The time misorder’d doth, in common sense,

Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form,

To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace

The parcels and particulars of our grief,— 36

The which hath been with scorn shov’d from the court,—

Whereon this Hydra son of war is born;

Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d asleep

With grant of our most just and right desires, 40

And true obedience, of this madness cur’d,

Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.

Mowb.

If not, we ready are to try our fortunes

To the last man.

Hast.

And though we here fall down, 44

We have supplies to second our attempt:

If they miscarry, theirs shall second them;

And so success of mischief shall be born,

And heir from heir shall hold this quarrel up 48

Whiles England shall have generation.

Lanc.

You are too shallow, Hastings, much too shallow,

To sound the bottom of the after-times.

West.

Pleaseth your Grace, to answer them directly 52

How far forth you do like their articles.

Lanc.

I like them all, and do allow them well;

And swear here, by the honour of my blood,

My father’s purposes have been mistook, 56

And some about him have too lavishly

Wrested his meaning and authority.

My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress’d;

Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, 60

Discharge your powers unto their several counties,

As we will ours: and here between the armies

Let’s drink together friendly and embrace,

That all their eyes may bear those tokens home

Of our restored love and amity. 65

Arch.

I take your princely word for these redresses.

Lanc.

I give it you, and will maintain my word:

And thereupon I drink unto your Grace. 68

Hast.

[To an Officer.] Go, captain, and deliver to the army

This news of peace: let them have pay, and part:

I know it will well please them: hie thee, captain.

[Exit Officer.

Arch.

To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. 72

West.

I pledge your Grace: and, if you knew what pains

I have bestow’d to breed this present peace,

You would drink freely; but my love to you

Shall show itself more openly hereafter. 76

Arch.

I do not doubt you.

West.

I am glad of it.

Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.

Mowb.

You wish me health in very happy season;

For I am, on the sudden, something ill. 80

Arch.

Against ill chances men are ever merry,

But heaviness foreruns the good event.

West.

Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow

Serves to say thus, Some good thing comes to morrow. 84

Arch.

Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.

Mowb.

So much the worse if your own rule be true.

[Shouts within.

Lanc.

The word of peace is render’d: hark, how they shout! 87

Mowb.

This had been cheerful, after victory.

Arch.

A peace is of the nature of a conquest;

For then both parties nobly are subdu’d,

And neither party loser.

Lanc.

Go, my lord,

And let our army be discharged too. 92

[Exit Westmoreland.

And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains

March by us, that we may peruse the men

We should have cop’d withal.

Arch.

Go, good Lord Hastings, 96

And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march by.

[Exit Hastings.

Lanc.

I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.

Re-enter Westmoreland.

Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?

West.

The leaders, having charge from you to stand, 100

Will not go off until they hear you speak.

Lanc.

They know their duties.

Re-enter Hastings.

Hast.

My lord, our army is dispers’d already:

Like youthful steers unyok’d, they take their courses 104

East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,

Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.

West.

Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason: 108

And you, lord archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,

Of capital treason I attach you both.

Mowb.

Is this proceeding just and honourable?

West.

Is your assembly so? 112

Arch.

Will you thus break your faith?

Lanc.

I pawn’d thee none.

I promis’d you redress of these same grievances

Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,

I will perform with a most Christian care. 116

But for you, rebels, look to taste the due

Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours.

Most shallowly did you these arms commence,

Fondly brought here and foolishly sent hence.

Strike up our drums! pursue the scatter’d stray:

God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.

Some guard these traitors to the block of death;

Treason’s true bed, and yielder up of breath. 124

I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our general. 26

Enter John of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Blunt, and Others.

Lanc.

The heat is past, follow no further now.

Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.

[Exit Westmoreland.

Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while? 29

And a famous true subject took him.

Cole.

I am, my lord, but as my betters are

That led me hither: had they been rul’d by me 72

You should have won them dearer than you have.

Fal.

I know not how they sold themselves: but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis, and I thank thee for thee. 76

Re-enter Westmoreland.

Lanc.

Have you left pursuit?

West.

Retreat is made and execution stay’d.

Lanc.

Send Colevile with his confederates

To York, to present execution. 80

Blunt, lead him hence, and see you guard him sure.

[Exit Blunt and Others with Colevile, guarded.

And now dispatch we toward the court, my lords:

I hear, the king my father is sore sick:

Our news shall go before us to his majesty, 84

Which, cousin [addressing Westmoreland], you shall bear, to comfort him;

And we with sober speed will follow you.

Fal.

My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go,

Through Gloucestershire, and when you come to court 88

Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report.

Lanc.

Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition,

Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 91

[Exeunt all but Falstaff.

Fal.

I would you had but the wit: ’twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine. There’s never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards, which some of us should be too but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes; which, deliver’d o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood; which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice: but the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage; and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it a-work; and leaining, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack. 136

Enter Bardolph.

How now, Bardolph?

Bard.

The army is discharged all and gone.

Fal.

Let them go. I’ll through Gloucestershire; and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, esquire: I have him already tempering between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come away.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber.

Enter King Henry, Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and Others.

K. Hen.

Now, lords, if God doth give successful end

To this debate that bleedeth at our doors,

We will our youth lead on to higher fields

And draw no swords but what are sanctified. 4

Our navy is address’d, our power collected,

Our substitutes in absence well invested,

And everything lies level to our wish:

Only, we want a little personal strength; 8

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot,

Come underneath the yoke of government.

War.

Both which we doubt not but your majesty

Shall soon enjoy.

K. Hen.

Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,

Where is the prince your brother? 13

Glo.

I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.

K. Hen.

And how accompanied?

Glo.

I do not know, my lord.

K. Hen.

Is not his brother Thomas of Clarence with him? 16

Glo.

No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

Cla.

What would my lord and father?

K. Hen.

Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother? 20

He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas;

Thou hast a better place in his affection

Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy,

And noble offices thou mayst effect 24

Of mediation, after I am dead,

Between his greatness and thy other brethren:

Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,

Nor lose the good advantage of his grace 28

By seeming cold or careless of his will;

For he is gracious, if he be observ’d:

He hath a tear for pity and a hand

Open as day for melting charity; 32

Yet, notwithstanding, being incens’d, he’s flint;

As humorous as winter, and as sudden

As flaws congealed in the spring of day.

His temper therefore must be well observ’d: 36

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,

When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth;

But, being moody, give him line and scope,

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, 40

Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas,

And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,

A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,

That the united vessel of their blood, 44

Mingled with venom of suggestion—

As, force perforce, the age will pour it in—

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;

And he, the noble image of my youth,

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief 56

Stretches itself beyond the hour of death:

The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape

In forms imaginary the unguided days

And rotten times that you shall look upon 60

When I am sleeping with my ancestors.

For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,

When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,

When means and lavish manners meet together,

O! with what wings shall his affections fly 65

Towards fronting peril and oppos’d decay.

War.

My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite:

The prince but studies his companions 68

Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language,

’Tis needful that the most immodest word

Be look’d upon, and learn’d; which once attain’d,

Your highness knows, comes to no further use 72

But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,

The prince will in the perfectness of time

Cast off his followers; and their memory

Shall as a pattern or a measure live, 76

By which his Grace must mete the lives of others,

Turning past evils to advantages.

K. Hen.

’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb

In the dead carrion.

Enter Westmoreland.

Who’s here? Westmoreland! 80

West.

Health to my sovereign, and new happiness

Added to that that I am to deliver!

Prince John your son doth kiss your Grace’s hand:

Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings and all

Are brought to the correction of your law. 85

There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d,

But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.

The manner how this action hath been borne 88

Here at more leisure may your highness read,

With every course in his particular.

K. Hen.

O Westmoreland! thou art a summer bird,

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings 92

The lifting up of day.

Enter Harcourt.

Look! here’s more news.

Har.

From enemies heaven keep your majesty;

And, when they stand against you, may they fall

As those that I am come to tell you of! 96

The Earl Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolph,

With a great power of English and of Scots,

Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown.

The manner and true order of the fight 100

This packet, please it you, contains at large.

K. Hen.

And wherefore should these good news make me sick?

Will Fortune never come with both hands full

But write her fair words still in foulest letters?

She either gives a stomach and no food; 105

Such are the poor, in health; or else a feast

And takes away the stomach; such are the rich,

That have abundance and enjoy it not. 108

I should rejoice now at this happy news,

And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.

O me! come near me, now I am much ill.

Glo.

Comfort, your majesty!

Cla.

O my royal father! 112

West.

My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself: look up!

War.

Be patient, princes: you do know these fits

Are with his highness very ordinary:

Stand from him, give him air; he’ll straight be well. 116

Cla.

No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs:

The incessant care and labour of his mind

Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in

So thin, that life looks through and will break out. 120

Glo.

The people fear me; for they do observe

Unfather’d heirs and loathly births of nature:

The seasons change their manners, as the year

Had found some months asleep and leap’d them over. 124

Cla.

The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between;

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles,

Say it did so a little time before

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died. 128

War.

Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers.

Glo.

This apoplexy will certain be his end.

K. Hen.

I pray you take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray. 132

Scene V.— Another Chamber.

King Henry lying on a bed Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and Others in attendance.

K. Hen.

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;

Unless some dull and favourable hand

Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

War.

Call for the music in the other room. 4

K. Hen.

Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

Cla.

His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

War.

Less noise, less noise!

Enter the Prince.

If he be sick with joy, he will recover without physic.

War.

Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet prince, speak low;

The king your father is dispos’d to sleep. 16

Cla.

Let us withdraw into the other room.

War.

Will’t please your Grace to go along with us?

Prince.

No; I will sit and watch here by the king.

[Exeunt all but the Prince.

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, 20

Being so troublesome a bedfellow?

O polish’d perturbation! golden care!

That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide

To many a watchful night! Sleep with it now!

Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet 25

As he whose brow with homely biggin bound

Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!

When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit

Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, 29

That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath

There lies a downy feather which stirs not:

Did he suspire, that light and weightless down

Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father! 33

This sleep is sound indeed; this is a sleep

That from this golden rigol hath divorc’d

So many English kings. Thy due from me 36

Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood,

Which nature, love, and filial tenderness

Shall, O dear father! pay thee plenteously:

My due from thee is this imperial crown, 40

Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,

Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,

[Putting it on his head.

Which heaven shall guard; and put the world’s whole strength

Into one giant arm, it shall not force 44

This lineal honour from me. This from thee

Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

[Waking.] Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest.

Cla.

Doth the king call?

War.

What would your majesty? How fares your Grace? 48

K. Hen.

Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

Cla.

We left the prince my brother here, my liege,

Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

K. Hen.

The Prince of Wales! Where is he? let me see him: 52

He is not here.

War.

This door is open; he is gone this way.

Glo.

He came not through the chamber where we stay’d.

K. Hen.

Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow? 56

War.

When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

K. Hen.

The prince hath ta’en it hence: go, seek him out.

Is he so hasty that he doth suppose

My sleep my death? 60

Find him, my Lord of Warwick; chide him hither.

[Exit Warwick.

This part of his conjoins with my disease,

And helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are!

How quickly nature falls into revolt 64

When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish over-careful fathers

Have broke their sleeps with thoughts,

Their brains with care, their bones with industry; 68

For this they have engrossed and pil’d up

The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold;

For this they have been thoughtful to invest

Their sons with arts and martial exercises: 72

When, like the bee, culling from every flower

The virtuous sweets,

Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey,

We bring it to the hive, and like the bees, 76

Are murder’d for our pains. This bitter taste

Yield his engrossments to the ending father.

Re-enter Warwick.

Now, where is he that will not stay so long

Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me? 80

War.

My lord, I found the prince in the next room,

Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,

With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow

That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, 84

Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

K. Hen.

But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Re-enter the Prince.

Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. 89

[Exeunt Warwick, and the rest.

Prince.

I never thought to hear you speak again.

K. Hen.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 92

Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair

That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours

Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!

Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. 96

Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity

Is held from falling with so weak a wind

That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.

Thou hast stol’n that which after some few hours 100

Were thine without offence; and at my death

Thou hast seal’d up my expectation:

Thy life did manifest thou lov’dst me not,

And thou wilt have me die assur’d of it. 104

Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart,

To stab at half an hour of my life.

What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour?

Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, 109

And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear

That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.

Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse

Be drops of balm to sanctify thy head: 113

Only compound me with forgotten dust;

Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.

Pluck down my officers, break my decrees;

For now a time is come to mock at form. 117

Harry the Fifth is crown’d! Up, vanity!

Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!

And to the English court assemble now, 120

From every region, apes of idleness!

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum:

Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,

Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit 124

The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

Be happy, he will trouble you no more:

England shall double gild his treble guilt.

England shall give him office, honour, might;

For the fifth Harry from curb’d licence plucks

The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog

Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent.

O my poor kingdom! sick with civil blows. 132

When that my care could not withhold thy riots,

What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?

O! thou wilt be a wilderness again,

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. 136

Prince.

O! pardon me, my liege; but for my tears,

The moist impediments unto my speech,

I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke

Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard

The course of it so far. There is your crown;

And he that wears the crown immortally

Long guard it yours! If I affect it more

Than as your honour and as your renown, 144

Let me no more from this obedience rise,—

Which my most true and inward duteous spirit

Teacheth,—this prostrate and exterior bending.

God witness with me, when I here came in, 148

And found no course of breath within your majesty,

How cold it struck my heart! if I do feign,

O! let me in my present wildness die

And never live to show the incredulous world

The noble change that I have purposed. 153

Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,

And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,

I spake unto the crown as having sense, 156

And thus upbraided it: ‘The care on thee depending

Hath fed upon the body of my father;

Therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold:

Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, 160

Preserving life in medicine potable:

But thou most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d,

Hast eat thy bearer up.’ Thus, my most royal liege,

Accusing it, I put it on my head, 164

To try with it, as with an enemy

That had before my face murder’d my father,

The quarrel of a true inheritor.

But if it did infect my blood with joy, 168

Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;

If any rebel or vain spirit of mine

Did with the least affection of a welcome

Give entertainment to the might of it, 172

Let God for ever keep it from my head,

And make me as the poorest vassal is

That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!

K. Hen.

O my son! 176

God put it in thy mind to take it hence,

That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love,

Pleading so wisely in excuse of it.

Come hither, Harry: sit thou by my bed; 180

And hear, I think, the very latest counsel

That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,

By what by-paths and indirect crook’d ways

I met this crown; and I myself know well 184

How troublesome it sat upon my head:

To thee it shall descend with better quiet,

Better opinion, better confirmation;

For all the soil of the achievement goes 188

With me into the earth. It seem’d in me

But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand,

And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their assistances; 192

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,

Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears

Thou seest with peril I have answered;

For all my reign hath been but as a scene 196

Acting that argument; and now my death

Changes the mode: for what in me was purchas’d,

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;

So thou the garment wear’st successively. 200

Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I could do,

Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green;

And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,

Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out;

By whose fell working I was first advanc’d, 205

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear

To be again displac’d: which to avoid,

I cut them off; and had a purpose now 208

To lead out many to the Holy Land,

Lest rest and lying still might make them look

Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,

Be it thy course to busy giddy minds 212

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out,

May waste the memory of the former days.

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so

That strength of speech is utterly denied me. 216

How I came by the crown, O God, forgive!

And grant it may with thee in true peace live.

Prince.

My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; 220

Then plain and right must my possession be:

Which I with more than with a common pain

’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

Enter John of Lancaster.

K. Hen.

Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster. 224

Lanc.

Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

K. Hen.

Thou bring’st me happiness and peace, son John;

But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown

From this bare wither’d trunk: upon thy sight

My worldly business makes a period. 229

Where is my Lord of Warwick?

Prince.

My Lord of Warwick!

Re-enter Warwick and Others.

K. Hen.

Doth any name particular belong

Unto the lodging where I first did swound? 232

War.

’Tis call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord.

K. Hen.

Laud be to God! even there my life must end.

It hath been prophesied to me many years

I should not die but in Jerusalem, 236

Which vainly I suppos’d the Holy Land.

But bear me to that chamber; there I’ll lie:

In that Jerusalem shall Harry die.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Gloucestershire. A Hall in Shallow’s House.

Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page.

Shal.

By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night. What! Davy, I say.

Fal.

You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow. 4

Shal.

Fal.

I come, Master Shallow: I come, Master Shallow.

He’s walk’d the way of nature; 4

And to our purposes he lives no more.

Ch. Just.

I would his majesty had call’d me with him:

The service that I truly did his life

Hath left me open to all injuries. 8

War.

Indeed I think the young king loves you not.

Ch. Just.

I know he doth not, and do arm myself,

To welcome the condition of the time;

Which cannot look more hideously upon me 12

Than I have drawn it in my fantasy.

Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, Westmoreland and Others.

War.

Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry:

O! that the living Harry had the temper

Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen. 16

How many nobles then should hold their places,

That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort!

Ch. Just.

O God! I fear all will be overturn’d.

Lanc.

Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow. 20

Glo.

Good morrow, cousin.

Cla.

Good morrow, cousin.

Lanc.

We meet like men that had forgot to speak.

War.

We do remember; but our argument

Is all too heavy to admit much talk. 24

Lanc.

Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy!

Ch. Just.

Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!

Glo.

O! good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed;

And I dare swear you borrow not that face 28

Of seeming sorrow; it is sure your own.

Lanc.

Though no man be assur’d what grace to find,

You stand in coldest expectation.

I am the sorrier; would ’twere otherwise. 32

Cla.

Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair,

Which swims against your stream of quality.

Ch. Just.

Sweet princes, what I did, I did in honour,

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul; 36

And never shall you see that I will beg

A ragged and forestall’d remission.

If truth and upright innocency fail me,

I’ll to the king my master that is dead, 40

And tell him who hath sent me after him.

War.

Here comes the prince.

Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended.

Ch. Just.

Good morrow, and God save your majesty!

K. Hen. V.

This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, 44

Sits not so easy on me as you think.

Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear:

This is the English, not the Turkish court;

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, 48

But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,

For, to speak truth, it very well becomes you:

Sorrow so royally in you appears

That I will deeply put the fashion on 52

And wear it in my heart. Why then, be sad;

But entertain no more of it, good brothers,

Than a joint burden laid upon us all.

For me, by heaven, I bid you be assur’d, 56

I’ll be your father and your brother too;

Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares:

Yet weep that Harry’s dead, and so will I;

But Harry lives that shall convert those tears 60

By number into hours of happiness.

Lanc., &c.

We hope no other from your majesty.

K. Hen. V.

You all look strangely on me: [To the Chief Justice.] and you most;

You are, I think, assur’d I love you not. 64

Ch. Just.

I am assur’d, if I be measur’d rightly,

Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me.

K. Hen. V.

No!

How might a prince of my great hopes forget 68

So great indignities you laid upon me?

What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison

The immediate heir of England! Was this easy?

May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten? 72

Ch. Just.

I then did use the person of your father;

The image of his power lay then in me:

And, in the administration of his law,

Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, 76

Your highness pleased to forget my place,

The majesty and power of law and justice,

The image of the king whom I presented,

And struck me in my very seat of judgment; 80

Whereon, as an offender to your father,

I gave bold way to my authority,

And did commit you. If the deed were ill,

Be you contented, wearing now the garland, 84

To have a son set your decrees at nought,

To pluck down justice from your awful bench,

To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword

That guards the peace and safety of your person:

Nay, more, to spurn at your most royal image

And mock your workings in a second body. 90

Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours;

Be now the father and propose a son, 92

Hear your own dignity so much profan’d,

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,

Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d;

And then imagine me taking your part, 96

And in your power soft silencing your son:

After this cold considerance, sentence me;

And, as you are a king, speak in your state

What I have done that misbecame my place, 100

My person, or my liege’s sov’reignty.

K. Hen. V.

You are right, justice; and you weigh this well;

Therefore still bear the balance and the sword:

And I do wish your honours may increase 104

Till you do live to see a son of mine

Offend you and obey you, as I did.

So shall I live to speak my father’s words:

‘Happy am I, that have a man so bold 108

That dares do justice on my proper son;

And not less happy, having such a son,

That would deliver up his greatness so

Into the hands of justice.’ You did commit me:

For which, I do commit into your hand 113

The unstained sword that you have us’d to bear;

With this remembrance, that you use the same

With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit 116

As you have done ’gainst me. There is my hand:

You shall be as a father to my youth;

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear,

And I will stoop and humble my intents 120

To your well-practis’d wise directions.

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you;

My father is gone wild into his grave,

For in his tomb lie my affections; 124

And with his spirit sadly I survive,

To mock the expectation of the world,

To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out

Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down 128

After my seeming. The tide of blood in me

Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now:

Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea,

Where it shall mingle with the state of floods 132

And flow henceforth in formal majesty.

Now call we our high court of parliament;

And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel,

That the great body of our state may go 136

In equal rank with the best govern’d nation;

That war or peace, or both at once, may be

As things acquainted and familiar to us;

In which you, father, shall have foremost hand.

Our coronation done, we will accite, 141

As I before remember’d, all our state:

And, God consigning to my good intents,

No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say,

God shorten Harry’s happy life one day. 145

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Gloucestershire. The Garden of Shallow’s House.

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Bardolph, the Page, and Davy.

Shal.

Nay, you shall see mine orchard, where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of my own graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth; come, cousin Silence; and then to bed.

Fal.

’Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich. 6

Shal.

Sil.

Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now. 41

Re-enter Davy.

Davy.

There’s a dish of leather-coats for you.

Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry. [Knocking within.] Look who’s at door there. Ho! who knocks?

[Exit Davy.

Fal.

[To Silence, who drinks a bumper.]

Why, now you have done me right. 74

Sil.

Do me right,

And dub me knight:

Samingo 77

Is’t not so?

Fal.

’Tis so.

Sil.

Is’t so? Why, then, say an old man can do somewhat. 81

Re-enter Davy.

Davy.

An’t please your worship, there’s one Pistol come from the court with news.

Fal.

Pist.

A foutra for the world and worldlings base! 100

I speak of Africa and golden joys.

Fal.

O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?

Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.

Sil.

And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John. 104

Bard.

O joyful day!

I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.

Pist.

What! I do bring good news. 131

Fal.

Carry Master Silence to bed. Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am Fortune’s steward. Get on thy boots: we’ll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away, Bardolph! [Exit Bardolph.] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal devise something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king is sick for me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at my commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my lord chief justice! 143

Pist.

Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!

Come, you thin thing; come, you rascal!

First Bead.

Very well.

Shal.

’Tis so, indeed.

Pist.

My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver,

And make thee rage.

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, 36

Is in base durance and contagious prison;

Hal’d thither

By most mechanical and dirty hand:

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto’s snake, 40

For Doll is in: Pistol speaks nought but truth.

Fal.

I will deliver her.

[Shouts within and trumpets sound.

Pist.

There roar’d the sea, and trumpetclangor sounds.

Enter King Henry the Fifth and his Train, the Lord Chief Justice among them.

Fal.

God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal Hal! 45

Pist.

The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame!

Fal.

God save thee, my sweet boy! 48

K. Hen. V.

My lord chief justice, speak to that vain man.

Ch. Just.

Have you your wits? know you what ’tis you speak?

Fal.

My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!

K. Hen. V.

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers; 52

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!

I have long dream’d of such a kind of man,

So surfeit-swell’d, so old, and so profane;

But, being awak’d, I do despise my dream. 56

Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;

Leave gormandising; know the grave doth gape

For thee thrice wider than for other men.

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest: 60

Presume not that I am the thing I was;

For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,

That I have turn’d away my former self;

So will I those that kept me company. 64

When thou dost hear I am as I have been,

Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,

The tutor and the feeder of my riots:

Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death, 68

As I have done the rest of my misleaders,

Not to come near our person by ten mile.

For competence of life I will allow you,

That lack of means enforce you not to evil: 72

And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,

We will, according to your strength and qualities,

Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,

To see perform’d the tenour of our word. 76

Set on.

Ch. Just.

Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet;

Take all his company along with him.

Fal.

My lord, my lord!

Ch. Just.

I cannot now speak: I will hear you soon. 100

Take them away.

Pist.

Si fortuna me tormenta, spero contenta.

[Exeunt Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, Page, and Officers.

Lanc.

I like this fair proceeding of the king’s.

He hath intent his wonted followers 104

Shall all be very well provided for;

But all are banish’d till their conversations

Appear more wise and modest to the world.

Ch. Just.

And so they are. 108

Lanc.

The king hath call’d his parliament, my lord.

Ch. Just.

He hath.

Lanc.

I will lay odds, that, ere this year expire,

We bear our civil swords and native fire 112

As far as France. I heard a bird so sing,

Whose music, to my thinking, pleas’d the king.

Come, will you hence?

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by a Dancer.

First, my fear; then, my curtsy; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure, my curtsy, my duty, and my speech, to beg your pardon. If you look for a good speech now, you undo me; for what I have to say is of mine own making; and what indeed I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring. But to the purpose, and so to the venture. Be it known to you,—as it is very well,—I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience for it and to promise you a better. I did mean indeed to pay you with this; which, if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you, my gentle creditors, lose. Here, I promised you I would be, and here I commit my body to your mercies: bate me some and I will pay you some; and, as most debtors do, promise you infinitely. 18

If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will you command me to use my legs? and yet that were but light payment, to dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible satisfaction, and so will I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me: if the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was never seen before in such an assembly. 27

One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katharine of France: where, for anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless already a’ be killed with your hard opinions; for Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man. My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you good night: and so kneel down before you; but, indeed, to pray for the queen. 38

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Fifth.
Duke of Gloucester, }	Brothers to the King.
Duke of Bedford, }	Brothers to the King.
Duke of Exeter,	Uncle to the King.
Duke of York,	Cousin to the King.
Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, and Warwick.
Archbishop of Canterbury.
Bishop of Ely.
Earl of Cambridge.
Lord Scroop.
Sir Thomas Grey.
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Gower, Fluellen, Macmorris, Jamy,	Officers in King Henry’s Army.
Bates, Court, Williams,	Soldiers in the Same.
Pistol, Nym, Bardolph.
Boy.
A Herald.
Charles the Sixth,	King of France.
Lewis,	the Dauphin.
Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans, and Bourbon.
The Constable of France.
Rambures and Grandpré,	French Lords.
Montjoy,	a French Herald.
Governor of Harfleur.
Ambassadors to the King of England.
Isabel,	Queen of France.
Katharine,	Daughter to Charles and Isabel.
Alice,	a Lady attending on the Princess Katharine.
Hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern, formerly Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol.
Lords, Ladies, Officers, French and English Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and Attendants.

Chorus.

Scene.—England; afterwards France.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention;

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act

And monarchs to behold the swelling scene. 4

Then should the war-like Harry, like himself,

Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,

Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire

Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that hath dar’d 9

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object: can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram 12

Within this wooden O the very casques

That did affright the air at Agincourt?

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million; 16

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confin’d two mighty monarchies, 20

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts:

Into a thousand parts divide one man, 24

And make imaginary puissance;

Think when we talk of horses that you see them

Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth;

For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, 28

Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times,

Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,

Admit me Chorus to this history; 32

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

[Exit.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. An Antechamber in the King’s Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.

Cant.

My lord, I’ll tell you; that self bill is urg’d,

Which in th’ eleventh year of the last king’s reign

Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d,

But that the scambling and unquiet time 4

Did push it out of further question.

Ely.

But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?

Cant.

It must be thought on. If it pass against us,

We lose the better half of our possession; 8

For all the temporal lands which men devout

By testament have given to the church

Would they strip from us; being valu’d thus:

As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour, 12

Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights,

Six thousand and two hundred good esquires;

And, to relief of lazars and weak age,

Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil, 16

A hundred almshouses right well supplied;

And to the coffers of the king beside,

The courses of his youth promis’d it not. 24

The breath no sooner left his father’s body

But that his wildness, mortified in him,

Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment,

Consideration like an angel came, 28

And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him,

Leaving his body as a paradise,

To envelop and contain celestial spirits.

Never was such a sudden scholar made; 32

Never came reformation in a flood,

With such a heady currance, scouring faults;

Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness

So soon did lose his seat and all at once 36

As in this king.

Ely.

We are blessed in the change.

Cant.

Hear him but reason in divinity,

And, all-admiring, with an inward wish

You would desire the king were made a prelate: 40

Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,

You would say it hath been all in all his study:

List his discourse of war, and you shall hear

A fearful battle render’d you in music: 44

Turn him to any cause of policy,

The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,

Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks,

The air, a charter’d libertine, is still, 48

And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears,

To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences;

So that the art and practic part of life

Must be the mistress to this theoric: 52

Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it,

Since his addiction was to courses vain;

His companies unletter’d, rude, and shallow;

His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports; 56

And never noted in him any study,

Any retirement, any sequestration

From open haunts and popularity.

Ely.

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, 60

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best

Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality:

And so the prince obscur’d his contemplation

Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, 64

Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,

Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

Cant.

It must be so; for miracles are ceas’d;

And therefore we must needs admit the means

How things are perfected.

Ely.

But, my good lord, 69

How now for mitigation of this bill

Urg’d by the commons? Doth his majesty

Incline to it, or no?

Cant.

He seems indifferent, 72

Or rather swaying more upon our part

Than cherishing the exhibiters against us;

For I have made an offer to his majesty,

Upon our spiritual convocation, 76

And in regard of causes now in hand,

Which I have open’d to his Grace at large,

As touching France, to give a greater sum

Than ever at one time the clergy yet 80

Did to his predecessors part withal.

Ely.

How did this offer seem receiv’d, my lord?

Cant.

With good acceptance of his majesty;

Save that there was not time enough to hear,— 84

As I perceiv’d his Grace would fain have done,—

The severals and unhidden passages

Before we hear him, of some things of weight

That task our thoughts, concerning us and France.

Enter the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely.

Cant.

God and his angels guard your sacred throne,

And make you long become it!

K. Hen.

Sure, we thank you.

My learned lord, we pray you to proceed, 9

And justly and religiously unfold

Why the law Salique that they have in France

Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim. 12

And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,

That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,

Or nicely charge your understanding soul

With opening titles miscreate, whose right 16

Suits not in native colours with the truth;

For God doth know how many now in health

Shall drop their blood in approbation

Of what your reverence shall incite us to. 20

Therefore take heed how you impawn our person,

How you awake the sleeping sword of war:

We charge you in the name of God, take heed;

For never two such kingdoms did contend 24

Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops

Are every one a woe, a sore complaint,

’Gainst him whose wrongs give edge unto the swords

That make such waste in brief mortality. 28

Under this conjuration speak, my lord,

And we will hear, note, and believe in heart,

That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d

As pure as sin with baptism. 32

Cant.

Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers,

That owe yourselves, your lives, and services

To this imperial throne. There is no bar

To make against your highness’ claim to France

But this, which they produce from Pharamond,

In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant, 38

‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’

Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze

To be the realm of France, and Pharamond 41

The founder of this law and female bar.

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm

That the land Salique is in Germany, 44

Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe;

Where Charles the Great, having subdu’d the Saxons,

There left behind and settled certain French;

Who, holding in disdain the German women 48

For some dishonest manners of their life,

Establish’d then this law; to wit, no female

Should be inheritrix in Salique land:

Which Salique, as I said, ’twixt Elbe and Sala,

Is at this day in Germany call’d Meisen. 53

Then doth it well appear the Salique law

Was not devised for the realm of France;

Nor did the French possess the Salique land 56

Until four hundred one-and-twenty years

After defunction of King Pharamond,

Idly suppos’d the founder of this law;

Who died within the year of our redemption 60

Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great

Subdu’d the Saxons, and did seat the French

Beyond the river Sala, in the year

Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say,

King Pepin, which deposed Childeric, 65

Did, as heir general, being descended

Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,

Make claim and title to the crown of France. 68

Hugh Capet also, who usurp’d the crown

Of Charles the Duke of Loraine, sole heir male

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great,

To find his title with some shows of truth,— 72

Though in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,—

Convey’d himself as heir to the Lady Lingare,

Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son

To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son 76

Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth,

Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet,

Could not keep quiet in his conscience,

Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied 80

That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare,

Daughter to Charles the aforesaid Duke of Loraine:

By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great 84

Was re-united to the crown of France.

So that, as clear as is the summer’s sun,

King Pepin’s title, and Hugh Capet’s claim,

King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear 88

To hold in right and title of the female:

So do the kings of France unto this day;

Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law

To bar your highness claiming from the female;

And rather choose to hide them in a net 93

Than amply to imbar their crooked titles

Usurp’d from you and your progenitors.

K. Hen.

May I with right and conscience make this claim? 96

Cant.

The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!

For in the book of Numbers is it writ:

‘When the son dies, let the inheritance

Descend unto the daughter.’ Gracious lord, 100

Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag;

Look back into your mighty ancestors:

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb,

From whom you claim; invoke his war-like spirit, 104

And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince,

Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy,

Making defeat on the full power of France;

Whiles his most mighty father on a hill 108

Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp

Forage in blood of French nobility.

O noble English! that could entertain

With half their forces the full pride of France,

And let another half stand laughing by, 113

All out of work, and cold for action.

Ely.

Awake remembrance of these valiant dead,

And with your puissant arm renew their feats:

You are their heir, you sit upon their throne,

The blood and courage that renowned them

Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissantliege

Is in the very May-morn of his youth, 120

Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.

Exe.

Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth

Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,

As did the former lions of your blood. 124

West.

They know your Grace hath cause and means and might;

So hath your highness; never King of England

Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects,

Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England 128

And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France.

Cant.

O! let their bodies follow, my dear liege,

With blood and sword and fire to win your right;

In aid whereof we of the spiritualty 132

Will raise your highness such a mighty sum

As never did the clergy at one time

Bring in to any of your ancestors.

K. Hen.

We must not only arm to invade the French, 136

But lay down our proportions to defend

Against the Scot, who will make road upon us

With all advantages.

Cant.

They of those marches, gracious sovereign, 140

Shall be a wall sufficient to defend

Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

K. Hen.

We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,

But fear the main intendment of the Scot, 144

Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us;

For you shall read that my great-grandfather

Never went with his forces into France

But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom

Came pouring, like the tide into a breach, 149

With ample and brim fulness of his force,

Galling the gleaned land with hot essays,

Girding with grievous siege castles and towns;

That England, being empty of defence, 153

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

Cant.

She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege;

For hear her but exampled by herself: 156

When all her chivalry hath been in France

And she a mourning widow of her nobles,

She hath herself not only well defended,

But taken and impounded as a stray 160

The King of Scots; whom she did send to France,

To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings,

And make your chronicle as rich with praise

As is the owse and bottom of the sea 164

With sunken wrack and sumless treasuries.

West.

But there’s a saying very old and true;

If that you will France win,

Then with Scotland first begin: 168

For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot

Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs,

Playing the mouse in absence of the cat, 172

To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

Exe.

It follows then the cat must stay at home:

Yet that is but a crush’d necessity;

Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries 176

And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves.

While that the armed hand doth fight abroad

The advised head defends itself at home:

For government, though high and low and lower, 180

Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,

Congreeing in a full and natural close,

Like music.

Cant.

Therefore doth heaven divide

The state of man in divers functions, 184

Setting endeavour in continual motion;

To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,

Obedience: for so work the honey-bees,

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach 188

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king and officers of sorts;

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,

Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 193

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor: 196

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading up the honey,

The poor mechanic porters crowding in 200

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-ey’d justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, 204

That many things, having full reference

To one consent, may work contrariously;

As many arrows, loosed several ways,

Fly to one mark; as many ways meet in one town; 208

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;

As many lines close in the dial’s centre;

So may a thousand actions, once afoot,

End in one purpose, and be all well borne 212

Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege.

Divide your happy England into four;

Whereof take you one quarter into France,

And you withal shall make all Gallia shake. 216

If we, with thrice such powers left at home,

Cannot defend our own doors from the dog,

Let us be worried and our nation lose

The name of hardiness and policy. 220

K. Hen.

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

[Exit an Attendant.

Now are we well resolv’d; and by God’s help,

And yours, the noble sinews of our power,

France being ours, we’ll bend it to our awe 224

Or break it all to pieces: or there we’ll sit,

Ruling in large and ample empery

O’er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms,

Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, 228

Tombless, with no remembrance over them:

Either our history shall with full mouth

Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave,

Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, 232

Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph.

Enter Ambassadors of France.

Now are we well prepar’d to know the pleasure

Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear

Your greeting is from him, not from the king.

First Amb.

May’t please your majesty to give us leave 237

Freely to render what we have in charge;

Or shall we sparingly show you far off

The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy? 240

K. Hen.

We are no tyrant, but a Christian king;

Unto whose grace our passion is as subject

As are our wretches fetter’d in our prisons:

Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness 244

Tell us the Dauphin’s mind.

First Amb.

Thus then, in few.

Your highness, lately sending into France,

Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right

Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. 248

In answer of which claim, the prince our master

Says that you savour too much of your youth,

And bids you be advis’d there’s nought in France

That can be with a nimble galliard won; 252

You cannot revel into dukedoms there.

He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit,

This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this,

Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim 256

Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.

K. Hen.

What treasure, uncle?

Exe.

Tennis-balls, my liege.

K. Hen.

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us:

His present and your pains we thank you for:

When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, 261

We will in France, by God’s grace, play a set

Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard.

Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler 264

That all the courts of France will be disturb’d

With chaces. And we understand him well,

How he comes o’er us with our wilder days,

Not measuring what use we made of them. 268

We never valu’d this poor seat of England;

And therefore, living hence, did give ourself

To barbarous licence; as ’tis ever common

That men are merriest when they are from home. 272

But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state,

Be like a king and show my sail of greatness

When I do rouse me in my throne of France:

For that I have laid by my majesty 276

And plodded like a man for working-days,

But I will rise there with so full a glory

That I will dazzle all the eyes of France,

Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. 280

And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his

Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones; and his soul

Shall stand sore-charged for the wasteful vengeance

That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows 284

Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands;

Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;

And some are yet ungotten and unborn

That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. 288

But this lies all within the will of God,

To whom I do appeal; and in whose name

Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on,

To venge me as I may and to put forth 292

My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause.

So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin

His jest will savour but of shallow wit

When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. 296

Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Ambassadors.

Exe.

This was a merry message.

K. Hen.

We hope to make the sender blush at it.

Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour 300

That may give furtherance to our expedition;

For we have now no thought in us but France,

Save those to God, that run before our business.

Therefore let our proportions for these wars 304

Be soon collected, and all things thought upon

That may with reasonable swiftness add

More feathers to our wings; for, God before, 307

We’ll chide this Dauphin at his father’s door.

Therefore let every man now task his thought,

That this fair action may on foot be brought.

[Exeunt. Flourish.

ACT II.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Now all the youth of England are on fire,

And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;

Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man: 4

They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,

Following the mirror of all Christian kings,

With winged heels, as English Mercuries.

For now sits Expectation in the air 8

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point

With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,

Promis’d to Harry and his followers.

The French, advis’d by good intelligence 12

Of this most dreadful preparation,

Shake in their fear, and with pale policy

Seek to divert the English purposes.

O England! model to thy inward greatness, 16

Like little body with a mighty heart,

What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,

Were all thy children kind and natural!

But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out 20

A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills

With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,

One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,

Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,

Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,

Have, for the gilt of France,—O guilt, indeed!—

Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France;

And by their hands this grace of kings must die,— 28

If hell and treason hold their promises,—

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.

Linger your patience on; and well digest

The abuse of distance while we force a play. 32

The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;

The king is set from London; and the scene

Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton:

There is the playhouse now, there must you sit:

And thence to France shall we convey you safe,

And bring you back, charming the narrow seas

To give you gentle pass; for, if we may,

We’ll not offend one stomach with our play. 40

It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and, certainly she did you wrong, for you were troth-plight to her. 21

Nym.

I cannot tell; things must be as they may: men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time; and, some say, knives have edges. It must be as it may: though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell.

Enter Pistol and Hostess.

Bard.

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife. Good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

Pist.

Base tike, call’st thou me host?

Now, by this hand, I swear, I scorn the term; 32

Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Host.

No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy-house straight. [Nym and Pistol draw.] O well-a-day Lady! if he be not drawn now: we shall see wilful adultery and murder committed. 40

Bard.

Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

Nym.

Pish!

Pist.

Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prickeared cur of Iceland! 44

Host.

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour and put up your sword.

Nym.

Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

[Sheathing his sword.

Pist.

Solus, egregious dog? O viper vile!

The solus in thy most mervailous face;

The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat,

And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy;

And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! 53

I do retort the solus in thy bowels;

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up,

And flashing fire will follow. 56

Nym.

I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk off, I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may; and that’s the humour of it.

Pist.

O braggart vile and damned furious wight! 64

The grave doth gape, and doting death is near;

Therefore exhale.

Bard.

Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke, I’ll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

[Draws.

Pist.

An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.

Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give;

Thy spirits are most tall. 72

Nym.

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms; that is the humour of it.

Pist.

Coupe le gorge!

That is the word. I thee defy again. 76

O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get?

No; to the spital go,

And from the powdering-tub of infamy

Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, 80

Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse:

I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly

For the only she; and—pauca, there’s enough.

Go to

Enter the Boy.

Boy.

Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and your hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed. Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets and do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he’s very ill. 88

Bard.

Away, you rogue!

Host.

By my troth, he’ll yield the crow a pudding one of these days. The king has killed his heart. Good husband, come home presently.

As manhood shall compound: push home.

[They draw.

Bard.

By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will. 105

Pist.

Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Bard.

Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up. 109

Nym.

I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pist.

A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;

And liquor likewise will I give to thee, 113

And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood:

I’ll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me.

Is not this just? for I shall sutler be 116

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.

Give me thy hand.

Nym.

I shall have my noble?

Pist.

In cash most justly paid.

[Paying him.

Nym.

Well then, that’s the humour of it. 121

Re-enter Hostess.

Host.

As ever you came of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to behold. Sweet men, come to him.

Nym.

The king hath run bad humours on the knight; that’s the even of it. 128

Pist.

Nym, thou hast spoke the right;

His heart is fracted and corroborate.

Nym.

The king is a good king: but it must be as it may; he passes some humours and careers. 133

Pist.

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we will live.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Southampton. A Council-chamber.

Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland.

Bed.

’Fore God, his Grace is bold to trust these traitors.

Exe.

They shall be apprehended by and by.

West.

How smooth and even they do bear themselves!

As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, 4

Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.

Bed.

The king hath note of all that they intend,

By interception which they dream not of.

Exe.

Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,

Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours, 9

That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell

His sovereign’s life to death and treachery!

Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, Lords, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. 12

My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham,

And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts:

Think you not that the powers we bear with us

Will cut their passage through the force of France, 16

Doing the execution and the act

For which we have in head assembled them?

Scroop.

No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.

K. Hen.

I doubt not that; since we are well persuaded 20

We carry not a heart with us from hence

That grows not in a fair consent with ours;

Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish

Success and conquest to attend on us. 24

Cam.

Never was monarch better fear’d and lov’d

Than is your majesty: there’s not, I think, a subject

That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness

Under the sweet shade of your government. 28

Grey.

True: those that were your father’s enemies

Have steep’d their galls in honey, and do serve you

With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

K. Hen.

We therefore have great cause of thankfulness, 32

And shall forget the office of our hand,

Sooner than quittance of desert and merit

According to the weight and worthiness.

Scroop.

So service shall with steeled sinews toil, 36

And labour shall refresh itself with hope,

To do your Grace incessant services.

K. Hen.

We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,

Enlarge the man committed yesterday 40

That rail’d against our person: we consider

It was excess of wine that set him on;

And on his more advice we pardon him.

Scroop.

That’s mercy, but too much security:

Let him be punish’d, sovereign, lest example 45

Breed, by his sufference, more of such a kind.

K. Hen.

O! let us yet be merciful.

Cam.

So may your highness, and yet punish too. 48

Grey.

Sir,

You show great mercy, if you give him life

After the taste of much correction.

K. Hen.

Alas! your too much love and care of me 52

Are heavy orisons ’gainst this poor wretch.

If little faults, proceeding on distemper,

Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our eye

When capital crimes, chew’d, swallow’d, and digested, 56

Appear before us? We’ll yet enlarge that man,

Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care,

And tender preservation of our person,

Would have him punish’d. And now to our French causes: 60

Who are the late commissioners?

Cam.

I one, my lord:

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.

Scroop.

So did you me, my liege. 64

Grey.

And I, my royal sovereign.

K. Hen.

Then, Richard, Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours: 68

Read them; and know, I know your worthiness.

My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter,

We will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentlemen!

What see you in those papers that you lose 72

So much complexion? Look ye, how they change!

Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there,

That hath so cowarded and chas’d your blood

Out of appearance?

Cam.

I do confess my fault, 76

And do submit me to your highness’ mercy.

Grey.

To which we all appeal.

Scroop.

To which we all appeal.

K. Hen.

The mercy that was quick in us but late

By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d: 80

You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy;

For your own reasons turn into your bosoms,

As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.

See you, my princes and my noble peers, 84

These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here,

You know how apt our love was to accord

To furnish him with all appertinents

Belonging to his honour; and this man 88

Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir’d,

And sworn unto the practices of France,

To kill us here in Hampton: to the which

This knight, no less for bounty bound to us 92

Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But O!

What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel,

Ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature!

Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,

That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, 97

That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold

Wouldst thou have practis’d on me for thy use!

May it be possible that foreign hire 100

Could out of thee extract one spark of evil

That might annoy my finger? ’tis so strange

That, though the truth of it stands off as gross

As black from white, my eye will scarcely see it.

Treason and murder ever kept together, 105

As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose,

Working so grossly in a natural cause

That admiration did not whoop at them: 108

But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in

Wonder to wait on treason and on murder:

And whatsoever cunning fiend it was

That wrought upon thee so preposterously 112

Hath got the voice in hell for excellence:

And other devils that suggest by treasons

Do botch and bungle up damnation

With patches, colours, and with forms, being fetch’d 116

From glistering semblances of piety;

But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up,

Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,

Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. 120

If that same demon that hath gull’d thee thus

Should with his lion gait walk the whole world,

He might return to vasty Tartar back,

And tell the legions, ‘I can never win 124

A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.’

O! how hast thou with jealousy infected

The sweetness of affiance. Show men dutiful?

Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned? 128

Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family?

Why, so didst thou: seem they religious?

Why, so didst thou: or are they spare in diet,

Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, 132

Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,

Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement,

Not working with the eye without the ear,

And but in purged judgment trusting neither?

Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem: 137

And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,

To mark the full-fraught man and best indu’d

With some suspicion. I will weep for thee; 140

For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like

Another fall of man. Their faults are open:

Arrest them to the answer of the law;

And God acquit them of their practices! 144

Exe.

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge.

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. 148

I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland.

Scroop.

Our purposes God justly hath discover’d,

And I repent my fault more than my death; 152

Which I beseech your highness to forgive,

Although my body pay the price of it.

Cam.

For me, the gold of France did not seduce,

Although I did admit it as a motive 156

The sooner to effect what I intended:

But God be thanked for prevention;

Which I in sufference heartily will rejoice,

Beseeching God and you to pardon me. 160

Grey.

Never did faithful subject more rejoice

At the discovery of most dangerous treason

Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself,

Prevented from a damned enterprise. 164

My fault, but not my body; pardon, sovereign.

K. Hen.

God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.

You have conspir’d against our royal person,

Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his coffers 168

Receiv’d the golden earnest of our death;

Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter,

His princes and his peers to servitude,

His subjects to oppression and contempt, 172

And his whole kingdom into desolation.

Touching our person seek we no revenge;

But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender,

Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws 176

We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,

Poor miserable wretches, to your death;

The taste whereof, God of his mercy give you

Patience to endure, and true repentance 180

Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence.

[Exeunt Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, guarded.

Now, lords, for France! the enterprise whereof

Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.

We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, 184

Since God so graciously hath brought to light

This dangerous treason lurking in our way

To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now

But every rub is smoothed on our way. 188

Then forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver

Our puissance into the hand of God,

Putting it straight in expedition.

Cheerly to sea! the signs of war advance: 192

No king of England, if not king of France.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— London. Before a Tavern in Eastcheap.

Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy.

Host.

Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pist.

No; for my manly heart doth yearn.

Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips.

Look to my chattels and my moveables:

Let senses rule, the word is, ‘Pitch and pay;’ 52

Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafercakes,

And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:

Therefore, caveto be thy counsellor. 56

Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms,

Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys,

To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!

Boy.

And that’s but unwholesome food, they say. 61

Pist.

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Bard.

Farewell, hostess.

[Kissing her.

Nym.

I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu. 65

Pist.

Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.

Host.

Farewell; adieu.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— France. An Apartment in the French King’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the French King, attended; the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Britaine, the Constable, and Others.

Fr. King.

Thus come the English with full power upon us;

And more than carefully it us concerns

To answer royally in our defences.

Therefore the Dukes of Berri and Britaine, 4

Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth,

And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch,

To line and new repair our towns of war

With men of courage and with means defendant: 8

For England his approaches makes as fierce

As waters to the sucking of a gulf.

It fits us then to be as provident

As fear may teach us, out of late examples 12

Left by the fatal and neglected English

Upon our fields.

Dau.

My most redoubted father,

It is most meet we arm us ’gainst the foe;

For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom,—

Though war nor no known quarrel were in question,— 17

But that defences, musters, preparations,

Should be maintain’d, assembled, and collected,

As were a war in expectation. 20

Therefore, I say ’tis meet we all go forth

To view the sick and feeble parts of France:

And let us do it with no show of fear;

No, with no more than if we heard that England

Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance: 25

For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d,

Her sceptre so fantastically borne

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth, 28

That fear attends her not.

Con.

O peace, Prince Dauphin!

You are too much mistaken in this king.

Question your Grace the late ambassadors,

With what great state he heard their embassy,

How well supplied with noble counsellors, 33

How modest in exception, and, withal

How terrible in constant resolution,

And you shall find his vanities forespent 36

Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus,

Covering discretion with a coat of folly;

As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots

That shall first spring and be most delicate. 40

Dau.

Well, ’tis not so, my lord high constable;

But though we think it so, it is no matter:

In cases of defence ’tis best to weigh

The enemy more mighty than he seems: 44

So the proportions of defence are fill’d;

Which of a weak and niggardly projection

Doth like a miser spoil his coat with scanting

A little cloth.

Fr. King.

Think we King Harry strong; 48

And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.

The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon us,

And he is bred out of that bloody strain

That haunted us in our familiar paths: 52

Witness our too much memorable shame

When Cressy battle fatally was struck

And all our princes captiv’d by the hand

Of that black name, Edward Black Prince of Wales; 56

Whiles that his mounting sire, on mountain standing,

Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun,

Saw his heroical seed, and smil’d to see him

Mangle the work of nature, and deface 60

The patterns that by God and by French fathers

Had twenty years been made. This is a stem

Of that victorious stock; and let us fear

The native mightiness and fate of him. 64

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Ambassadors from Harry King of England

Do crave admittance to your majesty.

Fr. King.

We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.

[Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords.

You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends. 68

Dau.

Turn head, and stop pursuit; for coward dogs

Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten

Runs far before them. Good my sovereign,

Take up the English short, and let them know

Of what a monarchy you are the head: 73

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin

As self-neglecting.

Re-enter Lords, with Exeter and Train.

Fr. King.

From our brother England?

Exe.

From him; and thus he greets your majesty. 76

He wills you, in the name of God Almighty,

That you divest yourself, and lay apart

The borrow’d glories that by gift of heaven,

By law of nature and of nations ’long 80

To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown

And all wide-stretched honours that pertain

By custom and the ordinance of times

Unto the crown of France. That you may know

’Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim, 85

Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days,

Nor from the dust of old oblivion rak’d,

He sends you this most memorable line, 88

[Gives a pedigree.

In every branch truly demonstrative;

Willing you overlook this pedigree;

And when you find him evenly deriv’d

From his most fam’d of famous ancestors, 92

Edward the Third, he bids you then resign

Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held

From him the native and true challenger.

Fr. King.

Or else what follows? 96

Exe.

Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown

Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it:

Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,

In thunder and in earthquake like a Jove, 100

That, if requiring fail, he will compel;

And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,

Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy

On the poor souls for whom this hungry war 104

Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head

Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries,

The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans,

For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers, 108

That shall be swallow’d in this controversy.

This is his claim, his threat’ning, and my message;

Unless the Dauphin be in presence here,

To whom expressly I bring greeting too. 112

Fr. King.

For us, we will consider of this further:

To-morrow shall you bear our full intent

Back to our brother England.

Dau.

For the Dauphin,

I stand here for him: what to him from England? 116

Exe.

Scorn and defiance, slight regard, contempt,

And anything that may not misbecome

The mighty sender, doth he prize you at.

Thus says my king: an if your father’s highness 120

Do not, in grant of all demands at large,

Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty,

He’ll call you to so hot an answer of it,

That caves and womby vaultages of France 124

Shall chide your trespass and return your mock

In second accent of his ordinance.

Dau.

Say, if my father render fair return,

It is against my will; for I desire 128

Nothing but odds with England: to that end,

As matching to his youth and vanity,

I did present him with the Paris balls.

Exe.

He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it, 132

Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe:

And, be assur’d, you’ll find a difference—

As we his subjects have in wonder found—

Between the promise of his greener days 136

And these he masters now. Now he weighs time

Even to the utmost grain; that you shall read

In your own losses, if he stay in France.

Fr. King.

To-morrow shall you know our mind at full. 140

Exe.

Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king

Come here himself to question our delay;

For he is footed in this land already.

Fr. King.

You shall be soon dispatch’d with fair conditions: 144

A night is but small breath and little pause

To answer matters of this consequence.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT III.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Thus with imagin’d wing our swift scene flies

In motion of no less celerity

Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen

The well-appointed king at Hampton pier 4

Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:

Play with your fancies, and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; 8

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confus’d; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, 12

Breasting the lofty surge. O! do but think

You stand upon the rivage and behold

A city on the inconstant billows dancing;

For so appears this fleet majestical, 16

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow!

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,

And leave your England, as dead midnight still,

Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women, 20

Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance:

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

Those call’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? 24

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;

Behold the ordenance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back; 28

Tells Harry that the king doth offer him

Katharine his daughter; and with her, to dowry,

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms:

The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner 32

With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,

[Alarum; and chambers go off.

And down goes all before them. Still be kind,

And eke out our performance with your mind.

[Exit.

Scene I.— France. Before Harfleur.

Alarums. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling ladders.

K. Hen.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead!

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility: 4

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage; 8

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let it pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock 12

O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit

To his full height! On, on, you noblest English!

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof;

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,

And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument. 21

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 24

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; 28

For there is none of you so mean and base

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: 32

Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge

Cry ‘God for Harry! England and Saint George!’

[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.

Scene II.— The Same.

Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol, and Boy.

Bard.

On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach!

Nym.

Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot; and for mine own part, I have not a case of lives: the humour of it is too hot, that is the very plain-song of it.

Pist.

The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound: 8

Knocks go and come: God’s vassals drop and die;

And sword and shield

In bloody field

Doth win immortal fame. 12

Boy.

Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.

Pist.

And I: 16

If wishes would prevail with me,

My purpose should not fail with me,

But thither would I hie.

Boy.

As duly, 20

But not as truly,

As bird doth sing on bough.

Enter Fluellen.

Flu.

Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!

[Driving them forward.

Pist.

Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould! 24

Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage!

Abate thy rage, great duke!

Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!

Nym.

These be good humours! your honour wins bad humours. 29

[Exeunt Nym, Pistol, and Bardolph, followed by Fluellen.

Boy.

As young as I am, I have observed these three swashers. I am boy to them all three, but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me; for, indeed three such antiques do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means whereof, a’ faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a’ breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a’ should be thought a coward: but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for a’ never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal any thing and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel;—I knew by that piece of service the men would carry coals,—they would have me as familiar with men’s pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers: which makes much against my manhood if I should take from another’s pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them and seek some better service: their villany goes against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.

[Exit.

Gow.

The town sounds a parley. 153

Flu.

Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of wars; and there is an end.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. Before the Gates of Harfleur.

The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his Train.

K. Hen.

How yet resolves the governor of the town?

This is the latest parle we will admit:

Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves;

Or like to men proud of destruction 4

Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,—

A name that in my thoughts, becomes me best,—

If I begin the battery once again,

I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur 8

Till in her ashes she lie buried.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,

And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart,

In liberty of bloody hand shall range 12

With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass

Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.

What is it then to me, if impious war,

Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends, 16

Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats

Enlink’d to waste and desolation?

What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause,

If your pure maidens fall into the hand 20

Of hot and forcing violation?

What rein can hold licentious wickedness

When down the hill he holds his fierce career?

We may as bootless spend our vain command

Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil 25

As send precepts to the leviathan

To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,

Take pity of your town and of your people, 28

Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;

Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace

O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds

Of heady murder, spoil, and villany. 32

If not, why, in a moment, look to see

The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand

Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;

Your fathers taken by the silver beards, 36

And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls;

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry

At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen. 41

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?

Gov.

Our expectation hath this day an end.

The Dauphin, whom of succour we entreated, 45

Returns us that his powers are yet not ready

To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king,

We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.

Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; 49

For we no longer are defensible.

K. Hen.

Open your gates! Come, uncle Exeter,

Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain, 52

And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French:

Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,

The winter coming on and sickness growing

Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais. 56

Non, je reciteray à vous promptement.

C’est assez pour une fois: allons nous à diner.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter the French King, the Dauphin, Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France, and Others.

Fr. King.

’Tis certain, he hath pass’d the river Somme.

Con.

And if he be not fought withal, my lord,

Let us not live in France; let us quit all,

And give our vineyards to a barbarous people. 4

Dau.

O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,

The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,

Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,

Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, 8

And overlook their grafters?

Bour.

Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!

Mort de ma vie! if they march along

Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom, 12

To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm

In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

Con.

Dieu de battailes! where have they this mettle?

Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull, 16

On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,

Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,

A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth,

Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? 20

And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,

Seem frosty? O! for honour of our land,

Let us not hang like roping icicles

Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people 24

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields;

Poor we may call them in their native lords.

Dau.

By faith and honour,

Our madams mock at us, and plainly say 28

Our mettle is bred out; and they will give

Their bodies to the lust of English youth

To new-store France with bastard warriors.

Bour.

They bid us to the English dancing-schools, 32

And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;

Saying our grace is only in our heels,

And that we are most lofty runaways.

Fr. King.

Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence: 36

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edg’d

More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; 40

You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and Berri,

Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;

Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,

Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg,

Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois; 45

High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,

For your great seats now quit you of great shames.

Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land

With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur:

Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow

Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat

The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon: 52

Go down upon him, you have power enough,

And in a captive chariot into Roan

Bring him our prisoner.

Con.

This becomes the great.

Sorry am I his numbers are so few, 56

His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march,

For I am sure when he shall see our army

He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear,

And for achievement offer us his ransom. 60

Fr. King.

Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy,

And let him say to England that we send

To know what willing ransom he will give.

Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Roan.

Dau.

Not so, I do beseech your majesty. 65

Fr. King.

Be patient, for you shall remain with us.

Now forth, lord constable and princes all,

And quickly bring us word of England’s fall. 68

I know him not. 20

Enter Pistol.

Flu.

Here is the man.

Pist.

Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:

The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

Flu.

Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands. 25

Pist.

Bardolph, a soldier firm and sound of heart,

And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate

And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel, 28

That goddess blind,

That stands upon the rolling restless stone,—

Flu.

By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted plind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is plind: and she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and variation: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description of it: Fortune is an excellent moral. 40

Pist.

Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;

For he hath stol’n a pax, and hanged must a’ be,

A damned death!

Let gallows gape for dog, let man go free 44

And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate.

But Exeter hath given the doom of death

For pax of little price.

Therefore, go speak; the duke will hear thy voice; 48

And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut

With edge of penny cord and vile reproach:

The fig of Spain!

Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back,

And tell thy king I do not seek him now, 152

But could be willing to march on to Calais

Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth,—

Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much

Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,— 156

My people are with sickness much enfeebled,

My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have

Almost no better than so many French:

Who, when they were in health, I tell thee, herald, 160

I thought upon one pair of English legs

Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God,

That I do brag thus! this your air of France

Hath blown that vice in me; I must repent. 164

Go therefore, tell thy master here I am:

My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,

My army but a weak and sickly guard;

Yet, God before, tell him we will come on, 168

Though France himself and such another neighbour

Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy.

Go, bid thy master well advise himself:

If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d, 172

We shall your tawny ground with your red blood

Discolour: and so, Montjoy, fare you well.

The sum of all our answer is but this:

We would not seek a battle as we are; 176

Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it:

So tell your master.

Mont.

’Tis not the first time you were overshot.

Enter Chorus.

Now entertain conjecture of a time

When creeping murmur and the poring dark

Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, 4

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix’d sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other’s watch:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames 8

Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face:

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents

The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 12

With busy hammers closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,

And the third hour of drowsy morning name. 16

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,

The confident and over-lusty French

Do the low-rated English play at dice;

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night 20

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away. The poor condemned English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate 24

The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold 28

The royal captain of this ruin’d band

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,

Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’

For forth he goes and visits all his host,— 32

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,

And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.

Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him; 36

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night:

But freshly looks and overbears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; 40

That every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks,

A largess universal, like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one, 44

Thawing cold fear. Then mean and gentle all,

Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

And so our scene must to the battle fly; 48

Where,—O for pity,—we shall much disgrace,

With four or five most vile and ragged foils,

Right ill dispos’d in brawl ridiculous,

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see; 52

Minding true things by what their mockeries be.

[Exit.

Scene I.— The English Camp at Agincourt.

Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester.

K. Hen.

Gloucester, ’tis true that we are in great danger;

The greater therefore should our courage be.

Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 4

Would men observingly distil it out;

For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,

Which is both healthful, and good husbandry:

Besides, they are our outward consciences, 8

And preachers to us all; admonishing

That we should dress us fairly for our end.

Thus may we gather honey from the weed,

And make a moral of the devil himself. 12

Enter Erpingham.

Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:

A good soft pillow for that good white head

Were better than a churlish turf of France.

Erp.

Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better, 16

Since I may say, ‘Now lie I like a king.’

K. Hen.

’Tis good for men to love their present pains

Upon example; so the spirit is eas’d:

And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, 20

The organs, though defunct and dead before,

Break up their drowsy grave, and newly move

With casted slough and fresh legerity.

Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,

Commend me to the princes in our camp; 25

Do my good morrow to them; and anon

Desire them all to my pavilion.

Glo.

We shall, my liege. 28

[Exeunt Gloucester and Bedford.

Erp.

Shall I attend your Grace?

K. Hen.

No, my good knight;

Go with my brothers to my lords of England:

I and my bosom must debate awhile,

And then I would no other company. 32

Erp.

The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

[Exit.

K. Hen.

God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.

Enter Pistol.

Pist.

Qui va là?

K. Hen.

A friend. 36

Pist.

Discuss unto me; art thou officer?

The king’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold, 44

A lad of life, an imp of fame:

Of parents good, of fist most valiant:

I pray you and peseech you that you will.

Our children, and our sins lay on the king! 252

We must bear all. O hard condition!

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath

Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel

But his own wringing. What infinite heart’s ease

Must kings neglect that private men enjoy! 257

And what have kings that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? 260

What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more

Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?

What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?

O ceremony! show me but thy worth: 264

What is thy soul of adoration?

Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear’d, 268

Than they in fearing.

What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poison’d flattery? O! be sick, great greatness,

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure. 272

Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low-bending?

Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee, 276

Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,

That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose;

I am a king that find thee; and I know

’Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, 280

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running ’fore the king,

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp 284

That beats upon the high shore of this world,

No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, 288

Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind

Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread;

Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,

But, like a lackey, from the rise to set 292

Sweats in the eye of Phœbus, and all night

Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,

And follows so the ever-running year 296

With profitable labour to his grave:

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,

Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,

Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. 300

The slave, a member of the country’s peace,

Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots

What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,

Whose hours the peasant best advantages. 304

Re-enter Erpingham.

Erp.

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Hen.

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent:

I’ll be before thee.

Erp.

I shall do’t, my lord.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; 309

Possess them not with fear; take from them now

The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers

Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord! 312

O! not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown.

I Richard’s body have interr’d anew,

And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears 316

Than from it issu’d forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built 320

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;

Though all that I can do is nothing worth,

Since that my penitence comes after all, 324

Imploring pardon.

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

My liege!

K. Hen.

My brother Gloucester’s voice! Ay;

And dout them with superfluous courage: ha!

Ram.

What! will you have them weep our horses’ blood? 12

How shall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

The English are embattail’d, you French peers.

Con.

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band, 16

And your fair show shall suck away their souls,

Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.

There is not work enough for all our hands;

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins 20

To give each naked curtal-axe a stain,

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,

And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,

The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. 24

’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords,

That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,

Who in unnecessary action swarm

About our squares of battle, were enow 28

To purge this field of such a hilding foe,

Though we upon this mountain’s basis by

Took stand for idle speculation:

But that our honours must not. What’s to say?

A very little little let us do, 33

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound

The tucket sonance and the note to mount:

For our approach shall so much dare the field,

That England shall couch down in fear and yield.

Enter Grandpré.

Grand.

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions desperate of their bones,

Ill-favour’dly become the morning field: 40

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully:

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host,

And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps: 44

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades

Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes, 48

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit

Lies foul with chew’d grass, still and motionless;

And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour. 52

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

Con.

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. 56

Dau.

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits,

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

Con.

I stay but for my guard: on, to the field! 60

I will the banner from a trumpet take,

And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!

The sun is high, and we outwear the day.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The English Camp.

Enter the English host; Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, and Westmoreland.

Glo.

Where is the king?

Bed.

The king himself is rode to view their battle.

West.

Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.

Exe.

There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh. 4

Sal

God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds.

God be wi’ you, princes all; I’ll to my charge:

If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,

Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, 8

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

Bed.

Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!

Exe.

Farewell, kind lord. Fight valiantly to-day: 12

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.

[Exit Salisbury.

Bed.

He is as full of valour as of kindness;

Princely in both.

Enter King Henry.

West.

O! that we now had here 16

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day.

K. Hen.

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow 20

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 24

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

But if it be a sin to covet honour, 28

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me, 32

For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one more:

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made, 36

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian: 40

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 44

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say, ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say, ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, 49

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 52

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.

This story shall the good man teach his son; 56

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 60

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed 64

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Re-enter Salisbury.

Sal.

My sov’reign lord, bestow yourself with speed: 68

The French are bravely in their battles set,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

K. Hen.

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

West.

Perish the man whose mind is backward now! 72

K. Hen.

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

West.

God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

K. Hen.

Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men; 76

Which likes me better than to wish us one.

You know your places: God be with you all!

Tucket. Enter Montjoy.

Mont.

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, 80

Before thy most assured overthrow:

For certainly thou art so near the gulf

Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,

The constable desires thee thou wilt mind 84

Thy followers of repentance; that their souls

May make a peaceful and a sweet retire

From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies

Must lie and fester.

K. Hen.

Who hath sent thee now? 88

Mont.

The Constable of France.

K. Hen.

I pray thee, bear my former answer back:

Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.

Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? 92

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin

While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall no doubt

Find native graves; upon the which, I trust, 96

Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work;

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dung-hills,

They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them, 100

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven,

Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,

The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.

Mark then abounding valour in our English,

That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing, 105

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly: tell the constable, 108

We are but warriors for the working-day;

Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d

With rainy marching in the painful field;

There’s not a piece of feather in our host— 112

Good argument, I hope, we will not fly—

And time hath worn us into slovenry:

But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;

And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night 116

They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck

The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads,

And turn them out of service. If they do this,—

As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then

Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour; 121

Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald:

They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;

Which if they have as I will leave ’em them, 124

Shall yield them little, tell the constable.

Mont.

I shall, King Harry. And so, fare thee well:

Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom. 128

Enter York.

York.

My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg

The leading of the vaward.

K. Hen.

Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away:

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Field of Battle.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter French Soldier, Pistol, and Boy.

Pist.

Yield, cur!

Fr. Sol.

Je pense que vous estes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité.

Pist.

Quality? Calen O custure me! Art thou a gentleman? 4

What is thy name? discuss.

Fr. Sol.

O Seigneur Dieu!

Pist.

O Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:—

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark:

Pist.

Expound unto me, boy. 63

Boy.

He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one—as he thinks—the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England. 68

Pist.

As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.—

Follow me!

[Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier.

Boy.

Suivez vous le grand capitaine. I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true, ‘The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.’ Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old play, that every one may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they are both hanged; and so would this be if he durst steal anything adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys, with the luggage of our camp: the French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it but boys.

[Exit.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter Dauphin, Orleans, Bourbon, Constable, Rambures, and Others. Con. O diable!

Orl.

O seigneur! le jour est perdu! tout est perdu!

Dau.

Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!

Reproach and everlasting shame 4

Sit mocking in our plumes. O meschante fortune!

Do not run away.

[A short alarum.

Con.

Why, all our ranks are broke.

Dau.

O perdurable shame! let’s stab ourselves.

Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for? 8

Orl.

Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?

Bour.

Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

Let’s die in honour! once more back again;

And he that will not follow Bourbon now, 12

Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand,

Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door

Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,

His fairest daughter is contaminated. 16

Con.

Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!

Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.

Orl.

We are enough yet living in the field

To smother up the English in our throngs, 20

If any order might be thought upon.

Bour.

The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng:

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Enter King Henry and Forces; Exeter, and Others.

K. Hen.

Well have we done, thrice-valiant countrymen:

But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.

Exe.

The Duke of York commends him to your majesty.

K. Hen.

Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour 4

I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting;

From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

Exe.

In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,

Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,— 8

Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,—

The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.

Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled over,

Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep’d, 12

And takes him by the beard, kisses the gashes

That bloodily did yawn upon his face;

And cries aloud, ‘Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; 16

Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,

As in this glorious and well-foughten field,

We kept together in our chivalry!’

Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up:

He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand,

And with a feeble gripe says, ‘Dear my lord,

Commend my service to my sovereign.’

So did he turn, and over Suffolk’s neck 24

He threw his wounded arm, and kiss’d his lips;

And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d

A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d 28

Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d;

But I had not so much of man in me,

And all my mother came into mine eyes

And gave me up to tears.

K. Hen.

I blame you not; 32

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound

With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.

[Alarum.

But hark! what new alarum is this same?

The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men:

Then every soldier kill his prisoners! 37

Give the word through.

K. Hen.

I was not angry since I came to France

Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald; 60

Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:

If they will fight with us, bid them come down,

Or void the field; they do offend our sight.

If they’ll do neither, we will come to them, 64

And make them skirr away, as swift as stones

Enforced from the old Assyrian slings.

Besides, we’ll cut the throats of those we have,

And not a man of them that we shall take 68

Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.

Enter Montjoy.

Exe.

Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

Glo.

His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.

K. Hen.

How now! what means this, herald? know’st thou not 72

That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom?

Com’st thou again for ransom?

Mont.

No, great king.

I come to thee for charitable licence,

That we may wander o’er this bloody field 76

To book our dead, and then to bury them;

To sort our nobles from our common men;

For many of our princes—woe the while!—

Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood; 80

So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs

In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds

Fret fetlock-deep in gore, and with wild rage

Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,

Killing them twice. O! give us leave, great king,

To view the field in safety and dispose

Of their dead bodies.

K. Hen.

I tell thee truly, herald,

I know not if the day be ours or no; 88

God keep me so! Our heralds go with him:

Gower is a goot captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars.

K. Hen.

Call him hither to me, soldier.

Will.

I will, my liege.

I will fetch him.

[Exit.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels. 180

The glove which I have given him for a favour,

May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear;

It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should

Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick:

If that the soldier strike him,—as, I judge 185

By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,—

Some sudden mischief may arise of it;

For I do know Fluellen valiant, 188

And touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder,

That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he is a friend of the Duke Alençon’s. 18

Enter Warwick and Gloucester.

War.

How now, how now! what’s the matter?

Flu.

My Lord of Warwick, here is,—praised be God for it!—a most contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day. Here is his majesty.

Enter King Henry and Exeter.

K. Hen.

I will none of your money. 72

Flu.

It is with a good will; I can tell you it will serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore should you be so pashful? your shoes is not so good: ’tis a good shilling, I warrant you, or I will change it. 77

Enter an English Herald.

K. Hen.

Now, herald, are the dead number’d?

Her.

Here is the number of the slaughter’d French.

[Delivers a paper.

K. Hen.

What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle? 80

Exe.

Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king;

John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt:

Of other lords and barons, knights and squires,

Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. 84

K. Hen.

This note doth tell me of ten thousand French

That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number,

And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead

One hundred twenty-six: added to these, 88

Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,

Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which

Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights:

So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, 92

There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;

The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,

And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead: 96

Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;

Jaques of Chatillon, Admiral of France;

The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;

Great-master of France, the brave Sir Guischard Dauphin; 100

John Duke of Alençon; Antony Duke of Brabant,

The brother to the Duke of Burgundy,

And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,

Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, 104

Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.

Here was a royal fellowship of death!

Where is the number of our English dead?

[Herald presents another paper.

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire: 109

None else of name: and of all other men

But five and twenty. O God! thy arm was here;

And not to us, but to thy arm alone, 112

Ascribe we all. When, without stratagem,

But in plain shock and even play of battle,

Was ever known so great and little loss

On one part and on the other? Take it, God,

For it is none but thine!

Exe.

’Tis wonderful! 117

K. Hen.

Come, go we in procession to the village:

And be it death proclaimed through our host

To boast of this or take the praise from God 120

Which is his only.

Flu.

Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?

K. Hen.

Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgment, 124

That God fought for us.

Flu.

Yes, my conscience, he did us great good.

K. Hen.

Do we all holy rites:

Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum; 128

The dead with charity enclos’d in clay.

We’ll then to Calais; and to England then,

Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Enter Chorus.

Chor.

Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,

That I may prompt them: and of such as have,

I humbly pray them to admit the excuse

Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, 4

Which cannot in their huge and proper life

Be here presented. Now we bear the king

Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen,

Heave him away upon your winged thoughts 8

Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach

Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys,

Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,

Which, like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king, 12

Seems to prepare his way: so let him land

And solemnly see him set on to London.

So swift a pace hath thought that even now

You may imagine him upon Blackheath; 16

Where that his lords desire him to have borne

His bruised helmet and his bended sword

Before him through the city: he forbids it,

Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; 20

Giving full trophy, signal and ostent,

Quite from himself, to God. But now behold,

In the quick forge and working-house of thought,

How London doth pour out her citizens. 24

The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,

Like to the senators of the antique Rome,

With the plebeians swarming at their heels,

Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in:

As, by a lower but loving likelihood, 29

Were now the general of our gracious empress,—

As in good time he may,—from Ireland coming,

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, 32

How many would the peaceful city quit

To welcome him! much more, and much more cause,

Did they this Harry. Now in London place him;

As yet the lamentation of the French 36

Invites the King of England’s stay at home,—

The emperor’s coming in behalf of France,

To order peace between them;—and omit

All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d, 40

Till Harry’s back-return again to France:

There must we bring him; and myself have play’d

The interim, by remembering you ’tis past.

Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,

After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

[Exit.

Scene I.— France. An English Court of Guard.

Enter Fluellen and Gower.

Gow.

Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy’s day is past.

Flu.

There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things: I will tell you, asse my friend, Captain Gower. The rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy, pragging knave, Pistol,—which you and yourself and all the ’orld know to be no petter than a fellow,—look you now, of no merits, he is come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and pid me eat my leek. It was in a place where I could not preed no contention with him; but I will be so pold as to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.

Gow.

Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock. 16

[Strikes him.] There is one goat for you.

Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it?

Pist.

Base Troyan, thou shalt die. 32

Flu.

[Exit.

Pist.

All hell shall stir for this. 72

Gow.

Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not a vouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well.

[Exit.

Pist.

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now? 85

News have I that my Nell is dead i’ the spital

Of malady of France:

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. 88

Old I do wax, and from my weary limbs

Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I’ll turn,

And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.

To England will I steal, and there I’ll steal: 92

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars,

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Troyes in Champagne. An Apartment in the French King’s Palace.

Enter, from one side, King Henry, Bedford, Gloucester, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and other Lords; from the other side, the French King, Queen Isabel, the Princess Katharine, Alice and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy, and his Train.

K. Hen.

Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met!

Unto our brother France, and to our sister,

Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes

To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine;

And, as a branch and member of this royalty, 5

By whom this great assembly is contriv’d,

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;

And, princes French, and peers, health to you all! 8

Fr. King.

Right joyous are we to behold your face,

Most worthy brother England; fairly met:

So are you, princes English, every one.

Q. Isa.

So happy be the issue, brother England,

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting, 13

As we are now glad to behold your eyes;

Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them

Against the French, that met them in their bent,

The fatal balls of murdering basilisks: 17

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,

Have lost their quality, and that this day

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. 20

K. Hen.

To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

Q. Isa.

You English princes all, I do salute you.

Bur.

My duty to you both, on equal love,

Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d 24

With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours,

To bring your most imperial majesties

Unto this bar and royal interview,

Your mightiness on both parts best can witness.

Since then my office hath so far prevail’d 29

That face to face, and royal eye to eye,

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me

If I demand before this royal view, 32

What rub or what impediment there is,

Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace,

Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births,

Should not in this best garden of the world, 36

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Alas! she hath from France too long been chas’d,

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,

Corrupting in its own fertility. 40

Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,

Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach’d,

Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,

Put forth disorder’d twigs; her fallow leas 44

The darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory

Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts

That should deracinate such savagery;

The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth

The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover,

Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,

Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems 51

But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs,

Losing both beauty and utility;

And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges,

Defective in their natures, grow to wildness,

Even so our houses and ourselves and children

Have lost, or do not learn for want of time, 57

The sciences that should become our country,

But grow like savages,—as soldiers will,

That nothing do but meditate on blood,— 60

To swearing and stern looks, diffus’d attire,

And every thing that seems unnatural.

Which to reduce into our former favour

You are assembled; and my speech entreats 64

That I may know the let why gentle Peace

Should not expel these inconveniences,

And bless us with her former qualities.

K. Hen.

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace, 68

Whose want gives growth to the imperfections

Which you have cited, you must buy that peace

With full accord to all our just demands;

Whose tenours and particular effects 72

You have, enschedul’d briefly, in your hands.

Bur.

The king hath heard them; to the which as yet,

There is no answer made.

K. Hen.

Well then the peace,

Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer. 76

Fr. King

I have but with a cursorary eye

O’erglanc’d the articles: pleaseth your Grace

To appoint some of your council presently

To sit with us once more, with better heed 80

To re-survey them, we will suddenly

Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

K. Hen.

Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,

And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, 84

Warwick and Huntingdon, go with the king;

And take with you free power to ratify,

Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best

Shall see advantageable for our dignity, 88

Anything in or out of our demands,

And we’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,

Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

Q. Isa.

Our gracious brother, I will go with them. 92

Haply a woman’s voice may do some good

When articles too nicely urg’d be stood on.

K. Hen.

Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:

She is our capital demand, compris’d 96

Within the fore-rank of our articles.

Q. Isa.

She hath good leave.

[Exeunt all except King Henry, Katharine, and Alice.

K. Hen.

Fair Katharine, and most fair!

His daughter first, and then in sequel all, 361

According to their firm proposed natures.

Exe.

Only he hath not yet subscribed this:

Where your majesty demands, that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of grant, shall name your highness in this form, and with this addition, in French, Notre très cher filz Henry roy d’Angleterre, Héretier de France; and thus in Latin, Præclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliæ, et Hæres Franciæ.

Fr. King.

Nor this I have not, brother, so denied,

But your request shall make me let it pass. 372

K. Hen.

I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,

Let that one article rank with the rest;

And thereupon give me your daughter.

Fr. King.

Take her, fair son; and from her blood raise up 376

Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms

Of France and England, whose very shores look pale

With envy of each other’s happiness,

May cease their hatred, and this dear conjunction

Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord

In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance

His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France.

All.

Amen! 384

K. Hen.

Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me witness all,

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

[Flourish.

Q. Isa.

God, the best maker of all marriages,

Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one!

As man and wife, being two, are one in love, 389

So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal

That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,

Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage,

Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,

To make divorce of their incorporate league;

That English may as French, French Englishmen,

Receive each other! God speak this Amen! 396

All.

Amen!

K. Hen.

Prepare we for our marriage: on which day,

My Lord of Burgundy, we’ll take your oath,

And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues. 400

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

[Sennet. Exeunt.

Enter Chorus.

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursu’d the story;

In little room confining mighty men, 405

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly liv’d

This star of England: Fortune made his sword,

By which the world’s best garden he achiev’d, 409

And of it left his son imperial lord.

Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d King

Of France and England, did this king succeed;

Whose state so many had the managing, 413

That they lost France and made his England bleed:

Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,

In your fair minds let this acceptance take. 416

[Exit.

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Sixth.
Duke of Gloucester,	Uncle to the King, and Protector.
Duke of Bedford,	Uncle to the King, Regent of France.
Thomas Beaufort,	Duke of Exeter, Great-uncle to the King.
Henry Beaufort,	Great-uncle to the King; Bishop of Winchester, and afterwards Cardinal.
John Beaufort,	Earl, afterwards Duke, of Somerset.
Richard Plantagenet,	Son of Richard, late Earl of Cambridge; afterwards Duke of York.
Earl of Warwick.
Earl of Salisbury.
Earl of Suffolk.
Lord Talbot,	afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury.
John Talbot,	his Son.
Edmund Mortimer,	Earl of March.
Sir John Fastolfe.
Sir William Lucy.
Sir William Glansdale.
Sir Thomas Gargrave.
Woodvile,	Lieutenant of the Tower. Mayor of London. Mortimer’s Keepers. A Lawyer.
Vernon,	of the White-Rose, or York Faction.
Basset,	of the Red-Rose, or Lancaster Faction.
Charles,	Dauphin, and afterwards King of France.
Reignier,	Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples.
Duke of Burgundy.
Duke of Alençon.
Bastard of Orleans.
Governor of Paris.
Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son.
General of the French Forces in Bourdeaux.
A French Sergeant.
A Porter.
An old Shepherd, Father to Joan la Pucelle.
Margaret,	Daughter to Reignier; afterwards married to King Henry.
Countess of Auvergne.
Joan la Pucelle,	commonly called Joan of Arc.
Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants.

Fiends appearing to La Pucelle.

Scene.—Partly in England, and partly in France.

ACT I.

Scene I.— Westminster Abbey.

Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth attended on by the Dukes of Bedford, Gloucester, and Exeter; the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, Heralds, &c.

Bed.

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets, importing change of times and states,

Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,

That have consented unto Henry’s death! 5

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

Glo.

England ne’er had a king until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command: 9

His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams;

His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings;

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, 12

More dazzled and drove back his enemies

Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.

What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:

He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered. 16

Exe.

We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?

Henry is dead and never shall revive.

Upon a wooden coffin we attend,

And death’s dishonourable victory 20

We with our stately presence glorify,

Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

What! shall we curse the planets of mishap

That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow? 24

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,

By magic verses have contriv’d his end?

Win.

He was a king bless’d of the King of kings. 28

Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day

So dreadful will not be as was his sight.

The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:

The church’s prayers made him so prosperous.

Glo.

The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d 33

His thread of life had not so soon decay’d:

None do you like but an effeminate prince,

Whom like a school-boy you may over-awe. 36

Win.

Gloucester, whate’er we like thou art protector,

And lookest to command the prince and realm.

Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,

More than God or religious churchmen may. 40

Glo.

Name not religion, for thou lov’st the flesh,

And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st,

Except it be to pray against thy foes.

Bed.

Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace! 44

Let’s to the altar: heralds, wait on us:

Instead of gold we’ll offer up our arms,

Since arms avail not, now that Henry’s dead.

Posterity, await for wretched years, 48

When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck,

Our isle be made a marish of salt tears,

And none but women left to wail the dead.

Henry the Fifth! thy ghost I invocate: 52

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils!

Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!

A far more glorious star thy soul will make,

Than Julius Cæsar, or bright— 56

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My honourable lords, health to you all!

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:

Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans, 60

Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

Bed.

What sayst thou, man, before dead Henry’s corse?

Speak softly; or the loss of those great towns

Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. 64

Glo.

Is Paris lost? is Roan yielded up?

If Henry were recall’d to life again

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

Exe.

How were they lost? what treachery was us’d? 68

Mess.

No treachery; but want of men and money.

Among the soldiers this is muttered,

That here you maintain several factions;

And, whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, 72

You are disputing of your generals.

One would have lingering wars with little cost;

Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;

A third thinks, without expense at all, 76

By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d.

Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:

Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; 80

Of England’s coat one half is cut away.

Exe.

Were our tears wanting to this funeral

These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

Bed.

Me they concern; Regent I am of France. 84

Give me my steeled coat: I’ll fight for France.

Away with these disgraceful wailing robes!

Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,

To weep their intermissive miseries. 88

Enter another Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

Lords, view these letters, full of bad mischance.

France is revolted from the English quite,

Except some petty towns of no import:

The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; 92

The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d;

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;

The Duke of Alençon flieth to his side.

Exe.

The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! 96

O! whither shall we fly from this reproach?

Glo.

We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats.

Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out.

Bed.

Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness? 100

An army have I muster’d in my thoughts,

Wherewith already France is overrun.

Enter a third Messenger.

Third Mess.

My gracious lords, to add to your laments,

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse,

I must inform you of a dismal fight 105

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

Win.

What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t so?

Third Mess.

O, no! wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown: 108

The circumstance I’ll tell you more at large.

The tenth of August last this dreadful lord,

Retiring from the siege of Orleans,

Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, 112

By three-and-twenty thousand of the French

Was round encompassed and set upon.

No leisure had he to enrank his men;

He wanted pikes to set before his archers; 116

Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of hedges

They pitched in the ground confusedly,

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.

More than three hours the fight continued; 120

Where valiant Talbot above human thought

Enacted wonders with his sword and lance.

Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;

Here, there, and every where, enrag’d he flew:

The French exclaim’d the devil was in arms; 125

All the whole army stood agaz’d on him.

His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,

A Talbot! A Talbot! cried out amain, 128

And rush’d into the bowels of the battle.

Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up,

If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward.

He, being in the vaward,—plac’d behind, 132

With purpose to relieve and follow them,—

Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wrack and massacre;

Enclosed were they with their enemies. 136

A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace,

Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back;

Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength,

Durst not presume to look once in the face. 140

Bed.

Is Talbot slain? then I will slay myself,

For living idly here in pomp and ease

Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,

Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d. 144

Third Mess.

O no! he lives; but is took prisoner,

And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:

Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise.

Bed.

His ransom there is none but I shall pay: 148

I’ll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne;

His crown shall be the ransom of my friend;

Four of their lords I’ll change for one of ours.

Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; 152

Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make,

To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal:

Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,

Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake. 156

Third Mess.

So you had need; for Orleans is besieg’d;

The English army is grown weak and faint;

The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, 160

Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

Exe.

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. 164

Each hath his place and function to attend: 173

I am left out; for me nothing remains.

But long I will not be Jack-out-of-office.

The king from Eltham I intend to steal, 176

And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.

[Exit.

Scene II.— France. Before Orleans.

Flourish. Enter Charles, with his Forces: Alençon, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens

So in the earth, to this day is not known.

Late did he shine upon the English side;

Now we are victors; upon us he smiles. 4

What towns of any moment but we have?

At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;

Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts,

Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. 8

Alen.

They want their porridge and their fat bull-beeves:

Either they must be dieted like mules

And have their provender tied to their mouths,

Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. 12

Reig.

Let’s raise the siege: why live we idly here?

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear:

Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury,

And he may well in fretting spend his gall; 16

Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Char.

Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.

Now for the honour of the forlorn French!

Him I forgive my death that killeth me 20

When he sees me go back one foot or fly.

[Exeunt.

Alarums; Excursions; afterwards a retreat. Re-enter Charles, Alençon, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

Who ever saw the like? what men have I!

Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne’er have fled

But that they left me ’midst my enemies. 24

Reig.

Salisbury is a desperate homicide;

He fighteth as one weary of his life:

The other lords, like lions wanting food,

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. 28

Alen.

Froissart, a countryman of ours, records,

England all Olivers and Rowlands bred

During the time Edward the Third did reign.

More truly now may this be verified; 32

For none but Samsons and Goliases,

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Lean raw-bon’d rascals! who would e’er suppose

They had such courage and audacity? 36

Char.

Let’s leave this town; for they are hare-brain’d slaves,

And hunger will enforce them to be more eager:

Of old I know them; rather with their teeth

The walls they’ll tear down than forsake the siege. 40

Reig.

I think, by some odd gimmals or device,

Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on;

Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do.

By my consent, we’ll e’en let them alone. 44

Alen.

Be it so.

Enter the Bastard of Orleans.

Bast.

Where’s the prince Dauphin? I have news for him.

Char.

Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.

Bast.

Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d: 48

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?

Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand:

A holy maid hither with me I bring,

Which by a vision sent to her from heaven 52

Ordained is to raise this tedious siege,

And drive the English forth the bounds of France.

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,

Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome; 56

What’s past and what’s to come she can descry.

Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,

For they are certain and unfallible.

Char.

Go, call her in. [Exit Bastard.] But first, to try her skill, 60

Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place:

Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern:

By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.

[Retires.

Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan la Pucelle and Others.

Reig.

Fair maid, is’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats? 64

Joan.

Reignier, is’t thou that thinkest to beguile me?

Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;

I know thee well, though never seen before.

Be not amaz’d, there’s nothing hid from me: 68

In private will I talk with thee apart.

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave a while.

Reig.

She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

Joan.

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter, 72

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art.

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas’d

To shine on my contemptible estate:

Lo! whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 76

And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks,

God’s mother deigned to appear to me,

And in a vision full of majesty

Will’d me to leave my base vocation 80

And free my country from calamity:

Her aid she promis’d and assur’d success;

In complete glory she reveal’d herself;

And, whereas I was black and swart before, 84

With those clear rays which she infus’d on me,

That beauty am I bless’d with which you see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible

And I will answer unpremeditated: 88

My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st,

And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.

Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate

If thou receive me for thy war-like mate. 92

Char.

Thou hast astonish’d me with thy high terms.

Only this proof I’ll of thy valour make,

In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,

And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; 96

Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

Joan.

I am prepar’d: here is my keen-edg’d sword,

Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side;

The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s churchyard, 100

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Char.

Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman.

Joan.

And, while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.

[They fight, and Joan la Pucelle overcomes.

Char.

Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon, 104

And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Joan.

Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too weak.

Char.

Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me:

Impatiently I burn with thy desire; 108

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu’d.

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be;

’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. 112

Joan.

I must not yield to any rites of love,

For my profession’s sacred from above:

When I have chased all thy foes from hence,

Then will I think upon a recompense. 116

Char.

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

Reig.

My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

Alen.

Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;

Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech.

Reig.

Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? 121

Alen.

He may mean more than we poor men do know:

These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.

Reig.

My lord, where are you? what devise you on? 124

Shall we give over Orleans, or no?

Joan.

Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants!

Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.

Char.

What she says, I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it out. 128

Joan.

Assign’d am I to be the English scourge.

This night the siege assuredly I’ll raise:

Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days,

Since I have entered into these wars. 132

Glory is like a circle in the water,

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,

Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.

With Henry’s death the English circle ends;

Dispersed are the glories it included. 137

Now am I like that proud insulting ship

Which Cæsar and his fortune bare at once.

Char.

Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?

Thou with an eagle art inspired then. 141

Helen, the mother of great Constantine,

Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters were like thee.

Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth,

How may I reverently worship thee enough?

Alen.

Leave off delays and let us raise the siege. 146

Reig.

Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;

Drive them from Orleans and be immortalis’d.

Char.

Presently we’ll try. Come, let’s away about it:

No prophet will I trust if she prove false. 150

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— London. Before the Tower.

Enter at the Gates the Duke of Gloucester, with his Serving-men, in blue coats.

Glo.

I am come to survey the Tower this day;

Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance.

Where be these warders that they wait not here?

Open the gates! ’Tis Gloucester that calls. 4

[Servants knock.

First Ward.

[Within.] Who’s there that knocks so imperiously?

First Serv.

It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

Sec. Ward.

[Within.] Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in.

First Serv.

Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? 8

First Ward.

[Within.] The Lord protect him! so we answer him:

We do not otherwise than we are will’d.

Glo.

Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?

There’s none protector of the realm but I. 12

Break up the gates, I’ll be your warrantize:

Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?

[Gloucester’s Men rush at the Tower gates, and Woodvile the Lieutenant speaks within. Wood. What noise is this? what traitors have we here?

Glo.

Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?

Open the gates! here’s Gloucester that would enter. 17

Wood.

[Within.] Have patience, noble Duke; I may not open;

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids:

From him I have express commandment 20

That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Glo.

Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him ’fore me?

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,

Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook? 24

Thou art no friend to God or to the king:

Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly.

First Serv.

Open the gates unto the Lord Protector;

Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. 28

Enter Winchester, attended by Serving-men in tawny coats.

Win.

How now, ambitious Humphrey! what means this?

Glo.

Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

Win.

I do, thou most usurping proditor,

And not protector, of the king or realm. 32

Glo.

Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,

Thou that contriv’dst to murder our dead lord;

Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin:

I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, 36

If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Win.

Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot:

This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cam,

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. 40

Glo.

I will not slay thee, but I’ll drive thee back:

Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth

I’ll use to carry thee out of this place.

Win.

Do what thou dar’st; I’ll beard thee to thy face. 44

Glo.

What! am I dar’d and bearded to my face?—

Draw, men, for all this privileged place;

Blue coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard;

[Gloucester and his men attack the Cardinal.

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly. 48

Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal’s hat,

In spite of pope or dignities of church,

Here by the cheeks I’ll drag thee up and down.

Win.

Gloucester, thou’lt answer this before the pope. 52

Glo.

Winchester goose! I cry a rope! a rope!

Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay?

Thee I’ll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s array.

Out, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite! 56

Here Gloucester’s Men beat out the Cardinal’s Men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers.

May.

Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

Glo.

Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my wrongs:

Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King,

Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use. 61

Win.

Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens;

One that still motions war and never peace,

O’ercharging your free purses with large fines, 64

That seeks to overthrow religion

Because he is protector of the realm,

And would have armour here out of the Tower,

To crown himself king and suppress the prince.

Glo.

I will not answer thee with words, but blows.

[Here they skirmish again.

May.

Nought rests for me, in this tumultuous strife

But to make open proclamation.

Come, officer: as loud as e’er thou canst; 72

Cry.

Off.

All manner of men, assembled here in arms this day, against God’s peace and the king’s, we charge and command you, in his highness’ name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. 80

Glo.

Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law;

But we shall meet and break our minds at large.

Win.

Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure:

Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work.

May.

I’ll call for clubs if you will not away.

This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil. 86

Glo.

Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst.

Win.

Abominable Gloucester! guard thy head;

For I intend to have it ere long.

[Exeunt, severally, Gloucester and Winchester, with their Serving-men.

May.

See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart. 90

Good God! these nobles should such stomachs bear;

I myself fight not once in forty year.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— France. Before Orleans.

Enter, on the walls, the Master-Gunner and his Boy.

M. Gun.

Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is besieg’d,

And how the English have the suburbs won.

Son.

Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,

Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim. 4

M. Gun.

But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul’d by me:

Chief master-gunner am I of this town;

Something I must do to procure me grace.

The prince’s espials have informed me 8

How the English, in the suburbs close entrench’d,

Wont through a secret gate of iron bars

In yonder tower to overpeer the city,

And thence discover how with most advantage

They may vex us with shot or with assault. 13

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have plac’d;

And fully even these three days have I watch’d

If I could see them. Now, boy, do thou watch, 17

For I can stay no longer.

If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word;

And thou shalt find me at the Governor’s.

[Exit.

Son.

Father, I warrant you; take you no care; 21

I’ll never trouble you if I may spy them.

[Exit.

Enter, on the turrets, the Lords Salisbury and Talbot; Sir William Glansdale, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Others.

Sal.

Talbot, my life, my joy! again return’d!

How wert thou handled being prisoner? 24

Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d,

Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top.

Tal.

The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner

Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; 28

For him I was exchang’d and ransomed.

But with a baser man at arms by far

Once in contempt they would have barter’d me:

Which I disdaining scorn’d, and craved death 32

Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d.

In fine, redeem’d I was as I desir’d.

But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart:

Whom with my bare fists I would execute 36

If I now had him brought into my power.

Sal.

Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert entertain’d.

Tal.

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.

In open market-place produc’d they me, 40

To be a public spectacle to all:

Here, said they, is the terror of the French,

The scarecrow that affrights our children so.

Then broke I from the officers that led me, 44

And with my nails digg’d stones out of the ground

To hurl at the beholders of my shame.

My grisly countenance made others fly.

None durst come near for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deem’d me not secure; 49

So great fear of my name ’mongst them was spread

That they suppos’d I could rend bars of steel

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant: 52

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,

That walk’d about me every minute-while;

And if I did but stir out of my bed

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. 56

Enter the Boy with a linstock.

Sal.

I grieve to hear what torments you endur’d;

But we will be reveng’d sufficiently.

Now it is supper-time in Orleans:

Here, through this grate, I count each one, 60

And view the Frenchmen how they fortify:

Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.

Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale,

Let me have your express opinions 64

Where is best place to make our battery next.

Gar.

I think at the North gate; for there stand lords.

Glan.

And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

Tal.

For aught I see, this city must be famish’d, 68

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

[Here they shoot. Salisbury and Sir Thomas Gargrave fall.

Sal.

O Lord! have mercy on us, wretched sinners.

Gar.

O Lord! have mercy on me, woeful man.

Tal.

What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us? 72

Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak:

How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men?

One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off!

Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand 76

That hath contriv’d this woeful tragedy!

In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame;

Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars;

Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up, 80

His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field.

Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth fail,

One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace:

The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. 84

Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive,

If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!

Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it.

Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? 88

Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.

Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort;

Thou shalt not die, whiles—

He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, 92

As who should say, ‘When I am dead and gone,

Remember to avenge me on the French.’

Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,

Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn: 96

Wretched shall France be only in my name.

[It thunders and lightens. An alarum.

What stir is this? What tumult’s in the heavens?

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, my lord! the French have gather’d head: 100

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d,

A holy prophetess new risen up

Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

[Here Salisbury lifteth himself up and groans.

Tal.

Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan! 104

It irks his heart he cannot be reveng’d.

Frenchmen, I’ll be a Salisbury to you:

Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,

Your hearts I’ll stamp out with my horse’s heels

And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.

Convey me Salisbury into his tent, 110

And then we’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

[Exeunt, bearing out the bodies.

Scene V.— The Same. Before one of the Gates.

Alarum. Skirmishings. Enter Talbot, pursuing the Dauphin; drives him in, and exit: then enter Joan la Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them. Then re-enter Talbot.

Tal.

Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;

A woman clad in armour chaseth them.

Re-enter Joan la Pucelle.

Here, here she comes. I’ll have a bout with thee:

Devil, or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee: 5

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,

And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st.

Joan.

Come, come; ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.

[They fight.

Tal.

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? 9

My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage,

And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,

But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet. 12

[They fight again.

Joan.

Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:

I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

[A short alarum; then la Pucelle enters the town with Soldiers.

O’ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hunger-starved men; 16

Help Salisbury to make his testament:

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

[Exit.

Tal.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;

I know not where I am, nor what I do: 20

A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,

Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists:

So bees with smoke, and doves with noisome stench,

Are from their hives and houses driven away. 24

They call’d us for our fierceness English dogs;

Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.

[A short alarum.

Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,

Or tear the lions out of England’s coat; 28

Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead:

Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves. 32

[Alarum. Another skirmish.

It will not be: retire into your trenches:

You all consented unto Salisbury’s death,

For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

Pucelle is entered into Orleans 36

In spite of us or aught that we could do.

O! would I were to die with Salisbury.

The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

[Alarum. Retreat. Exeunt Talbot and his Forces, &c.

Scene VI.— The Same.

Flourish. Enter, on the walls, Joan la Pucelle, Charles, Reignier, Alençon, and Soldiers.

Joan.

Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescu’d is Orleans from the English:

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.

Char.

Divinest creature, Astræa’s daughter, 4

How shall I honour thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens,

That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! 8

Recover’d is the town of Orleans:

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

Reig.

Why ring not out the bells throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets, 13

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

Alen.

All France will be replete with mirth and joy,

When they shall hear how we have play’d the men. 16

Char.

’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;

For which I will divide my crown with her;

And all the priests and friars in my realm

Shall in procession sing her endless praise. 20

A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear

Than Rhodope’s or Memphis ever was:

In memory of her when she is dead,

Her ashes, in an urn more precious 24

Than the rich-jewell’d coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, 28

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint.

Come in, and let us banquet royally,

After this golden day of victory.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Before Orleans.

Enter to the Gates, a French Sergeant, and two Sentinels.

Serg.

Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.

If any noise or soldier you perceive

Near to the walls, by some apparent sign

Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. 4

First Sent.

Sergeant, you shall.

[Exit Sergeant.

Thus are poor servitors—

When others sleep upon their quiet beds—

Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, and Forces with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march.

Tal.

Lord regent, and redoubted Burgundy, 8

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Walloon, and Picardy, are friends to us,

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day carous’d and banqueted: 12

Embrace we then this opportunity,

As fitting best to quittance their deceit

Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery.

Bed.

Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame, 16

Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell!

Bur.

Traitors have never other company.

But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

Tal.

A maid, they say.

Bed.

A maid, and be so martial! 21

Bur.

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long;

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armour, as she hath begun. 24

Tal.

Well, let them practise and converse with spirits;

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Bed.

Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. 28

Tal.

Not all together: better far, I guess,

That we do make our entrance several ways,

That if it chance the one of us do fail,

The other yet may rise against their force. 32

Bed.

Agreed. I’ll to yond corner.

Bur.

And I to this.

Tal.

And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.

Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right

Of English Henry, shall this night appear 36

How much in duty I am bound to both.

[The English scale the walls, crying, ‘Saint George!’ ‘A Talbot!’ and all enter the town.

First Sent.

Arm, arm! the enemy doth make assault!

The French leap over the Walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Reignier, half ready, and half unready.

Alen.

How now, my lords! what! all unready so?

Bast.

Unready! ay, and glad we ’scap’d so well. 40

Reig.

’Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

Alen.

Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms,

Ne’er heard I of a war-like enterprise 44

More venturous or desperate than this.

Bast.

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

Reig.

If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him.

Alen.

Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped. 48

Bast.

Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Enter Charles and Joan la Pucelle.

Char.

Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,

Make us partakers of a little gain, 52

That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Joan.

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?

At all times will you have my power alike?

Sleeping or waking must I still prevail, 56

Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?

Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good,

This sudden mischief never could have fall’n.

Char.

Duke of Alençon, this was your default,

That, being captain of the watch to-night, 61

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

Alen.

Had all your quarters been so safely kept

As that whereof I had the government, 64

We had not been thus shamefully surpris’d.

Bast.

Mine was secure.

Reig.

And so was mine, my lord.

Char.

And for myself, most part of all this night,

Within her quarter and mine own precinct 68

I was employ’d in passing to and fro,

About relieving of the sentinels:

Then how or which way should they first break in?

Joan.

Question, my lords, no further of the case, 72

How or which way: ’tis sure they found some place

But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.

And now there rests no other shift but this;

To gather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispers’d,

And lay new platforms to endamage them. 77

Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying, ‘A Talbot! a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind.

Sold.

I’ll be so bold to take what they have left.

The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;

For I have loaden me with many spoils, 80

Using no other weapon but his name.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Orleans. Within the Town.

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, and Others.

Bed.

The day begins to break, and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth.

Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.

[Retreat sounded.

Tal.

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury, 4

And here advance it in the market-place,

The middle centre of this cursed town.

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul;

For every drop of blood was drawn from him 8

There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.

And that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect 12

A tomb wherein his corse shall be interr’d:

Upon the which, that every one may read,

Shall be engrav’d the sack of Orleans,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death,

And what a terror he had been to France. 17

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,

I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace,

His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,

Nor any of his false confederates. 21

Bed.

’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men 24

Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Bur.

Myself—as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapours of the night—

Am sure I scar’d the Dauphin and his trull, 28

When arm in arm they both came swiftly running,

Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves

That could not live asunder day or night.

After that things are set in order here, 32

We’ll follow them with all the power we have.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train

Call ye the war-like Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France? 36

Tal.

Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him?

Mess.

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe 40

To visit her poor castle where she lies,

That she may boast she hath beheld the man

Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

Bur.

Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars

Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, 45

When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

Tal.

Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men 48

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-rul’d:

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her. 52

Will not your honours bear me company?

Bed.

No, truly; it is more than manners will;

And I have heard it said, unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone. 56

Tal.

Well then, alone,—since there’s no remedy,—

I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.

Come hither, captain. [Whispers.] You perceive my mind.

Capt.

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Auvergne. Court of the Castle.

Enter the Countess and her Porter.

Count.

Porter, remember what I gave in charge;

And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

Port.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Count.

The plot is laid: if all things fall out right, 4

I shall as famous be by this exploit

As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death.

Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,

And his achievements of no less account: 8

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,

To give their censure of these rare reports.

Enter Messenger and Talbot.

Mess.

Madam,

According as your ladyship desir’d, 12

By message crav’d, so is Lord Talbot come.

Count.

And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

Mess.

Madam, it is.

Count.

Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad, 16

That with his name the mothers still their babes?

I see report is fabulous and false:

I thought I should have seen some Hercules,

A second Hector, for his grim aspect, 20

And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.

Alas! this is a child, a silly dwarf:

It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp

Should strike such terror to his enemies. 24

Tal.

Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;

But since your ladyship is not at leisure,

I’ll sort some other time to visit you.

Count.

What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. 28

Mess.

Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves

To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

Tal.

Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief,

I go to certify her Talbot’s here. 32

Re-enter Porter, with keys.

Count.

If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

Tal.

Prisoner! to whom?

Count.

To me, blood-thirsty lord;

And for that cause I train’d thee to my house.

Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, 36

For in my gallery thy picture hangs:

But now the substance shall endure the like,

And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,

That hast by tyranny, these many years 40

Wasted our country, slain our citizens,

And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Tal.

These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,

With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, 64

Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,

And in a moment makes them desolate.

Count.

Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse:

I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,

And more than may be gather’d by thy shape.

Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath;

For I am sorry that with reverence

I did not entertain thee as thou art. 72

Tal.

Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconster

The mind of Talbot as you did mistake

The outward composition of his body.

What you have done hath not offended me; 76

Nor other satisfaction do I crave,

But only, with your patience, that we may

Taste of your wine and see what cates you have;

For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well.

Count.

With all my heart, and think me honoured 81

To feast so great a warrior in my house.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. The Temple Garden.

Enter the Earls of Somerset, Suffolk, and Warwick; Richard Plantagenet, Vernon, and a Lawyer.

Plan.

Great lords, and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Suf.

Within the Temple hall we were too loud;

The garden here is more convenient. 4

Plan.

Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth,

Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error?

Suf.

Faith, I have been a truant in the law,

And never yet could frame my will to it; 8

And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Som.

Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

War.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;

Between two blades, which bears the better temper; 13

Between two horses, which doth bear him best;

Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye;

I have perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment; 16

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

Plan.

Tut, tut! here is a mannerly forbearance:

The truth appears so naked on my side, 20

That any purblind eye may find it out.

Som.

And on my side it is so well apparell’d,

So clear, so shining, and so evident,

That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye.

Plan.

Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak, 25

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:

Let him that is a true-born gentleman,

And stands upon the honour of his birth, 28

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Som.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,

But dare maintain the party of the truth, 32

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

War.

I love no colours, and, without all colour

Of base insinuating flattery

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. 36

Suf.

I pluck this red rose with young Somerset:

And say withal I think he held the right.

Ver.

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

Till you conclude that he, upon whose side 40

The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree,

Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Som.

Good Master Vernon, it is well objected:

If I have fewest I subscribe in silence. 44

Plan.

And I.

Ver.

Then for the truth and plainness of the case,

I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,

Giving my verdict on the white rose side. 48

Som.

Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,

Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red,

And fall on my side so, against your will.

Ver.

If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, 52

Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt,

And keep me on the side where still I am.

Som.

Well, well, come on: who else?

Law.

[To Somerset.] Unless my study and my books be false, 56

The argument you held was wrong in you,

In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.

Plan.

Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

Som.

Here, in my scabbard; meditating that 60

Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Plan.

Meantime, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing

The truth on our side.

Som.

No, Plantagenet, 64

’Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks

I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat.

Som.

Away, away! good William de la Pole:

We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

War.

Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset: 82

His grandfather was Lionel, Duke of Clarence,

Third son to the third Edward, King of England.

Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Plan.

He bears him on the place’s privilege,

Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.

Som.

By Him that made me, I’ll maintain my words 88

On any plot of ground in Christendom.

Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,

For treason executed in our late king’s days?

And, by his treason stand’st not thou attainted,

Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?

His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; 94

And, till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman.

Plan.

My father was attached, not attained;

Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor;

And that I’ll prove on better men than Somerset,

Were growing time once ripen’d to my will.

For your partaker Pole and you yourself, 100

I’ll note you in my book of memory,

To scourge you for this apprehension:

Look to it well and say you are well warn’d.

Som.

Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still, 104

And know us by these colours for thy foes;

For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.

Plan.

And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,

As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, 108

Will I for ever and my faction wear,

Until it wither with me to my grave

Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Suf.

Go forward, and be chok’d with thy ambition: 112

And so farewell until I meet thee next.

[Exit.

Som.

Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard.

[Exit.

Plan.

How I am brav’d and must perforce endure it!

War.

This blot that they object against your house 116

Shall be wip’d out in the next parliament,

Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;

And if thou be not then created York,

I will not live to be accounted Warwick. 120

Meantime in signal of my love to thee,

Against proud Somerset and William Pole,

Will I upon thy party wear this rose.

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, 124

Grown to this faction in the Temple garden,

Shall send between the red rose and the white

A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

Plan.

Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you, 128

That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.

Ver.

In your behalf still would I wear the same.

Law.

And so will I.

Plan.

Thanks, gentle sir. 132

Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say

This quarrel will drink blood another day.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— London. A Room in the Tower.

Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair by two Gaolers.

Mor.

Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,

Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.

Even like a man new haled from the rack,

So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; 4

And these gray locks, the pursuivants of death,

Nestor-like aged, in an age of care,

Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.

These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, 8

Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;

Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief,

And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine

That droops his sapless branches to the ground:

Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, 13

Unable to support this lump of clay,

Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,

As witting I no other comfort have. 16

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

First Keep.

Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:

We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber.

And answer was return’d that he will come. 20

Mor.

Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied.

Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.

Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign,

Before whose glory I was great in arms, 24

This loathsome sequestration have I had;

And even since then hath Richard been obscur’d,

Depriv’d of honour and inheritance.

But now the arbitrator of despairs, 28

Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,

With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:

I would his troubles likewise were expir’d,

That so he might recover what was lost. 32

Enter Richard Plantagenet.

First Keep.

My lord, your loving nephew now is come.

Mor.

Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

Plan.

Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us’d,

Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. 36

Mor.

Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck,

And in his bosom spend my latter gasp:

O! tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks,

That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. 40

And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock,

Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis’d?

Plan.

First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;

And in that ease, I’ll tell thee my disease. 44

This day, in argument upon a case,

Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me;

Among which terms he us’d a lavish tongue

And did upbraid me with my father’s death: 48

Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,

Else with the like I had requited him.

Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake,

In honour of a true Plantagenet, 52

And for alliance sake, declare the cause

My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.

Mor.

That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me,

And hath detain’d me all my flow’ring youth 56

Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,

Was cursed instrument of his decease.

Plan.

Discover more at large what cause that was,

For I am ignorant and cannot guess. 60

Mor.

I will, if that my fading breath permit,

And death approach not ere my tale be done.

Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,

Depos’d his nephew Richard, Edward’s son, 64

The first-begotten, and the lawful heir

Of Edward king, the third of that descent:

During whose reign the Percies of the North,

Finding his usurpation most unjust, 68

Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne.

The reason mov’d these warlike lords to this

Was, for that—young King Richard thus remov’d,

Leaving no heir begotten of his body— 72

I was the next by birth and parentage;

For by my mother I derived am

From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son

To King Edward the Third; whereas he 76

From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,

Being but fourth of that heroic line.

But mark: as, in this haughty great attempt

They laboured to plant the rightful heir, 80

I lost my liberty, and they their lives.

Long after this, when Henry the Fifth

Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign,

Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv’d 84

From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,

Marrying my sister that thy mother was,

Again in pity of my hard distress

Levied an army, weening to redeem 88

And have install’d me in the diadem;

But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl,

And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,

In whom the title rested, were suppress’d. 92

Plan.

Of which, my lord, your honour is the last.

Mor.

True; and thou seest that I no issue have,

And that my fainting words do warrant death:

Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather: 96

But yet be wary in thy studious care.

Plan.

Thy grave admonishments prevail with me.

But yet methinks my father’s execution

Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 100

Mor.

With silence, nephew, be thou politic:

Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,

And like a mountain, not to be remov’d.

But now thy uncle is removing hence, 104

As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d

With long continuance in a settled place.

Plan.

O uncle! would some part of my young years

Might but redeem the passage of your age. 108

Mor.

Thou dost then wrong me,—as the slaughterer doth,

Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.—

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;

Only give order for my funeral: 112

And so farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,

And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

[Dies.

Plan.

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!

In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, 116

And like a hermit overpass’d thy days.

Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast;

And what I do imagine let that rest.

Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself 120

Will see his burial better than his life.

[Exeunt Keepers, bearing out the body of Mortimer.

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,

Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort:

And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, 124

Which Somerset hath offer’d to my house,

I doubt not but with honour to redress;

And therefore haste I to the parliament,

Either to be restored to my blood, 128

Or make my ill the advantage of my good.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.— London. The Parliament House.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, and Others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill; Winchester snatches it, and tears it.

Win.

Com’st thou with deep premeditated lines,

With written pamphlets studiously devis’d,

Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,

Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge, 4

Do it without invention, suddenly;

As I, with sudden and extemporal speech

Purpose to answer what thou canst object.

Glo.

Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience 8

Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me.

Think not, although in writing I preferr’d

The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,

That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able 12

Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen:

No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness,

Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks,

As very infants prattle of thy pride. 16

Thou art a most pernicious usurer,

Froward by nature, enemy to peace;

Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems

A man of thy profession and degree; 20

And for thy treachery, what’s more manifest?

In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life

As well at London Bridge as at the Tower.

Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, 24

The king, thy sov’reign, is not quite exempt

From envious malice of thy swelling heart.

Win.

Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe

To give me hearing what I shall reply. 28

If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse,

As he will have me, how am I so poor?

Or how haps it I seek not to advance

Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling? 32

And for dissension, who preferreth peace

More than I do, except I be provok’d?

No, my good lords, it is not that offends;

It is not that that hath incens’d the duke: 36

It is, because no one should sway but he;

No one but he should be about the king;

And that engenders thunder in his breast,

And makes him roar these accusations forth. 40

But he shall know I am as good—

Glo.

As good!

Thou bastard of my grandfather!

Win.

Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray,

But one imperious in another’s throne? 44

Roam thither then.

Som.

My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

War.

Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.

Som.

Methinks my lord should be religious,

And know the office that belongs to such.

War.

Methinks his lordship should be humbler; 56

It fitteth not a prelate so to plead.

Som.

Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near.

War.

State holy, or unhallow’d, what of that?

Is not his Grace protector to the king? 60

Plan.

[Aside.] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue,

Lest it be said, ‘Speak, sirrah, when you should;

Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?’

Else would I have a fling at Winchester. 64

K. Hen.

Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester,

The special watchmen of our English weal,

I would prevail, if prayers might prevail,

To join your hearts in love and amity. 68

O! what a scandal is it to our crown,

That two such noble peers as ye should jar.

Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell

Civil dissension is a viperous worm, 72

That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

[A noise within; ‘Down with the tawny coats!’

What tumult’s this?

War.

An uproar, I dare warrant,

Begun through malice of the bishop’s men.

[A noise again within; ‘Stones! Stones!’

Enter the Mayor of London, attended.

May.

O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,

Pity the city of London, pity us! 77

The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men,

Forbidden late to carry any weapon,

Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones, 80

And banding themselves in contrary parts

Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate,

That many have their giddy brains knock’d out:

Our windows are broke down in every street, 84

And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops.

Enter, skirmishing, the Serving-men of Gloucester and Winchester, with bloody pates.

K. Hen.

We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,

To hold your slaught’ring hands, and keep the peace.—

Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. 88

First Serv.

Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we’ll fall to it with our teeth.

Sec. Serv.

Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.

[Skirmish again.

Glo.

You of my household, leave this peevish broil, 92

And set this unaccustom’d fight aside.

Third Serv.

My lord, we know your Grace to be a man

Just and upright, and, for your royal birth,

Inferior to none but to his majesty; 96

And ere that we will suffer such a prince,

So kind a father of the commonweal,

To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,

We and our wives and children all will fight, 100

And have our bodies slaught’red by thy foes.

First Serv.

Ay, and the very parings of our nails

Shall pitch a field when we are dead.

[Skirmish again.

Glo.

Stay, stay, I say!

And, if you love me, as you say you do, 104

Let me persuade you to forbear a while.

K. Hen.

O! how this discord doth afflict my soul!

Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold

My sighs and tears and will not once relent? 108

Who should be pitiful if you be not?

Or who should study to prefer a peace

If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

War.

Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester; 112

Except you mean with obstinate repulse

To slay your sov’reign and destroy the realm.

You see what mischief and what murder too

Hath been enacted through your enmity: 116

Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.

Win.

He shall submit or I will never yield.

Glo.

Compassion on the king commands me stoop;

Or I would see his heart out ere the priest 120

Should ever get that privilege of me.

War.

Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke

Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear: 124

Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Glo.

Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

K. Hen.

Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach,

That malice was a great and grievous sin; 128

And will not you maintain the thing you teach,

But prove a chief offender in the same?

War.

Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.

For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent! 132

What! shall a child instruct you what to do?

Win.

Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee;

Love for thy love and hand for hand I give.

Glo.

[Aside.] Ay; but I fear me, with a hollow heart. 136

See here, my friends and loving countrymen,

This token serveth for a flag of truce,

Betwixt ourselves and all our followers.

So help me God, as I dissemble not! 140

Win.

[Aside.] So help me God, as I intend it not!

K. Hen.

O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,

How joyful am I made by this contract!

Away, my masters! trouble us no more; 144

But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

First Serv.

Content: I’ll to the surgeon’s.

Sec. Serv.

And so will I.

Third Serv.

And I will see what physic the tavern affords.

[Exeunt Mayor, Serving-men, &c.

War.

Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign, 148

Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet

We do exhibit to your majesty.

Glo.

Well urg’d, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet prince,

An if your Grace mark every circumstance, 152

You have great reason to do Richard right;

Especially for those occasions

At Eltham-place I told your majesty.

K. Hen.

And those occasions, uncle, were of force: 156

Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is

That Richard be restored to his blood.

War.

Let Richard be restored to his blood;

So shall his father’s wrongs be recompens’d. 160

Win.

As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.

K. Hen.

If Richard will be true, not that alone,

But all the whole inheritance I give

That doth belong unto the house of York, 164

From whence you spring by lineal descent.

Plan.

Thy humble servant vows obedience,

And humble service till the point of death.

K. Hen.

Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; 168

And, in reguerdon of that duty done,

I girt thee with the valiant sword of York:

Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet,

And rise created princely Duke of York. 172

Plan.

And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall!

And as my duty springs, so perish they

That grudge one thought against your majesty!

All.

Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York! 176

Som.

[Aside.] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York!

Glo.

Now, will it best avail your majesty

To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France.

The presence of a king engenders love 180

Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends,

As it disanimates his enemies.

K. Hen.

When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes;

For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. 184

Glo.

Your ships already are in readiness.

[Flourish. Exeunt all except Exeter.

Exe.

Ay, we may march in England or in France,

Not seeing what is likely to ensue.

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers 188

Burns under feigned ashes of forg’d love,

And will at last break out into a flame:

As fester’d members rot but by degree,

Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, 192

So will this base and envious discord breed.

And now I fear that fatal prophecy

Which in the time of Henry, nam’d the Fifth,

Was in the mouth of every sucking babe; 196

That Henry born at Monmouth should win all;

And Henry born at Windsor should lose all:

Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish

His days may finish ere that hapless time. 200

[Exit.

Scene II.— France. Before Roan.

Enter Joan la Pucelle, disguised, and Soldiers dressed like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs.

Joan.

These are the city gates, the gates of Roan,

Through which our policy must make a breach:

Take heed, be wary how you place your words;

Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men 4

That come to gather money for their corn.

If we have entrance,—as I hope we shall,—

And that we find the slothful watch but weak,

I’ll by a sign give notice to our friends, 8

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

First Sold.

Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,

And we be lords and rulers over Roan;

Therefore we’ll knock.

[Knocks.

Guard.

[Within.] Qui est là? 13

Joan.

Paisans, pauvres gens de France:

Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn.

Guard.

[Opening the gates.] Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung. 16

Joan.

Now, Roan, I’ll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.

[Joan la Pucelle, &c., enter the city.

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Forces.

Char.

Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem!

And once again we’ll sleep secure in Roan.

Bast.

Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants; 20

Now she is there how will she specify

Where is the best and safest passage in?

Alen.

By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;

Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is, 24

No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d.

Enter Joan la Pucelle on a battlement, holding out a torch burning.

Joan.

Behold! this is the happy wedding torch

That joineth Roan unto her countrymen, 27

But burning fatal to the Talbotites!

[Exit.

Bast.

See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend,

The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

Char.

Now shine it like a comet of revenge,

A prophet to the fall of all our foes! 32

Alen.

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;

Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently,

And then do execution on the watch.

[They enter the town.

Alarum.

Enter Talbot in an Excursion.

Tal.

France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears, 36

If Talbot but survive thy treachery.

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,

That hardly we escap’d the pride of France. 40

[Exit.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter from the town, Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy, and the English Forces. Then, enter on the walls, Joan la Pucelle, Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, and Others.

Joan.

Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread?

I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast

Before he’ll buy again at such a rate.

’Twas full of darnel; do you like the taste? 44

Bur.

Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan!

I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own,

And make thee curse the harvest of that corn.

Char.

Your Grace may starve perhaps, before that time. 48

Bed.

O! let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason!

Joan.

What will you do, good grey-beard? break a lance,

And run a tilt at death within a chair?

Tal.

Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite, 52

Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours!

Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age

And twit with cowardice a man half dead?

Damsel, I’ll have a bout with you again, 56

Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

Joan.

Are you so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;

If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.

[Talbot and the rest consult together.

God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker? 60

Tal.

Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

Joan.

Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,

And there will we be too, ere it be long,

Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame! 76

Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house,—

Prick’d on by public wrongs sustain’d in France,—

Either to get the town again, or die;

And I, as sure as English Henry lives, 80

And as his father here was conqueror,

As sure as in this late-betrayed town

Great Cœur-de-lion’s heart was buried,

So sure I swear to get the town or die. 84

Bur.

My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

Tal.

But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,

The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,

We will bestow you in some better place, 88

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.

Bed.

Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me:

Here will I sit before the walls of Roan,

And will be partner of your weal or woe. 92

Bur.

Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.

Bed.

Not to be gone from hence; for once I read,

That stout Pendragon in his litter, sick,

Came to the field and vanquished his foes: 96

Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts,

Because I ever found them as myself.

Tal.

Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!

Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!

And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, 101

But gather we our forces out of hand,

And set upon our boasting enemy.

[Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants.

Alarum: Excursions; in one of which, enter Sir John Fastolfe and a Captain.

Cap.

Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste? 104

Fast.

Whither away! to save myself by flight:

We are like to have the overthrow again.

Cap.

What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

Fast.

Ay,

All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. 108

[Exit.

Cap.

Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!

[Exit.

Retreat: Excursions. Re-enter, from the town, Joan la Pucelle, Alençon, Charles, &c., and exeunt, flying.

Bed.

Now, quiet soul, depart when Heaven please,

For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow.

What is the trust or strength of foolish man?

They, that of late were daring with their scoffs

Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

[Dies, and is carried off in his chair.

Alarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and Others.

Tal.

Lost, and recover’d in a day again!

This is a double honour, Burgundy: 116

Yet heavens have glory for this victory!

Bur.

Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy

Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects

Thy noble deeds as valour’s monument. 120

Tal.

Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle now?

I think her old familiar is asleep.

Now where’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his gleeks?

What! all amort? Roan hangs her head for grief, 124

That such a valiant company are fled.

Now will we take some order in the town,

Placing therein some expert officers,

And then depart to Paris to the king; 128

For there young Henry with his nobles lie.

Bur.

What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.

Tal.

But yet, before we go, let’s not forget

The noble Duke of Bedford late deceas’d, 132

But see his exequies fulfill’d in Roan:

A braver soldier never couched lance,

A gentler heart did never sway in court;

But kings and mightiest potentates must die, 136

For that’s the end of human misery.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Plains near Roan.

Enter Charles, the Bastard of Orleans, Alençon, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces.

Joan.

Dismay not, princes, at this accident,

Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered:

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,

For things that are not to be remedied. 4

Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while,

And like a peacock sweep along his tail;

We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train,

If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul’d. 8

Char.

We have been guided by thee hitherto,

And of thy cunning had no diffidence:

One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bast.

Search out thy wit for secret policies,

And we will make thee famous through the world. 13

Alen.

We’ll set thy statue in some holy place

And have thee reverenc’d like a blessed saint:

Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good. 16

Joan.

Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:

By fair persuasions, mix’d with sugar’d words,

We will entice the Duke of Burgundy

To leave the Talbot and to follow us. 20

Char.

Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,

France were no place for Henry’s warriors;

Nor should that nation boast it so with us,

But be extirped from our provinces. 24

Alen.

For ever should they be expuls’d from France,

And not have title of an earldom here.

Joan.

Your honours shall perceive how I will work

To bring this matter to the wished end. 28

[Drums heard afar off.

Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive

Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.

Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over, Talbot and his Forces.

There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,

And all the troops of English after him. 32

A French march. Enter the Duke of Burgundy and his Forces.

Now in the rearward comes the duke and his:

Fortune in favour makes him lag behind.

Summon a parley; we will talk with him.

[A parley.

Char.

A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!

Bur.

Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? 37

Joan.

The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

Bur.

What sayst thou, Charles? for I am marching hence.

Char.

Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. 40

Joan.

Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!

Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

Bur.

Speak on; but be not over-tedious.

Joan.

Look on thy country, look on fertile France, 44

And see the cities and the towns defac’d

By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.

As looks the mother on her lowly babe

When death doth close his tender dying eyes, 48

See, see the pining malady of France;

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,

Which thou thyself hast giv’n her woeful breast.

O! turn thy edged sword another way; 52

Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.

One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom,

Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore:

Return thee therefore, with a flood of tears, 56

And wash away thy country’s stained spots.

Bur.

Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words,

Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Joan.

Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, 60

Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.

Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation

That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake?

When Talbot hath set footing once in France, 64

And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill,

Who then but English Henry will be lord,

And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?

Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof, 68

Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe,

And was he not in England prisoner?

But when they heard he was thine enemy,

They set him free, without his ransom paid, 72

In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.

See then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen!

And join’st with them will be thy slaughtermen.

Come, come, return; return thou wand’ring lord; 76

Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.

Bur.

I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers

Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot,

And made me almost yield upon my knees. 80

Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen!

And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace:

My forces and my power of men are yours.

So, farewell, Talbot; I’ll no longer trust thee. 84

Joan.

Done like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again!

Char.

Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes us fresh.

Bast.

And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alen.

Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this, 88

And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

Char.

Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers:

And seek how we may prejudice the foe.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Paris. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Bishop of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter; Vernon, Basset, and Others. To them with his Soldiers, Talbot.

Tal.

My gracious prince, and honourable peers,

Hearing of your arrival in this realm,

I have a while giv’n truce unto my wars,

To do my duty to my sovereign: 4

In sign whereof, this arm,—that hath reclaim’d

To your obedience fifty fortresses,

Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength,

Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem,— 8

Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet,

[Kneels.

And with submissive loyalty of heart,

Ascribes the glory of his conquest got,

First to my God, and next unto your Grace. 12

K. Hen.

Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester,

That hath so long been resident in France?

Glo.

Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

K. Hen.

Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! 16

When I was young,—as yet I am not old,—

I do remember how my father said,

A stouter champion never handled sword.

Long since we were resolved of your truth, 20

Your faithful service and your toil in war;

Yet never have you tasted our reward,

Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks,

Because till now we never saw your face: 24

Therefore, stand up; and for these good deserts,

We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;

And in our coronation take your place.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernon and Basset.

Ver.

Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,

Disgracing of these colours that I wear 29

In honour of my noble Lord of York,

Dar’st thou maintain the former words thou spak’st?

Bas.

Yes, sir: as well as you dare patronage

The envious barking of your saucy tongue 33

Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.

Ver.

Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is.

Bas.

Why, what is he? as good a man as York. 36

Ver.

Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.

[Strikes him.

Bas.

Villain, thou know’st the law of arms is such

That, whoso draws a sword, ’tis present death,

Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. 40

But I’ll unto his majesty, and crave

I may have liberty to venge this wrong;

When thou shalt see I’ll meet thee to thy cost.

Ver.

Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you; 44

And, after, meet you sooner than you would.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Paris. A Room of State.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, Exeter, York, Suffolk, Somerset, the Bishop of Winchester, Warwick, Talbot, the Governor of Paris, and Others.

Glo.

Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

Win.

God save King Henry, of that name the sixth.

Glo.

Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath,—

[Governor kneels.

That you elect no other king but him, 4

Esteem none friends but such as are his friends,

And none your foes but such as shall pretend

Malicious practices against his state:

This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! 8

[Exeunt Governor and his Train.

Enter Sir John Fastolfe.

Fast.

My gracious sovereign; as I rode from Calais,

To haste unto your coronation,

A letter was deliver’d to my hands,

Writ to your Grace from the Duke of Burgundy.

Tal.

Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! 13

I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next,

To tear the garter from thy craven’s leg;

[Plucking it off.

Which I have done, because unworthily 16

Thou wast installed in that high degree.

Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest:

This dastard, at the battle of Patay,

When but in all I was six thousand strong, 20

And that the French were almost ten to one,

Before we met or that a stroke was given,

Like to a trusty squire did run away:

In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;

Myself, and divers gentlemen beside, 25

Were there surpris’d and taken prisoners.

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;

Or whether that such cowards ought to wear 28

This ornament of knighthood, yea, or no?

Glo.

To say the truth, this fact was infamous

And ill beseeming any common man,

Much more a knight, a captain and a leader. 32

Tal.

When first this order was ordain’d, my lords,

Knights of the garter were of noble birth,

Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,

Such as were grown to credit by the wars; 36

Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,

But always resolute in most extremes.

He then that is not furnish’d in this sort

Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, 40

Profaning this most honourable order;

And should—if I were worthy to be judge—

Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain

That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. 44

K. Hen.

Stain to thy countrymen! thou hear’st thy doom.

Be packing therefore, thou that wast a knight;

Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death.

[Exit Fastolfe.

And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter 48

Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

Glo.

[Viewing superscription.] What means his Grace, that he hath chang’d his style?

No more, but plain and bluntly, To the King!

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? 52

Or doth this churlish superscription

Pretend some alteration in good will?

What’s here? I have, upon especial cause,

Mov’d with compassion of my country’s wrack,

Together with the pitiful complaints 57

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction,

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France. 60

K. Hen.

Then gather strength, and march unto him straight:

Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason,

And what offence it is to flout his friends.

Tal.

I go, my lord; in heart desiring still 76

You may behold confusion of your foes.

[Exit.

Enter Vernon and Basset.

Ver.

Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign!

Bas.

And me, my lord; grant me the combat too!

York.

This is my servant: hear him, noble prince! 80

Som.

And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him!

K. Hen.

Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak.

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?

And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom? 84

Ver.

With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.

Bas.

And I with him; for he hath done me wrong.

K. Hen.

What is that wrong whereof you both complain?

First let me know, and then I’ll answer you. 88

Bas.

Crossing the sea from England into France,

This fellow here, with envious carping tongue,

Upbraided me about the rose I wear;

Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves 92

Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks,

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth

About a certain question in the law

Argu’d betwixt the Duke of York and him; 96

With other vile and ignominious terms:

In confutation of which rude reproach,

And in defence of my lord’s worthiness,

I crave the benefit of law of arms. 100

Ver.

And that is my petition, noble lord:

For though he seem with forged quaint conceit,

To set a gloss upon his bold intent,

Yet know, my lord, I was provok’d by him; 104

And he first took exceptions at this badge,

Pronouncing, that the paleness of this flower

Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.

York.

Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? 108

Som.

Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,

Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.

K. Hen.

Good Lord! what madness rules in brain-sick men,

When, for so slight and frivolous a cause, 112

Such factious emulations shall arise!

Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,

Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.

York.

Let this dissension first be tried by fight, 116

And then your highness shall command a peace.

Som.

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it, then.

York.

There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. 120

Ver.

Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

Bas.

Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Glo.

Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!

And perish ye, with your audacious prate! 124

Presumptuous vassals! are you not asham’d,

With this immodest clamorous outrage

To trouble and disturb the king and us?—

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well 128

To bear with their perverse objections;

Much less to take occasion from their mouths

To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves:

Let me persuade you take a better course. 132

Exe.

It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends.

K. Hen.

Come hither, you that would be combatants.

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. 136

And you, my lords, remember where we are;

In France, amongst a fickle wav’ring nation.

If they perceive dissension in our looks,

And that within ourselves we disagree, 140

How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d

To wilful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise,

When foreign princes shall be certified 144

That for a toy, a thing of no regard,

King Henry’s peers and chief nobility

Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France!

O! think upon the conquest of my father, 148

My tender years, and let us not forego

That for a trifle that was bought with blood!

Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.

I see no reason, if I wear this rose, 152

[Putting on a red rose.

That any one should therefore be suspicious

I more incline to Somerset than York:

Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.

As well they may upbraid me with my crown,

Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown’d.

But your discretions better can persuade

Than I am able to instruct or teach:

And therefore, as we hither came in peace, 160

So let us still continue peace and love.

Cousin of York, we institute your Grace

To be our regent in these parts of France:

And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite 164

Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;

And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,

Go cheerfully together and digest

Your angry choler on your enemies. 168

Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest,

After some respite will return to Calais;

From thence to England; where I hope ere long

To be presented by your victories, 172

With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout.

[Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter, and Vernon.

War.

My Lord of York, I promise you, the king Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

York.

And so he did; but yet I like it not,

In that he wears the badge of Somerset. 177

War.

Tush! that was but his fancy, blame him not;

I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm.

York.

An if I wist he did,—But let it rest;

Other affairs must now be managed. 181

[Exeunt York, Warwick, and Vernon.

Exe.

Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;

For had the passions of thy heart burst out,

I fear we should have seen decipher’d there 184

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagin’d or suppos’d.

But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility, 188

This shouldering of each other in the court,

This factious bandying of their favourites,

But that it doth presage some ill event.

’Tis much when sceptres are in children’s hands;

But more, when envy breeds unkind division:

There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Before Bourdeaux.

Enter Talbot, with his Forces.

Tal.

Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter;

Summon their general unto the wall.

Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, on the Walls, the General of the French Forces, and Others.

English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,

Servant in arms to Harry King of England; 4

And thus he would: Open your city gates,

Be humble to us, call my sov’reign yours,

And do him homage as obedient subjects,

And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power; 8

But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace,

You tempt the fury of my three attendants,

Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;

Who in a moment even with the earth 12

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,

If you forsake the offer of their love.

Gen.

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge! 16

The period of thy tyranny approacheth.

On us thou canst not enter but by death;

For, I protest, we are well fortified,

And strong enough to issue out and fight: 20

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,

Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:

On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d,

To wall thee from the liberty of flight; 24

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress

But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,

And pale destruction meets thee in the face.

Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament,

To rive their dangerous artillery 29

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo! there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit: 32

This is the latest glory of thy praise,

That I, thy enemy, ’due thee withal;

For ere the glass, that now begins to run,

Finish the process of his sandy hour, 36

These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,

Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale, and dead.

[Drum afar off.

Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell,

Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; 40

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

[Exeunt General, &c., from the Walls.

Tal.

He fables not; I hear the enemy:

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.

O! negligent and heedless discipline; 44

How are we park’d and bounded in a pale,

A little herd of England’s timorous deer,

Maz’d with a yelping kennel of French curs!

If we be English deer, be then, in blood; 48

Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,

But rather moody-mad and desperate stags,

Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel,

And make the cowards stand aloof at bay: 52

Sell every man his life as dear as mine,

And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.

God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right,

Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! 56

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Plains in Gascony.

Enter York, with Forces; to him a Messenger.

York.

Are not the speedy scouts return’d again,

That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Mess.

They are return’d, my lord; and give it out,

That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his power,

To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along, 5

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which join’d with him and made their march for Bourdeaux. 8

York.

A plague upon that villain Somerset,

That thus delays my promised supply

Of horsemen that were levied for this siege!

Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, 12

And I am louted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier.

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. 16

Enter Sir William Lucy.

Lucy.

Thou princely leader of our English strength,

Never so needful on the earth of France,

Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,

Who now is girdled with a waist of iron 20

And hemm’d about with grim destruction.

To Bourdeaux, war-like duke! To Bourdeaux, York!

Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s honour.

York.

O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart 24

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place!

So should we save a valiant gentleman

By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.

Mad ire and wrathful fury, make me weep 28

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

Lucy.

O! send some succour to the distress’d lord.

York.

He dies, we lose; I break my war-like word;

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get; 32

All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset.

Lucy.

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul;

And on his son young John, whom two hours since

I met in travel toward his war-like father. 36

This seven years did not Talbot see his son;

And now they meet where both their lives are done.

York.

Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have,

To bid his young son welcome to his grave? 40

Away! vexation almost stops my breath

That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death.

Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,

But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. 44

Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,

’Long all of Somerset and his delay.

[Exit, with his Soldiers.

Lucy.

Thus, while the vulture of sedition

Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,

Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss 49

The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,

That ever living man of memory,

Henry the Fifth: Whiles they each other cross,

Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss. 53

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Other Plains in Gascony.

Enter Somerset, with his Army; a Captain of Talbot’s with him.

Som.

It is too late; I cannot send them now:

This expedition was by York and Talbot

Too rashly plotted: all our general force

Might with a sally of the very town 4

Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot

Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour

By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure:

York set him on to fight and die in shame, 8

That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Cap.

Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me

Set from our o’ermatch’d forces forth for aid.

Enter Sir William Lucy.

Som.

How now, Sir William! whither were you sent? 12

Lucy.

Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Lord Talbot;

Who, ring’d about with bold adversity,

Cries out for noble York and Somerset,

To beat assailing death from his weak legions:

And whiles the honourable captain there 17

Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,

And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,

You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s honour, 20

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.

Let not your private discord keep away

The levied succours that should lend him aid,

While he, renowned noble gentleman, 24

Yields up his life unto a world of odds:

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,

Alençon, Reignier, compass him about,

And Talbot perisheth by your default. 28

Som.

York set him on; York should have sent him aid.

Lucy.

And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims;

Swearing that you withhold his levied host

Collected for this expedition. 32

Som.

York lies; he might have sent and had the horse:

I owe him little duty, and less love;

And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.

Lucy.

The fraud of England, not the force of France, 36

Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot.

Never to England shall he bear his life,

But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife.

Som.

Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight: 40

Within six hours they will be at his aid.

Lucy.

Too late comes rescue: he is ta’en or slain,

For fly he could not if he would have fled;

And fly would Talbot never, though he might. 44

Som.

If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu!

Lucy.

His fame lives in the world, his shame in you.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The English Camp near Bourdeaux.

Enter Talbot and John his Son.

Tal.

O young John Talbot! I did send for thee

To tutor thee in stratagems of war,

That Talbot’s name might be in thee reviv’d

When sapless age, and weak unable limbs 4

Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.

But,—O malignant and ill-boding stars!

Now thou art come unto a feast of death,

A terrible and unavoided danger: 8

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,

And I’ll direct thee how thou shalt escape

By sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone.

John.

Is my name Talbot? and am I your son? 12

And shall I fly? O! if you love my mother,

Dishonour not her honourable name,

To make a bastard and a slave of me:

The world will say he is not Talbot’s blood 16

That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

Tal.

Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

John.

He that flies so will ne’er return again.

Tal.

If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

John.

Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly: 21

Your loss is great, so your regard should be;

My worth unknown, no loss is known in me.

Upon my death the French can little boast; 24

In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.

Flight cannot stain the honour you have won;

But mine it will that no exploit have done:

You fled for vantage everyone will swear; 28

But if I bow, they’ll say it was for fear.

There is no hope that ever I will stay

If the first hour I shrink and run away.

Here, on my knee, I beg mortality, 32

You cannot witness for me, being slain.

If death be so apparent, then both fly. 44

Tal.

And leave my followers here to fight and die?

My age was never tainted with such shame.

John.

And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?

No more can I be sever’d from your side 48

Than can yourself yourself in twain divide.

Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;

For live I will not if my father die.

Tal.

Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, 52

Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.

Come, side by side together live and die,

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Scene VI.— A Field of Battle.

Alarum: Excursions, wherein Talbot’s Son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him.

Tal.

Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight!

The regent hath with Talbot broke his word,

And left us to the rage of France his sword.

Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath: 4

I gave thee life and rescu’d thee from death.

John.

O! twice my father, twice am I thy son:

The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done,

Till with thy war-like sword, despite of fate, 8

To my determin’d time thou gav’st new date.

Tal.

When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire,

It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire

Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age, 12

Quicken’d with youthful spleen and war-like rage,

Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy,

And from the pride of Gallia rescu’d thee.

The ireful bastard Orleans,—that drew blood 16

From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood

Of thy first fight,—I soon encountered

And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed

Some of his bastard blood; and, in disgrace, 20

Bespoke him thus, ‘Contaminated, base,

And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,

Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine

Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:’ 24

Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,

Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care,

Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare?

Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, 28

Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry?

Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead;

The help of one stands me in little stead.

O! too much folly is it, well I wot, 32

To hazard all our lives in one small boat.

If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage,

To-morrow I shall die with mickle age:

By me they nothing gain an if I stay; 36

’Tis but the short’ning of my life one day.

In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name,

My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame.

All these and more we hazard by thy stay; 40

All these are sav’d if thou wilt fly away.

John.

The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart;

These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.

On that advantage, bought with such a shame,

To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, 45

Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,

The coward horse that bears me fall and die!

And like me to the peasant boys of France, 48

To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance!

Surely, by all the glory you have won,

An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son:

Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; 52

If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.

Tal.

Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete,

Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet:

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side, 56

And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Old Talbot, wounded, led by a Servant.

Tal.

Where is my other life?—mine own is gone;—

O! where’s young Talbot? where is valiant John?

Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity,

Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee.

When he perceiv’d me shrink and on my knee,

His bloody sword he brandish’d over me,

And like a hungry lion did commence

Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; 8

But when my angry guardant stood alone,

Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none,

Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart

Suddenly made him from my side to start 12

Into the clust’ring battle of the French;

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench

His overmounting spirit; and there died

My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. 16

Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of Young Talbot.

Serv.

O, my dear lord! lo, where your son is borne!

Tal.

Thou antick, death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 20

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,

In thy despite shall ’scape mortality.

O! thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death,

Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath; 24

Brave death by speaking whe’r he will or no;

Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.

Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say,

Had death been French, then death had died to-day. 28

Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms:

My spirit can no longer bear these harms.

Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,

Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.

[Dies.

Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter Charles, Alençon, Burgundy, the Bastard of Orleans, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces.

Char.

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in

We should have found a bloody day of this.

Bast.

How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood, 35

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!

Joan.

Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said:

‘Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’

But with a proud majestical high scorn,

He answer’d thus: ‘Young Talbot was not born

To be the pillage of a giglot wench.’ 41

So, rushing in the bowels of the French,

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur.

Doubtless he would have made a noble knight; 44

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.

Bast.

Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,

Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.

Char.

O, no! forbear; for that which we have fled 49

During the life, let us not wrong it dead.

Where is the great Alcides of the field,

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury? 61

Created, for his rare success in arms,

Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence;

Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, 64

Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Vordun of Alton,

Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,

The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;

Knight of the noble order of Saint George, 68

Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece;

Great mareschal to Henry the Sixth

Of all his wars within the realm of France?

Joan.

Here is a silly stately style indeed! 72

The Turk, that two-and-fifty kingdoms hath,

Writes not so tedious a style as this.

Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles,

Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. 76

Lucy.

Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,

Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?

O! were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d,

That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!

O! that I could but call these dead to life! 81

It were enough to fright the realm of France.

Were but his picture left among you here

It would amaze the proudest of you all. 84

Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence,

And give them burial as beseems their worth.

Joan.

I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost,

He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit.

For God’s sake, let him have ’em; to keep them here 89

They would but stink and putrefy the air.

Char.

Go, take their bodies hence.

Lucy.

I’ll bear them hence:

But from their ashes shall be rear’d 92

A phœnix that shall make all France afeard.

Char.

So we be rid of them, do with ’em what thou wilt.

And now to Paris, in this conquering vein:

All will be ours now bloody Talbot’s slain. 96

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Gloucester, and Exeter.

K. Hen.

Have you perus’d the letters from the pope,

The emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?

Glo.

I have, my lord; and their intent is this:

They humbly sue unto your excellence 4

To have a godly peace concluded of

Between the realms of England and of France.

K. Hen.

How doth your Grace affect their motion?

Glo.

Well, my good lord; and as the only means 8

To stop effusion of our Christian blood,

And stablish quietness on every side.

K. Hen.

Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought

It was both impious and unnatural 12

That such immanity and bloody strife

Should reign among professors of one faith.

Glo.

Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect

And surer bind this knot of amity, 16

The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,

A man of great authority in France,

Proffers his only daughter to your Grace

In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry.

K. Hen.

Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young, 21

And fitter is my study and my books

Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please, 24

So let them have their answers every one:

I shall be well content with any choice

Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal.

Enter a Legate, and two Ambassadors, with Winchester, now Cardinal Beaufort, and habited accordingly.

Exe.

[Aside.] What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d, 28

And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree?

Then, I perceive that will be verified

Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy,—

‘If once he come to be a cardinal, 32

He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’

K. Hen.

My lords ambassadors, your several suits

Have been consider’d, and debated on.

Your purpose is both good and reasonable; 36

And therefore are we certainly resolv’d

To draw conditions of a friendly peace;

Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean

Shall be transported presently to France. 40

Glo.

And for the proffer of my lord your master,

I have inform’d his highness so at large,

As,—liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts,

Her beauty, and the value of her dower,— 44

He doth intend she shall be England’s queen.

K. Hen.

[To the Ambassador.] In argument and proof of which contract,

Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.

And so, my lord protector, see them guarded, 48

And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d

Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

[Exeunt King Henry and Train; Gloucester, Exeter, and Ambassadors.

Win.

Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive

The sum of money which I promised 52

Should be deliver’d to his holiness

For clothing me in these grave ornaments.

Leg.

I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure.

Win.

[Aside.] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, 56

Or be inferior to the proudest peer.

Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive

That neither in birth or for authority

The bishop will be overborne by thee: 60

I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,

Or sack this country with a mutiny.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— France. Plains in Anjou.

Enter Charles, Burgundy, Alençon, Joan la Pucelle, and Forces, marching.

Char.

These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits;

’Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt,

And turn again unto the war-like French.

Alen.

Then, march to Paris, royal Charles of France, 4

And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

Joan.

Peace be amongst them if they turn to us;

Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

Enter a Scout.

Scout.

Success unto our valiant general, 8

And happiness to his accomplices!

Char.

What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak.

Scout.

The English army, that divided was

Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one, 12

And means to give you battle presently.

Char.

Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is:

But we will presently provide for them.

Bur.

I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there: 16

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.

Joan.

Of all base passions, fear is most accurs’d.

Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine;

Let Henry fret and all the world repine. 20

Char.

Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— France. Before Angiers.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Joan la Pucelle.

Joan.

The regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly.

Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;

And ye choice spirits that admonish me

And give me signs of future accidents: 4

[Thunder.

You speedy helpers, that are substitutes

Under the lordly monarch of the north,

Appear, and aid me in this enterprise!

Enter Fiends.

This speedy and quick appearance argues proof

Of your accustom’d diligence to me. 9

Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d

Out of the powerful regions under earth,

Help me this once, that France may get the field.

[They walk, and speak not.

O! hold me not with silence over-long. 13

Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,

I’ll lop a member off and give it you,

In earnest of a further benefit, 16

So you do condescend to help me now.

[They hang their heads.

No hope to have redress? My body shall

Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.

[They shake their heads.

Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice 20

Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?

Then take my soul; my body, soul, and all,

Before that England give the French the foil.

[They depart.

See! they forsake me. Now the time is come, 24

That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest,

And let her head fall into England’s lap.

My ancient incantations are too weak,

And hell too strong for me to buckle with: 28

Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.

[Exit.

Alarum. Enter French and English fighting: Joan la Pucelle and York fight hand to hand: Joan la Pucelle is taken. The French fly.

York.

Damsel of France, I think I have you fast:

Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,

And try if they can gain your liberty. 32

A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace!

See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows,

As if with Circe she would change my shape.

Joan.

Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be. 36

York.

O! Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;

No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

Joan.

A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!

And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d 40

By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

York.

Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue!

Joan.

I prithee, give me leave to curse a while.

York.

Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.

[Exeunt.

Alarum. Enter Suffolk, with Margaret in his hand.

Suf.

Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.

[Gazes on her.

O fairest beauty! do not fear nor fly,

For I will touch thee but with reverent hands.

I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, 48

And lay them gently on thy tender side.

What art thou? say, that I may honour thee.

Mar.

Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,

The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art. 52

Suf.

An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call’d.

Be not offended, nature’s miracle,

Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me:

So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, 56

Keeping them prisoners underneath her wings.

Yet if this servile usage once offend,

Go and be free again, as Suffolk’s friend.

[She turns away as going.

O stay! I have no power to let her pass; 60

My hand would free her, but my heart says no.

As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,

Twinkling another counterfeited beam,

So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. 64

Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak:

I’ll call for pen and ink and write my mind.

Fie, De la Pole! disable not thyself;

Hast not a tongue? is she not here thy prisoner? 68

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?

Ay; beauty’s princely majesty is such

Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

Mar.

Say, Earl of Suffolk,—if thy name be so,— 72

What ransom must I pay before I pass?

Mar.

To be a queen in bondage is more vile

Than is a slave in base servility; 113

For princes should be free.

Suf.

And so shall you,

If happy England’s royal king be free.

Mar.

Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? 116

Suf.

I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen,

To put a golden sceptre in thy hand

And set a precious crown upon thy head,

If thou wilt condescend to be my—

Mar.

What?

Suf.

His love. 120

Mar.

I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife.

Suf.

No, gentle madam; I unworthy am

To woo so fair a dame to be his wife

And have no portion in the choice myself. 124

How say you, madam, are you so content?

Mar.

An if my father please, I am content.

Suf.

Then call our captains and our colours forth!

And, madam, at your father’s castle walls 128

We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him.

[Troops come forward.

Yes, there is remedy enough; my lord:

Consent, and for thy honour, give consent,

Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, 136

Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto;

And this her easy-held imprisonment

Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty.

Reig.

Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?

Reig.

And I again, in Henry’s royal name,

As deputy unto that gracious king, 160

Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith.

Suf.

Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,

Because this is in traffic of a king:

[Aside.] And yet, methinks, I could be well content 164

To be mine own attorney in this case.

I’ll over then, to England with this news,

And make this marriage to be solemniz’d.

So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe, 168

In golden palaces, as it becomes.

Reig.

I do embrace thee, as I would embrace

The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.

Mar.

Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers 172

Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.

[Going.

Suf.

Farewell, sweet madam! but hark you, Margaret;

No princely commendations to my king?

Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise:

Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount

And natural graces that extinguish art;

Repeat their semblance often on the seas, 192

That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s feet,

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Camp of the Duke of York, in Anjou.

Enter York, Warwick, and Others.

York.

Bring forth that sorceress, condemn’d to burn.

Enter Joan la Pucelle, guarded; and a Shepherd.

Shep.

Ah, Joan! this kills thy father’s heart outright.

Have I sought every country far and near,

And, now it is my chance to find thee out, 4

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?

Ah, Joan! sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee.

Joan.

Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!

I am descended of a gentler blood: 8

Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.

Shep.

Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis not so;

I did beget her all the parish knows:

Her mother liveth yet, can testify 12

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

War.

Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage?

York.

This argues what her kind of life hath been:

Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. 16

Shep.

Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!

God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh;

And for thy sake have I shed many a tear:

Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. 20

Joan.

Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man,

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.

Shep.

’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest,

The morn that I was wedded to her mother. 24

Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.

Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time

Of thy nativity! I would the milk

Thy mother gave thee, when thou suck’dst her breast, 28

Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!

Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field

I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab? 32

O! burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.

[Exit.

York.

Take her away; for she hath liv’d too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Joan.

First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d: 36

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,

But issu’d from the progeny of kings;

Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,

By inspiration of celestial grace, 40

To work exceeding miracles on earth.

I never had to do with wicked spirits:

But you,—that are polluted with your lusts,

Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents, 44

Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,—

Because you want the grace that others have,

You judge it straight a thing impossible

To compass wonders but by help of devils. 48

No misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been

A virgin from her tender infancy,

Chaste and immaculate in very thought;

Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus’d, 52

Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.

York.

Ay, ay: away with her to execution!

War.

And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,

Spare for no fagots, let there be enow: 56

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,

That so her torture may be shortened.

Joan.

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity; 60

That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.

I am with child, ye bloody homicides:

Murder not then the fruit within my womb,

Although ye hale me to a violent death. 64

O! give me leave, I have deluded you:

’Twas neither Charles, nor yet the duke I nam’d,

But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d.

War.

A married man: that’s most intolerable.

York.

Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well, 80

There were so many, whom she may accuse.

War.

It’s sign she hath been liberal and free.

York.

And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.

Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:

Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. 85

Joan.

Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:

May never glorious sun reflex his beams

Upon the country where you make abode; 88

But darkness and the gloomy shade of death

Environ you, till mischief and despair

Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!

[Exit, guarded.

York.

Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, 92

Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

Enter Cardinal Beaufort, attended.

Car.

Lord regent, I do greet your excellence

With letters of commission from the king.

For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,

Mov’d with remorse of these outrageous broils,

Have earnestly implor’d a general peace 98

Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;

And here at hand the Dauphin, and his train,

Approacheth to confer about some matter. 101

York.

Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?

After the slaughter of so many peers,

So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers, 104

That in this quarrel have been overthrown,

And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit,

Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?

Have we not lost most part of all the towns, 108

By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,

Our great progenitors had conquered?

O! Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief

The utter loss of all the realm of France. 112

War.

Be patient, York: if we conclude a peace,

It shall be with such strict and severe covenants

As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.

Enter Charles, attended; Alençon, the Bastard of Orleans, Reignier, and Others.

Char.

Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed, 116

That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in France,

We come to be informed by yourselves

What the conditions of that league must be.

York.

Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes 120

The hollow passage of my poison’d voice,

By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Car.

Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:

That, in regard King Henry gives consent, 124

Of mere compassion and of lenity,

To ease your country of distressful war,

And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,

You shall become true liegemen to his crown:

And, Charles, upon-condition thou wilt swear

To pay him tribute, and submit thyself,

Thou shalt be plac’d as viceroy under him,

And still enjoy thy regal dignity. 132

Alen.

Must he be then, as shadow of himself?

Adorn his temples with a coronet,

And yet, in substance and authority,

Retain but privilege of a private man? 136

This proffer is absurd and reasonless.

Char.

’Tis known already that I am possess’d

With more than half the Gallian territories,

And therein reverenc’d for their lawful king: 140

Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d,

Detract so much from that prerogative

As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole?

No, lord ambassador; I’ll rather keep 144

That which I have than, coveting for more,

Be cast from possibility of all.

York.

Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means

Us’d intercession to obtain a league, 148

And now the matter grows to compromise,

Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison?

Either accept the title thou usurp’st,

Of benefit proceeding from our king 152

And not of any challenge of desert,

Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

Reig.

My lord, you do not well in obstinacy

To cavil in the course of this contract: 156

If once it be neglected, ten to one,

We shall not find like opportunity.

Alen.

[Aside to Charles.] To say the truth, it is your policy

To save your subjects from such massacre 160

And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen

By our proceeding in hostility;

And therefore take this compact of a truce,

Although you break it when your pleasure serves.

War.

How sayst thou, Charles? shall our condition stand? 165

Char.

It shall;

Only reserv’d, you claim no interest

In any of our towns of garrison. 168

York.

Then swear allegiance to his majesty;

As thou art knight, never to disobey

Nor be rebellious to the crown of England,

Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.

[Charles, &c., give tokens of fealty.

So, now dismiss your army when ye please;

Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,

For here we entertain a solemn peace.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, in conference with Suffolk; Gloucester and Exeter following.

K. Hen.

Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,

Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me:

Her virtues, graced with external gifts

Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart: 4

And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts

Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,

So am I driven by breath of her renown

Either to suffer shipwrack, or arrive 8

Where I may have fruition of her love.

Suf.

Tush! my good lord, this superficial tale

Is but a preface of her worthy praise:

The chief perfections of that lovely dame— 12

Had I sufficient skill to utter them—

Would make a volume of enticing lines,

Able to ravish any dull conceit:

And, which is more, she is not so divine, 16

So full replete with choice of all delights,

But with as humble lowliness of mind

She is content to be at your command;

Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, 20

To love and honour Henry as her lord.

K. Hen.

And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume.

Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent

That Margaret may be England’s royal queen.

Glo.

So should I give consent to flatter sin. 25

You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d

Unto another lady of esteem;

How shall we then dispense with that contract,

And not deface your honour with reproach? 29

Suf.

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;

Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d

To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists 32

By reason of his adversary’s odds.

A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds,

And therefore may be broke without offence.

Glo.

Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? 36

Her father is no better than an earl,

Although in glorious titles he excel.

Suf.

Yes, my good lord, her father is a king,

The King of Naples and Jerusalem; 40

And of such great authority in France

As his alliance will confirm our peace,

And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.

Glo.

And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, 44

Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.

Exe.

Beside, his wealth doth warrant liberal dower,

Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

Suf.

A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king, 48

That he should be so abject, base, and poor,

To choose for wealth and not for perfect love.

Henry is able to enrich his queen,

And not to seek a queen to make him rich: 52

So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,

As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.

Marriage is a matter of more worth

Than to be dealt in by attorneyship: 56

Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects,

Must be companion of his nuptial bed;

And therefore, lords, since he affects her most

It most of all these reasons bindeth us, 60

In our opinions she should be preferr’d.

For what is wedlock forced, but a hell,

An age of discord and continual strife?

Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, 64

And is a pattern of celestial peace.

Whom should we match with Henry, being a king,

But Margaret, that is daughter to a king?

Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, 68

Approves her fit for none but for a king:

Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit—

More than in women commonly is seen—

Will answer our hope in issue of a king; 72

For Henry, son unto a conqueror,

Is likely to beget more conquerors,

If with a lady of so high resolve

As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love. 76

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me

That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.

K. Hen.

Whether it be through force of your report,

My noble lord of Suffolk, or for that 80

My tender youth was never yet attaint

With any passion of inflaming love,

I cannot tell; but this I am assur’d,

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, 84

Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear,

As I am sick with working of my thoughts.

Take, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France;

Agree to any covenants, and procure 88

That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come

To cross the seas to England and be crown’d

King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen:

For your expenses and sufficient charge, 92

Among the people gather up a tenth.

Be gone, I say; for till you do return

I rest perplexed with a thousand cares.

And you, good uncle, banish all offence: 96

If you do censure me by what you were,

Not what you are, I know it will excuse

This sudden execution of my will.

And so, conduct me, where, from company 100

I may revolve and ruminate my grief.

[Exit.

Glo.

Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter.

Suf.

Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he goes,

As did the youthful Paris once to Greece; 104

With hope to find the like event in love,

But prosper better than the Trojan did.

Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king;

But I will rule both her, the king, and realm. 108

[Exit.

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Sixth.
Humphrey,	Duke of Gloucester, his Uncle.
Cardinal Beaufort,	Bishop of Winchester, Great-Uncle to the King.
Richard Plantagenet,	Duke of York.
Edward and Richard,	his Sons.
Duke of Somerset, }	Of the King’s Party.
Duke of Suffolk, }
Duke of Buckingham, }
Lord Clifford, }
Young Clifford, his Son, }
Earl of Salisbury, }	of the York Faction\.
Earl of Warwick, }	of the York Faction\.
Lord Scales,	Governor of the Tower.
Sir Humphrey Stafford, and William Stafford,	his Brother.
Lord Say.
A Sea-captain, Master, and Master’s Mate.
Walter Whitmore.
Sir John Stanley.
Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk.
Vaux.
Matthew Goffe.
John Hume and John Southwell,	Priests.
Bolingbroke,	a Conjurer.
A Spirit raised by him.
Thomas Horner,	an Armourer.
Peter,	his Man.
Clerk of Chatham.
Mayor of St. Alban’s.
Simpcox,	an Impostor.
Two Murderers.
Jack Cade,	a Rebel.
George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver. Michael,	&c., Followers of Cade.
Alexander Iden,	a Kentish Gentleman.
Margaret,	Queen to King Henry.
Eleanor,	Duchess of Gloucester.
Margery Jourdain,	a Witch.
Wife to Simpcox.
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Herald, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers; Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c.

Scene.—In various parts of England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish of Trumpets: then hautboys. Enter, on one side, King Henry, Duke of Gloucester, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort; on the other, Queen Margaret, led in by Suffolk; York, Somerset, Buckingham, and Others, following.

Suf.

As by your high imperial majesty

I had in charge at my depart for France,

As procurator to your excellence,

To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace; 4

So, in the famous ancient city, Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,

The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Britaine, and Alençon,

Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, 8

I have perform’d my task, and was espous’d:

And humbly now upon my bended knee,

In sight of England and her lordly peers,

Deliver up my title in the queen 12

To your most gracious hands, that are the substance

Of that great shadow I did represent;

The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,

The fairest queen that ever king receiv’d. 16

K. Hen.

Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret:

I can express no kinder sign of love

Than this kind kiss. O Lord! that lends me life,

Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness! 20

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face

A world of earthly blessings to my soul,

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

Q. Mar.

Great King of England and my gracious lord, 24

The mutual conference that my mind hath had

By day, by night, waking, and in my dreams,

In courtly company, or at my beads,

With you, mine alderliefest sovereign, 28

Makes me the bolder to salute my king

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords,

And over-joy of heart doth minister.

K. Hen.

Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, 32

Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty,

Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys;

Such is the fulness of my heart’s content.

Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. 36

All.

Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness!

Q. Mar.

We thank you all.

[Flourish.

Suf.

My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace,

Here are the articles of contracted peace 40

Between our sovereign and the French King Charles,

For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Glo.

Imprimis, It is agreed between the French king, Charles, and William De la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, That the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the king her father.—

They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down: 64

We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk,

And girt thee with the sword. Cousin of York,

We here discharge your Grace from being regent

I’ the parts of France, till term of eighteen months 68

Be full expir’d. Thanks, uncle Winchester,

Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,

Salisbury, and Warwick;

We thank you all for this great favour done, 72

In entertainment to my princely queen.

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide

To see her coronation be perform’d.

[Exeunt King, Queen, and Suffolk.

Glo.

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, 76

To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,

Your grief, the common grief of all the land.

What! did my brother Henry spend his youth,

His valour, coin, and people, in the wars? 80

Did he so often lodge in open field,

In winter’s cold, and summer’s parching heat,

To conquer France, his true inheritance?

And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, 84

To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,

Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,

Receiv’d deep scars in France and Normandy?

Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, 89

With all the learned council of the realm,

Studied so long, sat in the council-house

Early and late, debating to and fro 92

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe?

And hath his highness in his infancy

Been crown’d in Paris, in despite of foes?

And shall these labours and these honours die?

Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance, 97

Your deeds of war and all our counsel die?

O peers of England! shameful is this league,

Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, 100

Blotting your names from books of memory,

Razing the characters of your renown,

Defacing monuments of conquer’d France,

Undoing all, as all had never been. 104

Car.

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,

This peroration with such circumstance?

For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still.

Glo.

Ay, uncle; we will keep it, if we can;

But now it is impossible we should. 109

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,

Hath given the duchies of Anjou and Maine

Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style

Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. 113

Sal.

Now, by the death of him who died for all,

These counties were the keys of Normandy. 115

But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

War.

For grief that they are past recovery:

For, were there hope to conquer them again,

My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. 119

Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both;

Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer:

And are the cities, that I got with wounds,

Deliver’d up again with peaceful words?

Mort Dieu! 124

York.

For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,

That dims the honour of this war-like isle!

France should have torn and rent my very heart

Before I would have yielded to this league. 128

I never read but England’s kings have had

Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives;

And our King Henry gives away his own,

To match with her that brings no vantages. 132

Glo.

A proper jest, and never heard before,

That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth

For costs and charges in transporting her!

She should have stay’d in France, and starv’d in France, 136

Before—

Car.

My Lord of Gloucester, now you grow too hot:

It was the pleasure of my lord the king.

Glo.

My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind: 140

’Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,

But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye.

Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face

I see thy fury. If I longer stay 144

We shall begin our ancient bickerings.

Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

[Exit.

Car.

So, there goes our protector in a rage.

’Tis known to you he is mine enemy, 149

Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,

And no great friend, I fear me, to the king.

Consider lords, he is the next of blood, 152

And heir apparent to the English crown:

Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,

And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,

There’s reason he should be displeas’d at it. 156

Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words

Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.

What though the common people favour him,

Calling him, ‘Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester;’ 160

Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice,

‘Jesu maintain your royal excellence!’

With ‘God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!’

I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss, 164

He will be found a dangerous protector.

Buck.

Why should he then protect our sovereign,

He being of age to govern of himself?

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, 168

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

Car.

This weighty business will not brook delay;

I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

[Exit.

Som.

Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride 173

And greatness of his place be grief to us,

Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal:

His insolence is more intolerable 176

Than all the princes in the land beside:

If Gloucester be displac’d, he’ll be protector.

Buck.

Or thou, or I, Somerset, will be protector,

Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal. 180

[Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset.

Sal.

Pride went before, ambition follows him.

While these do labour for their own preferment,

Behoves it us to labour for the realm.

I never saw but Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester,

Did bear him like a noble gentleman. 185

Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal

More like a soldier than a man o’ the church,

As stout and proud as he were lord of all, 188

Swear like a ruffian and demean himself

Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.

Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age,

Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy house-keeping,

Have won the greatest favour of the commons,

Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey:

And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,

In bringing them to civil discipline, 196

Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,

When thou wert regent for our sovereign,

Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people.

Join we together for the public good, 200

In what we can to bridle and suppress

The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal,

With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition;

And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds, 204

While they do tend the profit of the land.

War.

So God help Warwick, as he loves the land,

And common profit of his country!

York.

[Aside.] And so says York, for he hath greatest cause. 208

Sal.

Then let’s make haste away, and look unto the main.

War.

Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost!

That Maine which by main force Warwick did win,

And would have kept so long as breath did last:

Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine, 213

Which I will win from France, or else be slain.

[Exeunt Warwick and Salisbury.

York.

Anjou and Maine are given to the French;

Paris is lost; the state of Normandy 216

Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas’d

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter. 220

I cannot blame them all: what is’t to them?

’Tis thine they give away, and not their own.

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,

And purchase friends, and give to courtezans,

Still revelling like lords till all be gone; 225

While as the silly owner of the goods

Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,

And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,

While all is shar’d and all is borne away, 229

Ready to starve and dare not touch his own:

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue

While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold.

Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland 233

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althæa burn’d

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon. 236

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,

Even as I have of fertile England’s soil.

A day will come when York shall claim his own;

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts 241

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,

For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit. 244

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right.

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose church-like humours fit not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve:

Watch thou and wake when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state;

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, 252

With his new bride and England’s dear-bought queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars:

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum’d, 256

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To grapple with the house of Lancaster;

And, force perforce, I’ll make him yield the crown,

Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England down.

[Exit.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Duke of Gloucester’s House.

Enter Gloucester and his Duchess.

Duch.

Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d corn

Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load?

Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,

As frowning at the favours of the world? 4

Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth,

Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem

Enchas’d with all the honours of the world? 8

If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,

Until thy head be circled with the same.

Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold:

What! is’t too short? I’ll lengthen it with mine; 12

And having both together heav’d it up,

We’ll both together lift our heads to heaven,

And never more abase our sight so low

As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. 16

Glo.

O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,

Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts:

And may that thought, when I imagine ill

Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,

Be my last breathing in this mortal world! 21

My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.

Duch.

What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I’ll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. 24

Glo.

Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court,

Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot,

But, as I think, it was by the cardinal;

And on the pieces of the broken wand 28

Were plac’d the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset,

And William De la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk.

This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows.

Duch.

Tut! this was nothing but an argument 32

That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s grove

Shall lose his head for his presumption.

But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:

Methought I sat in seat of majesty 36

In the cathedral church of Westminster,

And in that chair where kings and queens are crown’d;

Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel’d to me,

And on my head did set the diadem. 40

Glo.

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:

Presumptuous dame! ill-nurtur’d Eleanor!

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

And the protector’s wife, belov’d of him? 44

Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,

Above the reach or compass of thy thought?

And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,

To tumble down thy husband and thyself 48

From top of honour to disgrace’s feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more.

Duch.

What, what, my lord! are you so choleric

With Eleanor, for telling but her dream? 52

Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,

And not be check’d.

Glo.

Nay, be not angry; I am pleas’d again.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My Lord Protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure 56

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,

Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk.

Glo.

I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Duch.

Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently. 60

[Exeunt Gloucester and Messenger.

Follow I must; I cannot go before,

While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,

I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks

And smooth my way upon their headless necks;

And, being a woman, I will not be slack

To play my part in Fortune’s pageant.

Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man, 68

We are alone; here’s none but thee and I.

Enter Hume.

Hume.

Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

Duch.

What sayst thou? majesty! I am but Grace.

Hume.

But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice, 72

Your Grace’s title shall be multiplied.

Duch.

What sayst thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer? 76

And will they undertake to do me good?

Hume.

This they have promised, to show your highness

A spirit rais’d from depth of under ground,

That shall make answer to such questions 80

As by your Grace shall be propounded him.

Duch.

It is enough: I’ll think upon the questions.

When from Saint Alban’s we do make return

We’ll see these things effected to the full. 84

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,

With thy confed’rates in this weighty cause.

[Exit.

Hume.

Hume must make merry with the duchess’ gold;

Marry and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume! 88

Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum:

The business asketh silent secrecy.

Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch:

Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. 92

Yet have I gold flies from another coast:

I dare not say from the rich cardinal

And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk;

Yet I do find it so: for, to be plain, 96

They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour,

Have hired me to undermine the duchess

And buzz these conjurations in her brain.

They say, ‘A crafty knave does need no broker;’

Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker. 101

Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near

To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.

Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last 104

Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wrack,

And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall.

Sort how it will I shall have gold for all.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Armourer’s man, being one.

First Pet.

My masters, let’s stand close: my Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. 4

Sec. Pet.

Suf.

Who is there? 36

Enter Servants.

Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently. We’ll hear more of your matter before the king.

[Exeunt Servants with Peter.

Q. Mar.

And as for you, that love to be protected 40

Under the wings of our protector’s grace,

Begin your suits anew and sue to him.

[Tears the petitions.

Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go.

All.

Come, let’s be gone. 44

[Exeunt Petitioners.

Q. Mar.

My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,

Is this the fashion of the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain’s isle,

And this the royalty of Albion’s king? 48

What! shall King Henry be a pupil still

Under the surly Gloucester’s governance?

Am I a queen in title and in style,

And must be made a subject to a duke? 52

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours

Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love,

And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France,

I thought King Henry had resembled thee 56

In courage, courtship, and proportion:

But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave-Maries on his beads;

His champions are the prophets and apostles;

His weapons holy saws of sacred writ; 61

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canoniz’d saints.

I would the college of the cardinals 64

Would choose him pope, and carry him to Rome,

And set the triple crown upon his head:

That were a state fit for his holiness.

Suf.

Madam, be patient; as I was cause 68

Your highness came to England, so will I

In England work your Grace’s full content.

Q. Mar.

Beside the haught protector, have we Beaufort

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham, 72

And grumbling York; and not the least of these

But can do more in England than the king.

Suf.

And he of these that can do most of all

Cannot do more in England than the Nevils: 76

Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Q. Mar.

Not all these lords do vex me half so much

As that proud dame, the Lord Protector’s wife:

She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, 80

More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife.

Strangers in court do take her for the queen:

She bears a duke’s revenues on her back,

And in her heart she scorns our poverty. 84

Shall I not live to be aveng’d on her?

Contemptuous base-born callot as she is,

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’other day

The very train of her worst wearing gown 88

Was better worth than all my father’s lands,

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Suf.

Madam, myself have lim’d a bush for her,

And plac’d a quire of such enticing birds 92

That she will light to listen to the lays,

And never mount to trouble you again.

So, let her rest: and, madam, list to me;

For I am bold to counsel you in this. 96

Although we fancy not the cardinal,

Yet must we join with him and with the lords

Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.

As for the Duke of York, this late complaint 100

Will make but little for his benefit:

So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last,

And you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

Sound a sennet. Enter King Henry, York, and Somerset; Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, Buckingham, Salisbury, and Warwick.

K. Hen.

For my part, noble lords, I care not which; 104

Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me.

York.

If York have ill demean’d himself in France,

Then let him be denay’d the regentship.

Som.

If Somerset be unworthy of the place,

Let York be regent; I will yield to him. 109

War.

Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,

Dispute not that: York is the worthier.

Car.

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. 112

War

The cardinal’s not my better in the field.

Buck.

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

War.

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Sal.

Peace, son! and show some reason, Buckingham, 116

Why Somerset should be preferr’d in this.

Q. Mar.

Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.

Glo.

Madam, the king is old enough himself

To give his censure: these are no women’s matters. 120

Q. Mar.

If he be old enough, what needs your Grace

To be protector of his excellence?

Glo.

Madam, I am protector of the realm;

And at his pleasure will resign my place. 124

Suf.

Resign it then and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wertking,—as who is king but thou?—

The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack;

The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas;

And all the peers and nobles of the realm 129

Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

Car.

The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s bags

Are lank and lean with thy extortions. 132

Som.

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire

Have cost a mass of public treasury.

Buck.

Thy cruelty in execution

Upon offenders hath exceeded law, 136

And left thee to the mercy of the law.

Q. Mar.

Thy sale of offices and towns in France,

If they were known, as the suspect is great,

Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.

[Exit Gloucester. The Queen drops her fan.

Give me my fan: what, minion! can ye not?

[Giving the Duchess a box on the ear.

I cry you mercy, madam, was it you?

Duch.

Was’t I? yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman:

Could I come near your beauty with my nails

I’d set my ten commandments in your face. 145

K. Hen.

Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will.

Duch.

Against her will! Good king, look to’t in time;

She’ll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby:

Though in this place most master wear no breeches, 149

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng’d.

[Exit.

Buck.

Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,

And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds:

She’s tickled now; her fume can need no spurs,

She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction.

[Exit Buckingham.

Re-enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Now, lords, my choler being over-blown

With walking once about the quadrangle, 156

I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.

As for your spiteful false objections,

Prove them, and I lie open to the law:

But God in mercy so deal with my soul 160

As I in duty love my king and country!

But to the matter that we have in hand.

I say, my sov’reign, York is meetest man

To be your regent in the realm of France. 164

Suf.

Before we make election, give me leave

To show some reason, of no little force,

That York is most unmeet of any man.

York.

I’ll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: 168

First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;

Next, if I be appointed for the place,

My Lord of Somerset will keep me here,

Without discharge, money, or furniture, 172

Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands.

Last time I danc’d attendance on his will

Till Paris was besieg’d, famish’d, and lost.

War.

Please it your majesty, this is the man

That doth accuse his master of high treason. 185

His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,

Was rightful heir unto the English crown,

And that your majesty was a usurper. 188

K. Hen.

Say, man, were these thy words?

Hor.

An’t shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter: God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain. 192

Pet.

By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York’s armour.

York.

Base dunghill villain, and mechanical,

I’ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech.

I do beseech your royal majesty 198

Let him have all the rigour of the law.

Hor.

Alas! my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me: I have good witness of this: therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation.

K. Hen

Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

Glo.

This doom, my lord, if I may judge. 208

Let Somerset be regent o’er the French,

Because in York this breeds suspicion;

And let these have a day appointed them

For single combat in convenient place; 212

For he hath witness of his servant’s malice.

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom.

K. Hen.

Then be it so. My Lord of Somerset,

We make your Grace lord regent o’er the French. 216

Som.

I humbly thank your royal majesty.

Hor.

And I accept the combat willingly.

Pet.

Alas! my lord, I cannot fight: for God’s sake, pity my case! the spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart!

Glo.

Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d. 224

K. Hen.

Away with them to prison; and the day

Of combat shall be the last of the next month.

Come, Somerset, we’ll see thee sent away.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The Duke of Gloucester’s Garden.

Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, and Bolingbroke.

Hume.

Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

Boling.

Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms? 5

Hume.

Ay; what else? fear you not her courage.

Boling.

I have heard her reported to be a woman of invincible spirit: but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so, I pray you, go in God’s name, and leave us. [Exit Hume.] Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate, and grovel on the earth; John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work.

Enter Duchess aloft, Hume following.

Duch.

Well said, my masters, and welcome all. 16

To this gear the sooner the better.

Boling.

Patience, good lady; wizards know their times:

Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,

The time of night when Troy was set on fire; 20

The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howl,

And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves,

That time best fits the work we have in hand.

Madam, sit you, and fear not: whom we raise

We will make fast within a hallow’d verge. 25

[Here they perform the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke, or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, &c. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth.

Spir.

Adsum.

M. Jourd.

Asmath!

By the eternal God, whose name and power 28

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;

Let him shun castles:

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand. 40

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Boling.

Descend to darkness and the burning lake!

False fiend, avoid!

[Thunder and lightning. Spirit descends.

Enter York and Buckingham, hastily, with their Guards, and Others.

York.

Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash. 44

Beldam, I think we watch’d you at an inch.

What! madam, are you there? the king and commonweal

Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains:

My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not, 48

See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts.

Duch.

Not half so bad as thine to England’s king,

Injurious duke, that threat’st where is no cause.

Buck.

True, madam, none at all. What call you this?

[Showing her the papers.

Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close 53

And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us:

Stafford, take her to thee.—

[Exeunt above, Duchess and Hume guarded.

We’ll see your trinkets here all forthcoming. 56

All, away!

[Exeunt Southwell, Bolingbroke, &c., guarded.

York.

Lord Buckingham, methinks you watch’d her well:

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ. 60

What have we here?

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.

Why, this is just, 64

Aio te, Æacida, Romanos vincere posse.

Well, to the rest:

Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?

By water shall he die and take his end. 68

What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?

Let him shun castles:

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand. 72

Come, come, my lords; these oracles

Are hardly attain’d, and hardly understood.

The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s;

With him, the husband of this lovely lady: 76

Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them,

A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector.

Buck.

Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,

To be the post, in hope of his reward. 80

York.

At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s within there, ho!

Enter a Serving-man.

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick

To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— St. Alban’s.

Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, Cardinal Beaufort, and Suffolk, with Falconers, hollaing.

Q. Mar.

Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,

I saw not better sport these seven years’ day:

Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,

And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. 4

K. Hen.

But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,

And what a pitch she flew above the rest!

To see how God in all his creatures works!

Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. 8

Suf.

No marvel, an it like your majesty,

My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well;

They know their master loves to be aloft,

And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch.

Glo.

My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind 13

That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Car.

I thought as much; he’d be above the clouds.

Glo.

Ay, my Lord Cardinal; how think you by that? 16

Were it not good your Grace could fly to heaven?

K. Hen.

The treasury of everlasting joy.

Car.

Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart; 20

Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal!

Glo.

What! cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?

Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ? 24

Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;

With such holiness can you do it?

Suf.

No malice, sir; no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. 28

Glo.

As who, my lord?

Suf.

Why, as you, my lord,

An’t like your lordly lord-protectorship.

Glo.

Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

Q. Mar.

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

K. Hen.

I prithee, peace, 32

Good queen, and whet not on these furious peers;

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Car.

Let me be blessed for the peace I make

Against this proud protector with my sword! 36

Glo.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Faith, holy uncle, would ’twere come to that!

Car.

[Aside to Gloucester.] Marry, when thou dar’st.

Glo.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Make up no factious numbers for the matter;

In thine own person answer thy abuse. 40

Car.

[Aside to the Cardinal.] Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown

For this, or all my fence shall fail. 52

Car.

[Aside to Gloucester.] Medice teipsum;

Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself.

K. Hen.

The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart! 56

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter One, crying, ‘A Miracle.’

Glo.

What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim? 60

One.

A miracle! a miracle!

Suf.

Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.

One.

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine,

Within this half hour hath receiv’d his sight; 64

A man that ne’er saw in his life before.

K. Hen.

Now, God be prais’d, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s, and his Brethren, and Simpcox, borne between two persons in a chair; his Wife and a great multitude following.

Car.

Here comes the townsmen on procession,

To present your highness with the man. 69

K. Hen.

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Glo.

Stand by, my masters; bring him near the king: 72

His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him.

K. Hen.

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What! hast thou been long blind, and now restor’d? 76

Simp.

Born blind, an’t please your Grace.

Wife.

Ay, indeed, was he.

Suf.

What woman is this?

Wife.

His wife, an’t like your worship. 80

Glo.

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

K. Hen.

Where wert thou born?

Simp.

At Berwick in the north, an’t like your Grace.

K. Hen.

Poor soul! God’s goodness hath been great to thee: 84

Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Q. Mar.

Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine? 88

Simp.

God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d

A hundred times and oft’ner in my sleep,

By good Saint Alban; who said, ‘Simpcox, come;

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.’

Wife.

Simp.

Alas! master, my wife desir’d some damsons,

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[Exit an Attendant.

Glo.

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.

[A stool brought out.] Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

Simp.

Alas! master, I am not able to stand alone: 144

You go about to torture me in vain.

Re-enter Attendant, and a Beadle with a whip.

Glo.

Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool. 148

Bead.

I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

Simp.

Alas! master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand. 152

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. 164

A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,

Under the countenance and confederacy

Of Lady Eleanor, the protector’s wife,

The ringleader and head of all this rout, 168

Have practis’d dangerously against your state,

Dealing with witches and with conjurers:

Whom we have apprehended in the fact;

Raising up wicked spirits from under-ground,

Demanding of King Henry’s life and death, 173

And other of your highness’ privy council,

As more at large your Grace shall understand.

Car.

And so, my Lord Protector, by this means

Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. 177

This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge;

’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

Glo.

Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart: 180

Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers;

And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.

K. Hen.

O God! what mischiefs work the wicked ones, 184

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby.

Q. Mar.

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest;

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Glo.

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,

How I have lov’d my king and commonweal; 189

And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.

Sorry I am to hear what I have heard:

Noble she is, but if she have forgot 192

Honour and virtue, and convers’d with such

As, like to pitch, defile nobility,

I banish her my bed and company,

And give her, as a prey, to law and shame, 196

That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name.

K. Hen.

Well, for this night we will repose us here:

To-morrow toward London back again,

To look into this business thoroughly, 200

And call these foul offenders to their answers;

And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales,

Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene II.— London. The Duke of York’s Garden.

Enter York, Salisbury, and Warwick.

York.

Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,

Our simple supper ended, give me leave,

In this close walk to satisfy myself,

In craving your opinion of my title, 4

Which is infallible to England’s crown.

Sal.

My lord, I long to hear it at full.

War.

Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,

The Nevils are thy subjects to command. 8

York.

Then thus:

Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:

The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;

The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,

Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom 13

Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;

The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;

The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester; 16

William of Windsor was the seventh and last.

Edward the Black Prince died before his father,

And left behind him Richard, his only son,

Who after Edward the Third’s death, reign’d as king; 20

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,

The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,

Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth,

Seiz’d on the realm, depos’d the rightful king, 24

Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,

And him to Pomfret; where as all you know,

Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously.

War.

Father, the duke hath told the truth;

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. 29

York.

Which now they hold by force and not by right;

For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead,

The issue of the next son should have reign’d. 32

Sal.

But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

York.

The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line

I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe a daughter,

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March:

Edmund had issue Roger, Earl of March: 37

Roger had issue Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.

Sal.

This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown; 40

And but for Owen Glendower, had been king,

Who kept him in captivity till he died.

But, to the rest.

York.

His eldest sister, Anne,

My mother, being heir unto the crown, 44

Married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was son

To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son.

By her I claim the kingdom: she was heir

To Roger, Earl of March; who was the son 48

Of Edmund Mortimer; who married Philippe,

Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence:

So, if the issue of the eldest son

Succeed before the younger, I am king. 52

War.

What plain proceeding is more plain than this?

Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,

The fourth son; York claims it from the third.

Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign: 56

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee,

And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.

Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,

And in this private plot be we the first 60

That shall salute our rightful sovereign

With honour of his birthright to the crown.

Both.

Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s king!

York.

We thank you, lords! But I am not your king 64

Till I be crown’d, and that my sword be stain’d

With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;

And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d,

But with advice and silent secrecy. 68

Do you as I do in these dangerous days,

Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence,

At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition,

At Buckingham and all the crew of them, 72

Till they have snar’d the shepherd of the flock,

That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey:

’Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that

Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. 76

Sal.

My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.

War.

My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick

Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

York.

And, Nevil, this I do assure myself, 80

Henry VI, Part 2, by W. Hamilton.

Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick

The greatest man in England but the king.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Hall of Justice.

Trumpets sounded. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury; the Duchess of Gloucester, Margery Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, and Bolingbroke, under guard.

K. Hen.

Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester’s wife.

In sight of God and us, your guilt is great:

Receive the sentence of the law for sins

Such as by God’s book are adjudg’d to death. 4

You four, from hence to prison back again;

From thence, unto the place of execution:

The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes,

And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.

You, madam, for you are more nobly born, 9

Despoiled of your honour in your life,

Shall, after three days’ open penance done,

Live in your country here, in banishment, 12

With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.

Duch.

Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

Glo.

Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee:

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.— 16

[Exeunt the Duchess, and the other Prisoners, guarded.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Ah, Humphrey! this dishonour in thine age

Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.

I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go; 20

Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease.

K. Hen.

Stay, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester: ere thou go,

Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself

Protector be; and God shall be my hope, 24

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.

And go in peace, Humphrey; no less belov’d

Than when thou wert protector to thy king.

Q. Mar.

I see no reason why a king of years 28

Should be to be protected like a child.

God and King Henry govern England’s helm!

Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

Glo.

My staff! here, noble Henry, is my staff: 32

As willingly do I the same resign

As e’er thy father Henry made it mine;

And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it

As others would ambitiously receive it. 36

Farewell, good king! when I am dead and gone,

May honourable peace attend thy throne.

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;

And Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, scarce himself, 40

That bears so shrewd a maim: two pulls at once;

His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off;

This staff of honour raught: there let it stand,

Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand. 44

Suf.

Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays;

Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days.

York.

Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty

This is the day appointed for the combat; 48

And ready are the appellant and defendant,

The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,

So please your highness to behold the fight.

Q. Mar.

Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore 52

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.

K. Hen.

O’ God’s name, see the lists and all things fit:

Here let them end it; and God defend the right!

York.

I never saw a fellow worse bested, 56

Thump.

Sal.

Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Hor.

Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave, and myself an honest man: and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the king, nor the queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow! 94

York.

Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.

Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants.

[Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes down his Master.

Hor.

Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.

[Dies.

York.

Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank

God, and the good wine in thy master’s way. 100

Peter.

O God! have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter! thou hast prevailed in right!

K. Hen.

Go, take hence that traitor from our sight; 104

For by his death we do perceive his guilt:

And God in justice hath reveal’d to us

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,

Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully. 108

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

[Sound a flourish. Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Street.

Enter Gloucester and Serving-men, in mourning cloaks.

Glo.

Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;

And after summer evermore succeeds

Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:

So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. 4

Sirs, what’s o’clock?

Serv.

Ten, my lord.

Glo.

Ten is the hour that was appointed me

To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess:

Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, 8

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.

Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook

The abject people, gazing on thy face

With envious looks still laughing at thy shame,

That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels 13

When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.

But, soft! I think she comes; and I’ll prepare

My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries. 16

Enter the Duchess of Gloucester, with papers pinned upon her back, in a white sheet, her feet bare, and a taper burning in her hand; Sir John Stanley, a Sheriff, and Officers.

Serv.

So please your Grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff.

Glo.

No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by.

Duch.

Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance too. Look! how they gaze. 20

See! how the giddy multitude do point,

And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.

Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, 24

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

Glo.

Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.

Duch.

Ay, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself;

For whilst I think I am thy wedded wife, 28

And thou a prince, protector of this land,

Methinks I should not thus be led along,

Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back,

And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice 32

To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.

The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,

And when I start, the envious people laugh,

And bid me be advised how I tread. 36

Ah, Humphrey! can I bear this shameful yoke?

Trow’st thou that e’er I’ll look upon the world,

Or count them happy that enjoy the sun?

No; dark shall be my light, and night my day;

To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. 41

Sometime I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife;

And he a prince and ruler of the land:

Yet so he rul’d and such a prince he was 44

As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,

Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock

To every idle rascal follower.

But be thou mild and blush not at my shame;

Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death 49

Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will;

For Suffolk, he that can do all in all

With her that hateth thee, and hates us all, 52

And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest,

Have all lim’d bushes to betray thy wings;

And, fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee:

But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar’d, 56

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Glo.

Ah, Nell! forbear: thou aimest all awry;

I must offend before I be attainted;

And had I twenty times so many foes, 60

And each of them had twenty times their power,

All these could not procure me any scath,

So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.

Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach? 64

Why, yet thy scandal were not wip’d away,

But I in danger for the breach of law.

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell:

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience; 68

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald.

Her.

I summon your Grace to his majesty’s parliament, holden at Bury the first of this next month. 72

Glo.

And my consent ne’er ask’d herein before!

This is close dealing. Well, I will be there.

[Exit Herald.

My Nell, I take my leave: and, master sheriff,

Let not her penance exceed the king’s commission. 76

Sher.

An’t please your Grace, here my commission stays;

And Sir John Stanley is appointed now

To take her with him to the Isle of Man.

Glo

Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here? 80

Stan.

So am I given in charge, may’t please your Grace.

Glo.

Entreat her not the worse in that I pray

You use her well. The world may laugh again;

And I may live to do you kindness if 84

You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell.

Duch.

What! gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell!

Glo.

Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Serving-men.

Duch.

Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee! 88

For none abides with me: my joy is death;

Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d,

Because I wish’d this world’s eternity.

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence; 92

I care not whither, for I beg no favour,

Only convey me where thou art commanded.

Stan.

Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;

There to be us’d according to your state. 96

Duch.

That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach:

And shall I then be us’d reproachfully?

Stan.

Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady:

According to that state you shall be us’d. 100

Duch.

Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

Sher.

It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

Duch.

Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharg’d. 104

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stan.

Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

Duch.

My shame will not be shifted with my sheet: 108

No; it will hang upon my richest robes,

And show itself, attire me how I can.

Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s.

Sound a sennet. Enter to the Parliament, King Henry, Queen Margaret, Cardinal Beaufort, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, and Others.

K. Hen.

I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come:

’Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,

Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now.

Q. Mar.

Can you not see? or will ye not observe 4

The strangeness of his alter’d countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself,

How insolent of late he is become,

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself? 8

We know the time since he was mild and affable,

An if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admir’d him for submission:

But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, 13

When everyone will give the time of day,

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye,

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, 16

Disdaining duty that to us belongs.

Small curs are not regarded when they grin,

But great men tremble when the lion roars;

And Humphrey is no little man in England. 20

First note that he is near you in descent,

And should you fall, he is the next will mount.

Me seemeth then it is no policy,

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears, 24

And his advantage following your decease,

That he should come about your royal person

Or be admitted to your highness’ council.

By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts, 28

And when he please to make commotion,

’Tis to be fear’d they all will follow him.

Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;

Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden, 32

And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

The reverent care I bear unto my lord

Made me collect these dangers in the duke.

If it be fond, call it a woman’s fear; 36

Which fear if better reasons can supplant,

I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the duke.

My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,

Reprove my allegation if you can 40

Or else conclude my words effectual.

Suf.

Well hath your highness seen into this duke;

And had I first been put to speak my mind,

I think I should have told your Grace’s tale. 44

The duchess, by his subornation,

Upon my life, began her devilish practices:

Or if he were not privy to those faults,

Yet, by reputing of his high descent, 48

As, next the king he was successive heir,

And such high vaunts of his nobility,

Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess,

By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall. 52

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

And in his simple show he harbours treason.

The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb:

No, no, my sov’reign; Gloucester is a man 56

Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.

Car.

Did he not, contrary to form of law,

Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

York.

And did he not, in his protectorship,

Levy great sums of money through the realm

For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it?

By means whereof the towns each day revolted.

Buck.

Tut! these are petty faults to faults unknown, 64

Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

K. Hen.

My lords, at once: the care you have of us,

To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot,

Is worthy praise; but shall I speak my conscience, 68

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent

From meaning treason to our royal person,

As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.

The duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given 72

To dream on evil, or to work my downfall.

Q. Mar.

Ah! what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance!

Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow’d,

For he’s disposed as the hateful raven: 76

Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,

For he’s inclin’d as is the ravenous wolf.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all 80

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter Somerset.

Som.

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

K. Hen.

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

Som.

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. 85

K. Hen.

Cold news, Lord Somerset: but God’s will be done!

York.

[Aside.] Cold news for me; for I had hope of France,

As firmly as I hope for fertile England. 88

Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,

And caterpillars eat my leaves away;

But I will remedy this gear ere long,

Or sell my title for a glorious grave. 92

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

All happiness unto my lord the king!

Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long.

Suf.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art: 96

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Glo.

Well, Suffolk’s duke, thou shalt not see me blush,

Nor change my countenance for this arrest:

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. 100

The purest spring is not so free from mud

As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.

Who can accuse me? wherein am I guilty?

York.

’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, 104

And, being protector, stay’d the soldiers’ pay;

By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

Glo.

Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?

I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, 108

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

So help me God, as I have watch’d the night,

Ay, night by night, in studying good for England,

That doit that e’er I wrested from the king, 112

Or any groat I hoarded to my use,

Be brought against me at my trial-day!

No; many a pound of mine own proper store,

Because I would not tax the needy commons,

Have I disbursed to the garrisons, 117

And never ask’d for restitution.

Car.

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

Glo.

I say no more than truth, so help me God! 120

York.

In your protectorship you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,

That England was defam’d by tyranny.

Glo.

Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was protector, 124

Pity was all the fault that was in me;

For I should melt at an offender’s tears,

And lowly words were ransom for their fault.

Unless it were a bloody murderer, 128

Or foul felonious thief that fleec’d poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment:

Murder, indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur’d

Above the felon or what trespass else. 132

Suf.

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answer’d:

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his highness’ name; 136

And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal

To keep until your further time of trial.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspect: 140

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Glo.

Ah! gracious lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition,

And charity chas’d hence by rancour’s hand; 144

Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exil’d your highness’ land.

I know their complot is to have my life;

And if my death might make this island happy,

And prove the period of their tyranny, 149

I would expend it with all willingness;

But mine is made the prologue to their play;

For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,

Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. 153

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart; 157

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back,

By false accuse doth level at my life: 160

And you, my sov’reign lady, with the rest,

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head,

And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up

My liefest liege to be mine enemy. 164

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together;

Myself had notice of your conventicles;

And all to make away my guiltless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me,

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt; 169

The ancient proverb will be well effected:

‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’

Car.

My liege, his railing is intolerable. 172

If those that care to keep your royal person

From treason’s secret knife and traitor’s rage

Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech, 176

’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace.

Suf.

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,

As if she had suborned some to swear 180

False allegations to o’erthrow his state?

Q. Mar.

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Glo.

Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed;

Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false!

And well such losers may have leave to speak.

Buck.

He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Car.

Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure. 188

Glo.

Ah! thus King Henry throws away his crutch

Before his legs be firm to bear his body:

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. 192

Ah! that my fear were false, ah! that it were;

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

[Exeunt Attendants with Gloucester.

K. Hen.

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best

Do or undo, as if ourself were here. 196

Q. Mar.

What! will your highness leave the parliament?

K. Hen.

Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery, 200

For what’s more miserable than discontent?

Ah! uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see

The map of honour, truth, and loyalty;

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come

That e’er I prov’d thee false, or fear’d thy faith.

What low’ring star now envies thy estate,

That these great lords, and Margaret our queen,

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life? 208

Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong;

And as the butcher takes away the calf,

And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays,

Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, 212

Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence;

And as the dam runs lowing up and down,

Looking the way her harmless young one went,

And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss;

Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case,

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good;

So mighty are his vowed enemies. 220

His fortunes I will weep; and, ’twixt each groan,

Say ‘Who’s a traitor, Gloucester he is none.’

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

Fair lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs, 224

Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show

Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers;

Or as the snake, roll’d in a flow’ring bank, 228

With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child

That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I,—

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good,— 232

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

Car.

That he should die is worthy policy;

And yet we want a colour for his death. 236

’Tis meet he be condemn’d by course of law.

Suf.

But in my mind that were no policy:

The king will labour still to save his life;

The commons haply rise to save his life; 240

And yet we have but trivial argument,

More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

York.

So that, by this, you would not have him die.

Suf.

Ah! York, no man alive so fain as I. 244

York.

’Tis York that hath more reason for his death.

But my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls,

Were’t not all one an empty eagle were set 248

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector?

Q. Mar.

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

Suf.

Madam, ’tis true: and were’t not madness, then, 252

To make the fox surveyor of the fold?

Who, being accus’d a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over

Because his purpose is not executed. 256

No; let him die, in that he is a fox,

By nature prov’d an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, prov’d by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him:

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtilty,

Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit 264

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Q. Mar.

Thrice noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

Suf.

Not resolute, except so much were done,

For things are often spoke and seldom meant;

But, that my heart accordeth with my tongue,

Seeing the deed is meritorious,

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,

Say but the word and I will be his priest. 272

Car.

But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,

Ere you can take due orders for a priest:

Say you consent and censure well the deed,

And I’ll provide his executioner; 276

I tender so the safety of my liege.

Suf.

Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

Q. Mar.

And so say I.

York.

And I: and now we three have spoke it, 280

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,

To signify that rebels there are up,

And put the Englishmen unto the sword. 284

Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

Car.

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! 288

What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

York.

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ’d;

Witness the fortune he hath had in France. 292

Som.

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stay’d in France so long.

York.

No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done: 296

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burden of dishonour home,

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar character’d on thy skin: 300

Men’s flesh preserv’d so whole do seldom win.

Q. Mar.

Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire,

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.

No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still:

Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,

Might happily have prov’d far worse than his.

York.

What! worse than nought? nay, then a shame take all.

Som.

And in the number thee, that wishest shame. 308

Car.

My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.

The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen:

To Ireland will you lead a band of men, 312

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

York.

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

Suf.

Why, our authority is his consent, 316

And what we do establish he confirms:

Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

York.

I am content: provide me soldiers, lords,

Whiles I take order for mine own affairs. 320

Suf.

A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform’d.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

Car.

No more of him; for I will deal with him

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. 324

And so break off; the day is almost spent.

Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

York.

My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days

At Bristol I expect my soldiers; 328

For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

Suf.

I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

[Exeunt all except York.

York.

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution: 332

Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying.

Let pale-fac’d fear keep with the mean-born man,

And find no harbour in a royal heart. 336

Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought,

And not a thought but thinks on dignity.

My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,

Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. 340

Well, nobles, well; ’tis politicly done,

To send me packing with a host of men:

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 344

’Twas men I lack’d, and you will give them me:

I take it kindly; yet be well assur’d

You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, 348

I will stir up in England some black storm

Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage

Until the golden circuit on my head, 352

Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,

Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.

And, for a minister of my intent,

I have seduc’d a headstrong Kentishman, 356

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the title of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade 360

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine:

And, in the end being rescu’d, I have seen 364

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern,

Hath he conversed with the enemy, 368

And undiscover’d come to me again,

And given me notice of their villanies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, 372

In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble;

By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,

How they affect the house and claim of York.

Say he be taken, rack’d, and tortured, 376

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I mov’d him to those arms.

Say that he thrive,—as ’tis great like he will,—

Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength, 380

And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d;

For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Bury St. Edmund’s. A Room in the Palace.

Enter certain Murderers, hastily.

First Mur.

Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know

We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded.

Sec. Mur.

O! that it were to do. What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent? 4

Enter Suffolk.

First Mur.

K. Hen.

Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,

Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence, of good esteem, 21

He be approv’d in practice culpable.

Q. Mar.

God forbid any malice should prevail

That faultless may condemn a nobleman! 24

Pray God, he may acquit him of suspicion!

K. Hen.

I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.

Re-enter Suffolk.

How now! why look’st thou pale? why tremblest thou?

What! doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, 40

Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,

By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

Can chase away the first-conceived sound? 44

Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words:

Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say:

Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting.

Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight! 48

Upon thy eyeballs murderous tyranny

Sits in grim majesty to fright the world.

Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:

Yet do not go away; come, basilisk, 52

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;

For in the shade of death I shall find joy,

In life but double death, now Gloucester’s dead.

Q. Mar.

Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus? 56

Although the duke was enemy to him,

Yet he, most Christian-like, laments his death:

And for myself, foe as he was to me,

Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans 60

Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life,

I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,

Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,

And all to have the noble duke alive. 64

What know I how the world may deem of me?

For it is known we were but hollow friends:

It may be judg’d I made the duke away:

So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded, 68

And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach.

This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy!

To be a queen, and crown’d with infamy!

K. Hen.

Ah! woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man. 72

Q. Mar.

Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.

What! dost thou turn away and hide thy face?

I am no loathsome leper; look on me.

What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf? 76

Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb?

Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy:

Erect his statua and worship it, 80

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh wrack’d upon the sea,

And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank

Drove back again unto my native clime? 84

What boded this, but well forewarning wind

Did seem to say, ‘Seek not a scorpion’s nest,

Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?’

What did I then, but curs’d the gentle gusts 88

And he that loos’d them forth their brazen caves;

And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore,

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?

Yet Æolus would not be a murderer, 92

But left that hateful office unto thee:

The pretty vaulting sea refus’d to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on shore

With tears as salt as sea through thy unkindness: 96

The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking sands,

And would not dash me with their ragged sides,

Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,

Might in thy palace perish Margaret. 100

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,

I stood upon the hatches in the storm,

And when the dusky sky began to rob 104

My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view,

I took a costly jewel from my neck,

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds,

And threw it towards thy land: the sea receiv’d it, 108

And so I wish’d thy body might my heart:

And even with this I lost fair England’s view,

And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,

And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles 112

For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast.

How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue—

The agent of thy foul inconstancy—

To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did 116

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father’s acts, commenc’d in burning Troy!

Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like him?

Ay me! I can no more. Die, Margaret! 120

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

Noise within. Enter Warwick and Salisbury.

The Commons press to the door.

War.

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey trait’rously is murder’d

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.

The commons, like an angry hive of bees 125

That want their leader, scatter up and down,

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny, 128

Until they hear the order of his death.

K. Hen.

That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis too true;

But how he died God knows, not Henry.

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,

And comment then upon his sudden death. 133

War.

That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

[Warwick goes into an inner chamber. Salisbury retires.

K. Hen.

O! Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts, 136

My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul

Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life.

If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,

For judgment only doth belong to thee. 140

Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips

With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain

Upon his face an ocean of salt tears,

To tell my love unto his deaf dumb trunk, 144

And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling:

But all in vain are these mean obsequies,

And to survey his dead and earthly image

What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

Re-enter Warwick and Others bearing Gloucester’s body on a bed.

War.

Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. 149

K. Hen.

That is to see how deep my grave is made;

For with his soul fled all my worldly solace,

For seeing him I see my life in death. 152

War.

As surely as my soul intends to live

With that dread King that took our state upon him

To free us from his Father’s wrathful curse,

I do believe that violent hands were laid 156

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

Suf.

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

War.

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, 161

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,

Being all descended to the labouring heart;

Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 164

Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy;

Which with the heart there cools, and ne’er returneth

To blush and beautify the cheek again.

But see, his face is black and full of blood, 168

His eyeballs further out than when he liv’d,

Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;

His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch’d with struggling:

His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d

And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdu’d.

Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking;

His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged,

Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodg’d.

It cannot be but he was murder’d here; 177

The least of all these signs were probable.

Suf.

Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection; 180

And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

War.

But both of you were vow’d Duke Humphrey’s foes,

And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:

’Tis like you would not feast him like a friend,

And ’tis well seen he found an enemy. 185

Q. Mar.

Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen

As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

War.

Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh, 188

And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,

But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter?

Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest,

But may imagine how the bird was dead, 192

Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Q. Mar.

Are you the butcher, Suffolk? where’s your knife?

Is Beaufort term’d a kite? where are his talons?

Suf.

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men; 197

But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,

That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart

That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.

Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.

[Exeunt Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, and Others.

War.

What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

Q. Mar.

He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, 204

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

War.

Madam, be still, with reverence may I say;

For every word you speak in his behalf 208

Is slander to your royal dignity.

Suf.

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour!

If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed 212

Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock

Was graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art,

And never of the Nevils’ noble race.

War.

But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, 216

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,

Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,

And that my sov’reign’s presence makes me mild,

I would, false murd’rous coward, on thy knee

Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech, 221

And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st;

That thou thyself wast born in bastardy:

And after all this fearful homage done, 224

Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell,

Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men.

Suf.

Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,

If from this presence thou dar’st go with me.

War.

Away even now, or I will drag thee hence: 229

Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee,

And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick.

K. Hen.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! 232

Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

Q. Mar.

What noise is this?

[A noise within.

Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their weapons drawn.

K. Hen.

Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn 237

Here in our presence! dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

Suf.

The traitorous Warwick, with the men of Bury, 240

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Noise of a crowd within. Re-enter Salisbury.

Sal.

[Speaking to those within.] Sirs, stand apart; the king shall know your mind.

Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,

Unless false Suffolk straight be done to death,

Or banished fair England’s territories, 245

They will by violence tear him from your palace

And torture him with grievous lingering death.

They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died;

They say, in him they fear your highness’ death;

And mere instinct of love and loyalty,

Free from a stubborn opposite intent,

As being thought to contradict your liking, 252

Makes them thus forward in his banishment.

They say, in care of your most royal person,

That if your highness should intend to sleep,

And charge that no man should disturb your rest 256

In pain of your dislike or pain of death,

Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,

Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,

That slily glided towards your majesty, 260

It were but necessary you were wak’d,

Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber,

The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal:

And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,

That they will guard you, whe’r you will or no,

From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is;

With whose envenomed and fatal sting,

Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth, 268

They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

Commons.

[Within.] An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury!

Suf.

’Tis like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds,

Could send such message to their sovereign; 272

But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d,

To show how quaint an orator you are:

But all the honour Salisbury hath won

Is that he was the lord ambassador, 276

Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king.

Commons.

[Within.] An answer from the king, or we will all break in!

K. Hen.

Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,

I thank them for their tender loving care; 280

And had I not been cited so by them,

Yet did I purpose as they do entreat;

For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy

Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means:

And therefore, by his majesty I swear, 285

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,

He shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death. 288

[Exit Salisbury.

Q. Mar.

O Henry! let me plead for gentle Suffolk.

K. Hen.

Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!

No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him

Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. 292

Had I but said, I would have kept my word,

But when I swear, it is irrevocable.

[To Suffolk.] If after three days’ space thou here be’st found

On any ground that I am ruler of, 296

The world shall not be ransom for thy life.

Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;

I have great matters to impart to thee.

[Exeunt King Henry, Warwick, Lords, &c.

Q. Mar.

Mischance and sorrow go along with you! 300

Heart’s discontent and sour affliction

Be playfellows to keep you company!

There’s two of you; the devil make a third,

And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!

Suf.

Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Q. Mar.

Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch!

Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy? 308

Suf.

A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them?

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan,

I would invent as bitter-searching terms,

As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, 312

Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-fac’d Envy in her loathsome cave.

My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; 316

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;

My hair be fix’d on end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:

And even now my burden’d heart would break

Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!

Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!

Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees!

Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks! 324

Their softest touch as smart as lizard’s stings!

Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,

And boding screech-owls make the concert full!

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell— 328

Q. Mar.

Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself;

And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass,

Or like an over-charged gun, recoil,

And turn the force of them upon thyself. 332

Suf.

You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?

Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from,

Well could I curse away a winter’s night,

Though standing naked on a mountain top, 336

Where biting cold would never let grass grow,

And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Q. Mar.

O! let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears; 340

Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,

To wash away my woeful monuments.

O! could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

[Kisses his hand.

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,

Through whom a thousand sighs are breath’d for thee. 345

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;

’Tis but surmis’d whiles thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits thinking on a want. 348

I will repeal thee, or, be well assur’d,

Adventure to be banished myself;

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go; speak not to me; even now be gone. 352

O! go not yet. Even thus two friends condemn’d

Embrace and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,

Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

Suf.

Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,

Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.

’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;

A wilderness is populous enough, 360

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:

For where thou art, there is the world itself,

With every several pleasure in the world,

And where thou art not, desolation. 364

I can no more: live thou to joy thy life;

Myself to joy in nought but that thou liv’st.

Enter Vaux.

Q. Mar.

Whither goes Vaux so fast? what news, I prithee?

Vaux.

To signify unto his majesty 368

That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;

For suddenly a grievous sickness took him,

That makes him gasp and stare, and catch the air,

Blaspheming God, and cursing men on earth.

Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost

Were by his side; sometime he calls the king,

And whispers to his pillow, as to him,

The secrets of his overcharged soul: 376

And I am sent to tell his majesty

That even now he cries aloud for him.

Q. Mar.

Go tell this heavy message to the king.

[Exit Vaux.

Ay me! what is this world! what news are these!

But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss,

Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure?

Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,

And with the southern clouds contend in tears,

Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows? 385

Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is coming;

If thou be found by me thou art but dead.

Suf.

If I depart from thee I cannot live; 388

And in thy sight to die, what were it else

But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?

Here could I breathe my soul into the air,

As mild and gentle as the cradle babe, 392

Dying with mother’s dug between its lips;

Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,

And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,

To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth:

So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, 397

Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

And then it liv’d in sweet Elysium.

To die by thee, were but to die in jest; 400

From thee to die were torture more than death.

O! let me stay, befall what may befall!

Q. Mar.

Away! though parting be a fretful corsive,

It is applied to a deathful wound. 404

To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee;

For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe,

I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

Suf.

I go.

Q. Mar.

And take my heart with thee. 408

Suf.

A jewel, lock’d into the woefull’st cask

That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we:

This way fall I to death.

Q. Mar.

This way for me. 412

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.— London. Cardinal Beaufort’s Bedchamber.

Enter King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and Others. The Cardinal in bed; Attendants with him.

K. Hen.

How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Car.

If thou be’st death, I’ll give thee England’s treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. 4

K. Hen.

Ah! what a sign it is of evil life

Where death’s approach is seen so terrible.

War.

Beaufort, it is thy sov’reign speaks to thee.

Car.

Bring me unto my trial when you will. 8

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?

Can I make men live whe’r they will or no?

O! torture me no more, I will confess.

Alive again? then show me where he is: 12

I’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him.

He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.

Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul. 16

Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. Hen.

O thou eternal Mover of the heavens!

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch; 20

O! beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul,

And from his bosom purge this black despair.

War.

See how the pangs of death do make him grin! 24

Sal.

Disturb him not! let him pass peaceably.

K. Hen.

Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be!

Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,

Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. 28

He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!

War.

So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. Hen.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close; 32

And let us all to meditation.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Kent. The Seashore near Dover.

Firing heard at Sea. Then enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master’s-Mate, Walter Whitmore, and Others; with them Suffolk disguised, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.

Cap.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea,

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night; 4

Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings

Clip dead men’s graves, and from their misty jaws

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize, 8

For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs

Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,

Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore.

Master, this prisoner freely give I thee: 12

And thou that art his mate make boot of this;

The other [Pointing to Suffolk], Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

First Gent.

What is my ransom, master? let me know.

Mast.

A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. 16

Mate.

And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Cap.

What! think you much to pay two thousand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?

Cut both the villains’ throats! for die you shall:

The lives of those which we have lost in fight 21

Cannot be counterpois’d with such a petty sum!

First Gent.

I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.

Sec. Gent.

And so will I, and write home for it straight. 24

Whit.

I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,

[To Suffolk.] And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die;

And so should these if I might have my will.

Cap.

Be not so rash: take ransom; let him live. 28

Suf.

Look on my George; I am a gentleman:

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

Whit.

And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.

How now! why start’st thou? what! doth death affright? 32

Suf.

Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.

A cunning man did calculate my birth,

And told me that by Water I should die:

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded; 36

Thy name is—Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whit.

Gaultier, or Walter, which it is I care not;

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name

But with our sword we wip’d away the blot: 40

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d,

And I proclaim’d a coward through the world!

Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup?

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule,

And thought thee happy when I shook my head?

How often hast thou waited at my cup, 56

Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board,

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n;

Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride. 60

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood

And duly waited for my coming forth?

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,

And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

Whit.

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain? 65

Cap.

First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

Suf.

Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

Cap.

Convey him hence, and on our longboat’s side 68

Strike off his head.

Suf.

Thou dar’st not for thy own.

Cap.

Yes, Pole.

Suf.

Pole!

Cap.

Pool! Sir Pool! lord!

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt

Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth 73

For swallowing the treasure of the realm:

Thy lips, that kiss’d the queen, shall sweep the ground;

And thou, that smil’dst at good Duke Humphrey’s death, 76

Against the senseless winds shall grin in vain,

Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again:

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,

For daring to affy a mighty lord 80

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great,

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg’d 84

With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart.

By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France,

The false revolting Normans thorough thee

Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy 88

Hath slain their governors, surpris’d our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, 92

As hating thee, are rising up in arms:

And now the house of York, thrust from the crown

By shameful murder of a guiltless king,

And lofty proud encroaching tyranny, 96

Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours

Advance our half-fac’d sun, striving to shine,

Under the which is writ Invitis nubibus.

The commons here in Kent are up in arms; 100

And to conclude, reproach and beggary

Is crept into the palace of our king,

And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.

Suf.

O! that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder 104

Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges.

Small things make base men proud: this villain here,

Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more

Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate. 108

Drones suck not eagles’ blood, but rob beehives.

It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage, and not remorse in me:

I go of message from the queen to France; 113

I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel.

Cap.

Walter!

Whit.

Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. 116

Suf.

Gelidus timor occupat artus: ’tis thee I fear.

Whit.

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What! are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

First Gent.

My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. 120

Suf.

Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Us’d to command, untaught to plead for favour.

Far be it we should honour such as these

With humble suit: no, rather let my head 124

Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any

Save to the God of heaven, and to my king;

And sooner dance upon a bloody pole

Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom. 128

True nobility is exempt from fear:

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Cap.

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

Suf.

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,

That this my death may never be forgot. 133

Great men oft die by vile bezonians.

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand 136

Stabb’d Julius Cæsar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

[Exit with Suffolk, Whitmore and Others.

Cap.

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart: 140

Therefore come you with us and let him go.

[Exeunt all but first Gentleman.

Cade.

Cade.

To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels.] Rise up Sir John Mortimer. [Rises.] Now have at him. 133

Enter Sir Humphrey Stafford and William his Brother, with drum and Forces.

Staf.

Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,

Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down;

Home to your cottages, forsake this groom: 136

The king is merciful, if you revolt.

W. Staf.

But angry, wrathful, and inclin’d to blood,

If you go forward: therefore yield, or die.

Cade.

As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not: 140

It is to you, good people, that I speak,

O’er whom, in time to come I hope to reign;

For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

Staf.

Villain! thy father was a plasterer;

And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? 145

Cade.

And Adam was a gardener.

W. Staf.

And what of that?

Cade.

Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, 148

Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?

Staf.

Ay, sir.

Cade.

By her he had two children at one birth.

W. Staf.

That’s false. 152

Cade.

Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis true:

The elder of them, being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stol’n away;

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage, 156

Became a bricklayer when he came to age:

His son am I; deny it if you can.

Dick.

Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be king.

Smith.

Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not.

Staf.

And will you credit this base drudge’s words,

That speaks he knows not what? 164

All.

Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

W Staf.

Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this.

Cade.

[Aside.] He lies, for I invented it myself. Go to, sirrah; tell the king from me, that, for his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign; but I’ll be protector over him. 172

Dick.

And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Say’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine.

Cade

And good reason; for thereby is England mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and made it a eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor. 181

Staf.

O gross and miserable ignorance!

Cade.

Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are our enemies; go to then, I ask but this, can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no?

All.

No, no; and therefore we’ll have his head.

W. Staf.

Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, 188

Assail them with the army of the king.

Staf.

Herald, away; and throughout every town

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;

That those which fly before the battle ends 192

May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight,

Be hang’d up for example at their doors:

And you, that be the king’s friends, follow me.

[Exeunt the two Staffords and Forces.

Cade.

And you, that love the commons, follow me. 196

Now show yourselves men; ’tis for liberty.

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman:

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,

For they are thrifty honest men, and such 200

As would, but that they dare not take our parts.

Dick.

They are all in order, and march toward us.

Cade.

But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march! forward! 204

Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come; let’s march towards London.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, reading a Supplication; the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Say with him: at a distance, Queen Margaret, mourning over Suffolk’s head.

Q. Mar.

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,

And makes it fearful and degenerate;

Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.

But who can cease to weep and look on this? 4

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;

But where’s the body that I should embrace?

Buck.

What answer makes your Grace to the rebels’ supplication? 8

K. Hen.

I’ll send some holy bishop to entreat;

For God forbid so many simple souls

Should perish by the sword! And I myself,

Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, 12

Will parley with Jack Cade their general.

But stay, I’ll read it over once again.

Q. Mar.

Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face

Rul’d like a wandering planet over me, 16

And could it not enforce them to relent,

That were unworthy to behold the same?

K. Hen.

Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

Say.

Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his. 20

K. Hen.

How now, madam!

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,

Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for me. 24

Q. Mar.

No, my love; I should not mourn, but die for thee.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Hen.

How now! what news? why com’st thou in such haste?

Mess.

The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, 28

Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house,

And calls your Grace usurper openly,

And vows to crown himself in Westminster.

His army is a ragged multitude 32

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless:

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death

Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen, 36

They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

K. Hen.

O graceless men! they know not what they do.

Buck.

My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth,

Until a power be rais’d to put them down. 40

Q. Mar.

Ah! were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas’d.

K. Hen.

Lord Say, the traitors hate thee,

Therefore away with us to Killingworth. 44

Say.

So might your Grace’s person be in danger.

The sight of me is odious in their eyes;

And therefore in this city will I stay,

And live alone as secret as I may. 48

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge;

The citizens fly and forsake their houses;

The rascal people, thirsting after prey,

Join with the traitor; and they jointly swear 52

To spoil the city and your royal court.

Buck.

Then linger not, my lord; away! take horse.

K. Hen.

Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will succour us.

Q. Mar.

My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas’d. 56

K. Hen.

[To Lord Say.] Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels.

Buck.

Trust nobody, for fear you be betray’d.

Say.

The trust I have is in mine innocence,

And therefore am I bold and resolute.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. The Tower.

Enter Lord Scales and Others, on the Walls. Then enter certain Citizens, below.

Scales.

How now! is Jack Cade slain?

First Cit.

No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels.

Scales.

Such aid as I can spare you shall command;

But I am troubled here with them myself; 8

The rebels have assay’d to win the Tower.

But get you to Smithfield and gather head,

And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe:

Fight for your king, your country, and your lives; 12

And so, farewell, for I must hence again.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— London. Cannon Street.

Enter Jack Cade, and his Followers. He strikes his staff on London-stone.

Cade.

Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the city’s cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now, henceforward, it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

Enter a Soldier, running.

Sold.

Jack Cade! Jack Cade! 8

Cade.

Knock him down there.

[They kill him.

Smith.

If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call you Jack Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning. 12

Dick.

My lord, there’s an army gathered together in Smithfield.

Cade.

John.

[Aside.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

Cade.

And henceforward all things shall be in common. 21

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Say.

Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will. 64

Kent, in the Commentaries Cæsar writ,

Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle:

Sweet is the country, because full of riches;

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy; 68

Which makes me hope you are not void of pity.

I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy;

Yet, to recover them, would lose my life.

Justice with favour have I always done; 72

Prayers and tears have mov’d me, gifts could never.

When have I aught exacted at your hands,

But to maintain the king, the realm, and you?

Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks, 76

Because my book preferr’d me to the king,

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,

Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,

Why dost thou quiver, man?. 96

Say.

The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

Cade.

Nay, he nods at us; as who should say, I’ll be even with you: I’ll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away and behead him. 101

Say.

Tell me wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth, or honour? speak.

Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold? 104

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?

Whom have I injur’d, that ye seek my death?

These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,

This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. 108

O! let me live.

Cade.

[Aside.] I feel remorse in myself with his words; but I’ll bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him! he has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not o’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. 118

All.

It shall be done.

Say.

Ah, countrymen! if when you make your prayers,

God should be so obdurate as yourselves,

How would it fare with your departed souls?

And therefore yet relent, and save my life. 123

Cade.

Away with him! and do as I command ye. [Exeunt some, with Lord Say.] The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead, ere they have it; men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. 132

Dick.

My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills?

Cade.

Marry, presently.

All.

O! brave! 136

Re-enter Rebels, with the heads of Lord Say and his Son-in-law.

Cade.

But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night: for with these borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through the streets; and at every corner have them kiss. Away! 144

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— The Same. Southwark.

Alarum. Enter Cade and all his Rabblement.

Cade.

Up Fish Street! down St. Magnus’ corner! kill and knock down! throw them into Thames! [A parley sounded, then a retreat.] What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill?

Enter Buckingham, and Old Clifford, with Forces.

Buck.

Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king 8

Unto the commons whom thou hast misled;

And here pronounce free pardon to them all

That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

Clif.

What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent, 12

And yield to mercy, whilst ’tis offer’d you,

Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths?

Who loves the king, and will embrace his pardon,

Fling up his cap, and say ‘God save his majesty!’ 16

Who hateth him, and honours not his father,

Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,

Shake he his weapon at us, and pass by.

All.

God save the king! God save the king!

Cade.

What! Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London Gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom; but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces: for me, I will make shift for one, and so, God’s curse light upon you all!

All.

We’ll follow Cade, we’ll follow Cade! 36

Clif.

Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,

That thus you do exclaim you’ll go with him?

Will he conduct you through the heart of France,

And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?

Alas! he hath no home, no place to fly to; 41

Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil,

Unless by robbing of your friends and us.

Were’t not a shame, that whilst you live at jar,

The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,

Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you?

Methinks already in this civil broil

I see them lording it in London streets, 48

Crying Villiago! unto all they meet.

Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry,

Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy.

To France, to France! and get what you have lost; 52

Spare England, for it is your native coast.

Henry hath money, you are strong and manly;

God on our side, doubt not of victory.

All.

A Clifford! a Clifford! we’ll follow the king and Clifford. 57

Cade.

[Aside.] Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to a hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! and heavens and honour be witness, that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels.

[Exit.

Buck.

What, is he fled? go some, and follow him;

And he that brings his head unto the king

Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward.

[Exeunt some of them.

Follow me, soldiers: we’ll devise a mean 72

To reconcile you all unto the king.

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.— Kenilworth Costle.

Trumpets sounded. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Somerset, on the terrace.

K. Hen.

Was ever king that joy’d an earthly throne,

And could command no more content than I?

No sooner was I crept out of my cradle

But I was made a king at nine months old: 4

Was never subject long’d to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter Buckingham and Old Clifford.

Buck.

Health, and glad tidings, to your majesty!

K. Hen.

Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surpris’d? 8

Or is he but retir’d to make him strong?

Enter, below, a number of Cade’s followers, with halters about their necks.

Clif.

He’s fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield;

And humbly thus, with halters on their necks,

Expect your highness’ doom, of life, or death. 12

K. Hen.

Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,

To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!

Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives,

And show’d how well you love your prince and country: 16

Continue still in this so good a mind,

And Henry, though he be infortunate,

Assure yourselves, will never be unkind:

And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, 20

I do dismiss you to your several countries.

All.

God save the king! God save the king!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Please it your Grace to be advertised,

The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland;

And with a puissant and a mighty power 25

Of Gallowglasses, and stout kerns,

Is marching hitherward in proud array;

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along, 28

His arms are only to remove from thee

The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.

K. Hen.

Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distress’d;

Like to a ship, that, having scap’d a tempest, 32

Is straight way calm’d, and boarded with a pirate.

But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers’d;

And now is York in arms to second him.

I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him, 36

And ask him what’s the reason of these arms.

Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower;

And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither,

Until his army be dismiss’d from him. 40

Som.

My lord,

I’ll yield myself to prison willingly,

Or unto death, to do my country good.

K. Hen.

In any case, be not too rough in terms; 44

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

Buck.

I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal

As all things shall redound unto your good.

K. Hen.

Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better; 48

For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

[Exeunt.

Scene X.— Kent. Iden’s Garden.

Enter Cade.

Cade.

Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now I am so hungry, that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather. And I think this word ‘sallet’ was born to do me good: for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry, and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart-pot to drink in; and now the word ‘sallet’ must serve me to feed on. 17

Enter Iden with Servants behind.

Iden.

Lord! who would live turmoiled in the court,

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?

This small inheritance my father left me 20

Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.

I seek not to wax great by others’ waning,

Or gather wealth I care not with what envy:

Sufficeth that I have maintains my state, 24

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Cade.

[Aside.] Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain! thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him; but I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. 32

Iden.

Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be,

I know thee not; why then should I betray thee?

Is’t not enough to break into my garden,

And like a thief to come to rob my grounds, 36

Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,

But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

Cade.

Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. 44

Iden.

Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands,

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,

Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man.

Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine, 48

See if thou canst out-face me with thy looks:

Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser;

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist;

Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon;

My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast; 53

And if mine arm be heaved in the air

Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.

As for more words, whose greatness answers words, 56

Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

Cade.

By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech Jove on my knees, thou mayst be turned to hobnails. [They fight; Cade falls.] O, I am slain! Famine and no other hath slain me: let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’ll defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. 69

Iden.

Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?

Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,

And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead:

Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,

But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat, 74

To emblaze the honour that thy master got.

Cade.

Iden, farewell; and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.

[Dies.

Iden.

How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge. 81

Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee!

And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,

So wish I I might thrust thy soul to hell.

Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels 85

Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave,

And there cut off thy most ungracious head;

Which I will bear in triumph to the king, 88

Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

[Exit, with Servants, dragging out the body.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Kent. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

The King’s camp on one side. On the other, enter York, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours.

York.

From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right,

And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head:

Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright,

To entertain great England’s lawful king. 4

Ah sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?

Let them obey that know not how to rule;

This hand was made to handle nought but gold:

I cannot give due action to my words, 8

Except a sword, or sceptre balance it.

A sceptre shall it have, have I-a soul,

On which I’ll toss the flower-de-luce of France.

Enter Buckingham.

Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me? 12

The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.

Buck.

York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

York.

Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.

Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure? 16

Buck.

A messenger from Henry, our dread hege,

To know the reason of these arms in peace;

Or why thou,—being a subject as I am,—

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, 20

Shouldst raise so great a power without his leave,

Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.

York.

[Aside.] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great:

O! I could hew up rocks and fight with flint, 24

I am so angry at these abject terms;

And now, like Ajax Telamonius,

On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.

I am far better born than is the king, 28

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts;

But I must make fair weather yet awhile,

Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong.

[Aloud.] Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me, 32

That I have given no answer all this while;

My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.

The cause why I have brought this army hither

Is to remove proud Somerset from the king, 36

Seditious to his Grace and to the state.

Buck.

That is too much presumption on thy part:

But if thy arms be to no other end,

The king hath yielded unto thy demand: 40

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

York.

Upon thine honour, is he a prisoner?

Buck.

Upon mine honour, he is a prisoner.

York.

Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. 44

Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;

Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field,

You shall have pay, and everything you wish,

And let my sov’reign, virtuous Henry, 48

Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,

As pledges of my fealty and love;

I’ll send them all as willing as I live:

Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have

Is his to use, so Somerset may die. 53

Buck.

York, I commend this kind submission:

We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter King Henry, attended.

K. Hen.

Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us, 56

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

York.

In all submission and humility

York doth present himself unto your highness.

K. Hen.

Then what intend these forces thou dost bring? 60

York.

To heave the traitor Somerset from hence,

And fight against that monstrous rebel, Cade,

Who since I heard to be discomfited.

Enter Iden, with Cade’s head.

Iden.

If one so rude and of so mean condition 64

May pass into the presence of a king,

Lo! I present your Grace a traitor’s head,

The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

K. Hen.

The head of Cade! Great God, how just art thou! 68

O! let me view his visage, being dead,

That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.

Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

Iden.

I was, an’t like your majesty. 72

K. Hen.

How art thou call’d, and what is thy degree?

Iden.

Alexander Iden, that’s my name;

A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king.

Buck.

So please it you, my lord, ’twere not amiss 76

He were created knight for his good service.

K. Hen.

Iden, kneel down. [He kneels.] Rise up a knight.

We give thee for reward a thousand marks;

And will, that thou henceforth attend on us. 80

Iden.

May Iden live to merit such a bounty,

And never live but true unto his liege!

K. Hen.

See! Buckingham! Somerset comes with the queen:

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke. 84

Enter Queen Margaret and Somerset.

Q. Mar.

For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,

But boldly stand and front him to his face.

York.

How now! is Somerset at liberty?

Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison’d thoughts 88

And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.

Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?

False king! why hast thou broken faith with me,

Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse? 92

King did I call thee? no, thou art not king;

Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,

Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.

That head of thine doth not become a crown;

Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff, 97

And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.

That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,

Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear,

Is able with the change to kill and cure. 101

Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up,

And with the same to act controlling laws.

Give place: by heaven, thou shalt rule no more 104

O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

Som.

O monstrous traitor:—I arrest thee, York,

Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown.

Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace. 108

York.

Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask of these

If they can brook I bow a knee to man.

Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail:

[Exit an Attendant.

I know ere they will have me go to ward, 112

They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

Q. Mar.

Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,

To say if that the bastard boys of York

Shall be the surety for their traitor father. 116

[Exit Buckingham.

York.

O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,

Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge!

The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,

Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those

That for my surety will refuse the boys! 121

Enter Edward and Richard Plantagenet, with Forces at one side; at the other, with Forces also, Old Clifford and his Son.

See where they come: I’ll warrant they’ll make it good.

Q. Mar.

And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail.

Clif.

[Kneeling.] Health and all happiness to my lord the king! 124

York.

I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:

We are thy sov’reign, Clifford, kneel again;

For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. 128

Clif.

This is my king, York, I do not mistake;

But thou mistak’st me much to think I do.

To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?

K. Hen.

Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour 132

Makes him oppose himself against his king.

Clif.

He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,

And chop away that factious pate of his.

Q. Mar.

He is arrested, but will not obey: 136

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

York.

Will you not, sons?

Edw.

Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

Rich.

And if words will not, then our weapons shall. 140

Clif.

Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!

York.

Look in a glass, and call thy image so:

I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.

Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, 144

That with the very shaking of their chains

They may astonish these fell-lurking curs:

Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?

Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,

Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son!

What! wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, 164

And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?

O! where is faith? O, where is loyalty?

If it be banish’d from the frosty head,

Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? 168

Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,

And shame thine honourable age with blood?

Why art thou old, and want’st experience?

Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it? 172

For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me,

That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

Sal.

My lord, I have consider’d with myself

The title of this most renowned duke; 176

And in my conscience do repute his Grace

The rightful heir to England’s royal seat.

K. Hen.

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

Sal.

I have. 180

K. Hen.

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

Sal.

It is great sin to swear unto a sin,

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

Who can be bound by any solemn vow 184

To do a murderous deed, to rob a man,

To force a spotless virgin’s chastity,

To reave the orphan of his patrimony,

To wring the widow from her custom’d right,

And have no other reason for this wrong 189

But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

Q. Mar.

A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

K. Hen.

Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. 192

York.

Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,

I am resolv’d for death, or dignity.

Clif.

The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

War.

You were best to go to bed and dream again, 196

To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

Clif.

I am resolv’d to bear a greater storm

Than any thou canst conjure up to-day;

And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet, 200

Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

War.

Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest,

The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff,

This day I’ll wear aloft my burgonet,— 204

As on a mountain-top the cedar shows,

That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,—

Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

Clif.

And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear, 208

And tread it underfoot with all contempt,

Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear.

Y. Clif.

And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels and their complices. 212

Rich.

Fie! charity! for shame! speak not in spite,

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

Y. Clif.

Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell.

Rich.

If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene II.— Saint Alban’s.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.

Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls:

And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarm,

And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air, 4

Clifford, I say, come forth, and fight with me!

Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,

Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

Enter York.

How now, my noble lord! what! all afoot? 8

York.

The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed;

But match to match I have encounter’d him,

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows

Even of the bonny beast he lov’d so well. 12

Enter Old Clifford.

War.

Of one or both of us the time is come.

York.

Hold, Warwick! seek thee out some other chase,

For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

War.

Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st. 16

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d.

[Exit.

Clif.

What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

York.

With thy brave bearing should I be in love, 20

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clif.

Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,

But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.

York.

So let it help me now against thy sword

As I in justice and true right express it. 25

Clif.

My soul and body on the action both!

York.

A dreadful lay! address thee instantly.

Clif.

La fin couronne les œuvres. 28

[They fight, and Clifford falls and dies.

York.

Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.

Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

[Exit.

Enter Young Clifford.

Y. Clif.

Shame and confusion! all is on the rout:

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds 32

Where it should guard. O war! thou son of hell,

Whom angry heavens do make their minister,

Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly: 36

He that is truly dedicate to war

Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself

Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,

The name of valour.

[Seeing his father’s body.

O! let the vile world end, 40

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit heaven and earth together;

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds 44

To cease!—Wast thou ordain’d, dear father,

To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve

The silver livery of advised age,

And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days thus

To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight 49

My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine

It shall be stony. York not our old men spares:

No more will I their babes: tears virginal 52

Shall be to me even as the dew to fire;

And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims,

Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.

Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: 56

Meet I an infant of the house of York,

Into as many gobbets will I cut it

As wild Medea young Absyrtus did:

In cruelty will I seek out my fame. 60

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house:

[Taking up the body.

As did Æneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;

But then Æneas bare a living load, 64

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

[Exit.

Enter Richard and Somerset, fighting; Somerset is killed.

Rich.

So, lie thou there;

For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset 68

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

[Exit.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and Others, retreating.

Q. Mar.

Away, my lord! you are slow: for shame, away! 72

K. Hen.

Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.

Q. Mar.

What are you made of? you’ll nor fight nor fly:

Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,

To give the enemy way, and to secure us 76

By what we can, which can no more but fly.

[Alarum afar off.

If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom

Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape,

As well we may, if not through your neglect, 80

We shall to London get, where you are lov’d,

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopp’d.

Re-enter Young Clifford.

Y. Clif.

But that my heart’s on future mischief set, 84

I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;

But fly you must: uncurable discomfit

Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.

Away, for your relief! and we will live 88

To see their day and them our fortune give.

Away, my lord, away!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Field near Saint Alban’s.

Alarum. Retreat. Flourish; then enter York, Richard, Warwick, and Soldiers, with drum and colours.

York.

Of Salisbury, who can report of him;

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time,

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, 4

Repairs him with occasion? this happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

Rich.

My noble father,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, 8

Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,

Persuaded him from any further act:

But still, where danger was, still there I met him;

And like rich hangings in a homely house, 12

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter Salisbury.

Sal.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;

By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard: 16

God knows how long it is I have to live;

And it hath pleas’d him that three times to-day

You have defended me from imminent death.

Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: 20

’Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,

Being opposites of such repairing nature.

York.

I know our safety is to follow them;

For, as I hear, the king is fled to London, 24

To call a present court of parliament:

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth:—

What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

War.

After them! nay, before them, if we can. 28

Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day:

Saint Alban’s battle, won by famous York,

Shall be eterniz’d in all age to come.

Sound, drums and trumpets, and to London all: 32

And more such days as these to us befall!

[Exeunt.

THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Sixth.
Edward,	Prince of Wales, his Son.
Lewis the Eleventh,	King of France.
Duke of Somerset, }	on King Henry’s side.
Duke of Exeter, }
Earl of Oxford, }
Earl of Northumberland, }
Earl of Westmoreland, }
Lord Clifford, }
Richard Plantagenet,	Duke of York.
Edward, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward the Fourth, }	his Sons.
Edmund, Earl of Rutland, }
George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, }
Richard, afterwards Duke of Gloucester, }
Duke of Norfolk, }	of the Duke of York’s Party.
Marquess of Montague, }
Earl of Warwick, }
Earl of Pembroke, }
Lord Hastings, }
Lord Stafford, }
Sir John Mortimer, }	Uncles to the Duke of York.
Sir Hugh Mortimer, }	Uncles to the Duke of York.
Henry, Earl of Richmond,	a Youth.
Lord Rivers,	Brother to Lady Grey.
Sir William Stanley.
Sir John Montgomery.
Sir John Somerville.
Tutor to Rutland.
Mayor of York.
Lieutenant of the Tower.
A Nobleman.
Two Keepers. A Huntsman.
A Son that has killed his Father.
A Father that has killed his Son.
Queen Margaret.
Lady Grey,	afterwards Queen to Edward the Fourth.
Bona,	Sister to the French Queen.
Soldiers, and other Attendants on King Henry and King Edward, Messengers, Watchmen, &c.

Scene.—During part of the Third Act, in France; during the rest of the Play, in England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. The Parliament-House.

Drums. Some Soldiers of York’s party break in. Then, enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Others, with white roses in their hats.

War.

I wonder how the king escap’d our hands.

York.

While we pursu’d the horsemen of the north,

He slily stole away and left his men:

Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, 4

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,

Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself,

Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,

Charg’d our main battle’s front, and breaking in 8

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Edw.

Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,

Is either slain or wounded dangerously;

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow: 12

That this is true, father, behold his blood.

[Showing his bloody sword.

Mont.

And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,

[To York, showing his.

Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d.

Rich.

Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

[Throwing down the Duke of Somerset’s head.

York.

Richard hath best deserv’d of all my sons. 17

But, is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

Norf.

Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Rich.

Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head. 20

War.

And so do I. Victorious Prince of York,

Before I see thee seated in that throne

Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,

I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close. 24

This is the palace of the fearful king,

And this the regal seat: possess it, York;

For this is thine, and not King Henry’s heirs’.

York.

Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will; 28

For hither we have broken in by force.

Norf.

We’ll all assist you; he that flies shall die.

York.

Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords;

And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night. 32

War.

And when the king comes, offer him no violence,

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

[The Soldiers retire.

York.

The queen this day here holds her parliament,

But little thinks we shall be of her council: 36

By words or blows here let us win our right.

Rich.

Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within this house.

War.

The bloody parliament shall this be call’d,

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king, 40

And bashful Henry depos’d, whose cowardice

Hath made us by-words to our enemies.

York.

Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute;

I mean to take possession of my right. 44

War.

Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,

The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,

Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.

I’ll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.

Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.

[Warwick leads York to the throne, who seats himself.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exeter, and Others, with red roses in their hats.

K. Hen.

My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,

Even in the chair of state! belike he means—

Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer—

To aspire unto the crown and reign as king. 53

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father,

And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow’d revenge

On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

North.

If I be not, heavens be reveng’d on me!

Clif.

The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

West.

What! shall we suffer this? let’s pluck him down:

My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it. 60

K. Hen.

Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

Clif.

Patience is for poltroons, such as he:

He durst not sit there had your father liv’d.

My gracious lord, here in the parliament 64

Let us assail the family of York.

North.

Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.

K. Hen.

Ah! know you not the city favours them,

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

Exe.

But when the duke is slain they’ll quickly fly. 69

K. Hen.

Far be the thought of this from Henry’s heart,

To make a shambles of the parliament-house!

Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats, 72

Shall be the war that Henry means to use.

[They advance to the Duke.

Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,

And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet;

I am thy sovereign.

York.

I am thine. 76

Exe.

For shame! come down: he made thee Duke of York.

York.

’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was.

Exe.

Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

War.

Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown

In following this usurping Henry. 81

Clif.

Whom should he follow but his natural king?

War.

True, Clifford; and that’s Richard, Duke of York.

K. Hen.

And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? 84

York.

It must and shall be so: content thyself.

War.

Be Duke of Lancaster: let him be king.

West.

He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. 88

War.

And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget

That we are those which chas’d you from the field

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread

March’d through the city to the palace gates. 92

North.

Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

West.

Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons,

Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I’ll have more lives 96

Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

Clif.

Urge it no more; lest that instead of words,

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger

As shall revenge his death before I stir. 100

War.

Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless threats.

York.

Will you we show our title to the crown?

If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.

K. Hen.

What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? 104

Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;

Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March;

I am the son of Henry the Fifth,

Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,

And seiz’d upon their towns and provinces. 109

War.

Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

K. Hen.

The Lord Protector lost it, and not I:

When I was crown’d I was but nine months old.

Rich.

You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. 113

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.

Edw.

Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

Mont.

[To York.] Good brother, as thou lov’st and honour’st arms, 116

Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

Rich.

Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly.

York.

Sons, peace!

K. Hen.

Peace thou! and give King Henry leave to speak. 120

War.

Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, lords;

And be you silent and attentive too,

For he that interrupts him shall not live.

K. Hen.

Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly throne, 124

Wherein my grandsire and my father sat?

No: first shall war unpeople this my realm;

Ay, and their colours, often borne in France,

And now in England to our heart’s great sorrow,

Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords? 129

My title’s good, and better far than his.

War.

Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

K. Hen.

And made him to resign his crown perforce.

War.

Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d,

Think you ’twere prejudicial to his crown? 144

Exe.

No; for he could not so resign his crown

But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

K. Hen.

Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

Exe.

His is the right, and therefore pardon me. 148

York.

Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

Exe.

My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] All will revolt from me, and turn to him.

North.

Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st, 152

Think not that Henry shall be so depos’d.

War.

Depos’d he shall be in despite of all.

North.

Thou art deceiv’d: ’tis not thy southern power,

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, 156

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,

Can set the duke up in despite of me.

Clif.

King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,

Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence: 160

May that ground gape and swallow me alive,

Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!

K. Hen.

O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

York.

Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.

What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

War.

Do right unto this princely Duke of York,

Or I will fill the house with armed men,

And o’er the chair of state, where now he sits, 168

Write up his title with usurping blood.

[He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves.

K. Hen.

My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one word:—

Let me for this my life-time reign as king.

York.

Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs, 172

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st.

K. Hen.

I am content: Richard Plantagenet,

North.

Be thou a prey unto the house of York, 185

And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

Clif.

In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,

Or live in peace abandon’d and despis’d! 188

[Exeunt Northumberland, Clifford, and Westmoreland.

War.

Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

Exe.

They seek revenge and therefore will not yield.

K. Hen.

Ah! Exeter.

War.

Why should you sigh, my lord?

K. Hen.

Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son, 192

Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.

But be it as it may; I here entail

The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever;

Conditionally, that here thou take an oath 196

To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live,

To honour me as thy king and sovereign;

And neither by treason nor hostility

To seek to put me down and reign thyself. 200

York.

This oath I willingly take and will perform.

[Coming from the throne.

War.

Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him.

K. Hen.

And long live thou and these thy forward sons!

York.

Now York and Lancaster are reconcil’d. 204

Exe.

Accurs’d be he that seeks to make them foes!

[Sennet. The Lords come forward.

York.

Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my castle.

War.

And I’ll keep London with my soldiers.

Norf.

And I to Norfolk with my followers. 208

Mont.

And I unto the sea from whence I came.

Hadst thou but lov’d him half so well as I, 220

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,

Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood,

Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,

Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir, 224

And disinherited thine only son.

Prince.

Father, you cannot disinherit me:

If you be king, why should not I succeed?

K. Hen.

Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son; 228

The Earl of Warwick, and the duke, enforc’d me.

Q. Mar.

Enforc’d thee! art thou king, and wilt be forc’d?

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah! timorous wretch;

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me; 232

And given unto the house of York such head

As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.

To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,

What is it but to make thy sepulchre, 236

And creep into it far before thy time?

Warwick is chancellor and the Lord of Calais;

Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow seas;

The duke is made protector of the realm; 240

And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds

The trembling lamb environed with wolves.

Had I been there, which am a silly woman,

The soldiers should have toss’d me on their pikes 244

Before I would have granted to that act;

But thou preferr’st thy life before thine honour:

And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself,

Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, 248

Until that act of parliament be repeal’d

Whereby my son is disinherited.

The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours

Will follow mine, if once they see them spread;

And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace,

And utter ruin of the house of York.

Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let’s away;

Our army is ready; come, we’ll after them. 256

K. Hen.

Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar.

Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone.

K. Hen.

Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Q. Mar.

Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies.

Prince.

When I return with victory from the field 261

I’ll see your Grace: till then, I’ll follow her.

Q. Mar.

Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.

[Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince of Wales.

K. Hen.

Poor queen! how love to me and to her son 264

Hath made her break out into terms of rage.

Reveng’d may she be on that hateful duke,

Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,

Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle 268

Tire on the flesh of me and of my son!

The loss of those three lords torments my heart:

I’ll write unto them, and entreat them fair.

Come, cousin; you shall be the messenger. 272

Exe.

And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire.

Enter Edward, Richard, and Montague.

Rich.

Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

Edw.

No, I can better play the orator.

Mont.

But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Enter York.

York.

Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife? 4

What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edw.

No quarrel, but a slight contention.

York.

About what?

Rich.

About that which concerns your Grace and us; 8

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

York.

Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead.

Rich.

Your right depends not on his life or death.

Edw.

Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now: 12

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,

It will outrun you, father, in the end.

York.

I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

Edw.

But for a kingdom any oath may be broken: 16

That hath authority over him that swears: 24

Henry had none, but did usurp the place;

Then, seeing ’twas he that made you to depose,

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.

Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think 28

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,

Within whose circuit is Elysium,

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest 32

Until the white rose that I wear be dy’d

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart.

York.

Richard, enough, I will be king, or die.

Brother, thou shalt to London presently, 36

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.

Thou, Richard, shalt unto the Duke of Norfolk,

And tell him privily of our intent.

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, 40

With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise:

In them I trust; for they are soldiers,

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.

While you are thus employ’d, what resteth more, 44

But that I seek occasion how to rise,

And yet the king not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the house of Lancaster?

Enter a Messenger.

But, stay: what news? why com’st thou in such post? 48

Mess.

The queen with all the northern earls and lords

Intend here to besiege you in your castle.

She is hard by with twenty thousand men,

And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. 52

York.

Ay, with my sword. What! think’st thou that we fear them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;

My brother Montague shall post to London:

Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, 56

Whom we have left protectors of the king,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

Mont.

Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not: 60

And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

[Exit.

Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer.

York.

Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles!

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;

The army of the queen mean to besiege us. 64

Sir John.

She shall not need, we’ll meet her in the field.

York.

What! with five thousand men?

Rich.

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need:

A woman’s general; what should we fear? 68

[A march afar off.

Edw.

I hear their drums; let’s set our men in order,

And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

York.

Five men to twenty! though the odds be great,

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. 72

Many a battle have I won in France,

When as the enemy hath been ten to one:

Why should I not now have the like success?

[Alarum. Exeunt.

Scene III.— Field of Battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Rutland and his Tutor.

Rut.

Ah, whither shall I fly to ’scape their hands?

Ah! tutor, look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter Clifford and Soldiers.

Clif.

Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke, 4

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut.

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Clif.

Soldiers, away with him.

Tut.

Ah! Clifford, murder not this innocent child, 8

Lest thou be hated both of God and man!

[Exit, forced off by Soldiers.

Clif.

How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear

That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.

Rut.

So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch 12

That trembles under his devouring paws;

And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey,

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

Ah! gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 16

And not with such a cruel threatening look.

Sweet Clifford! hear me speak before I die:

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;

Be thou reveng’d on men, and let me live. 20

Clif.

In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood

Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut.

Then let my father’s blood open it again:

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. 24

Clif.

Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me;

No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves,

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains, 28

It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.

The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul;

And till I root out their accursed line, 32

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore—

[Lifting his hand.

Rut.

O! let me pray before I take my death.

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me! 36

Clif.

Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.

Rut.

I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clif.

Thy father hath.

Rut.

But ’twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me, 40

Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,

He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah! let me live in prison all my days;

And when I give occasion of offence, 44

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clif.

No cause!

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

[Stabs him.

Rut.

Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuœ!

[Dies.

Clif.

Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet! 49

And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade

Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,

Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Plains.

Alarum. Enter York.

York.

The army of the queen hath got the field:

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind, 4

Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them:

But this I know, they have demean’d themselves

Like men born to renown by life or death. 8

Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

And thrice cried, ‘Courage, father! fight it out!’

And full as oft came Edward to my side,

With purple falchion, painted to the hilt 12

In blood of those that had encounter’d him:

And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried, ‘Charge! and give no foot of ground!’

And cried, ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb! 16

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!’

With this, we charg’d again; but, out, alas!

We bodg’d again: as I have seen a swan

With bootless labour swim against the tide, 20

And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

[A short alarum within.

Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;

And were I strong I would not shun their fury: 24

The sands are number’d that make up my life;

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northumberland, the young Prince, and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: 28

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North.

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Clif.

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm

With downright payment show’d unto my father. 32

Now Phæthon hath tumbled from his car,

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York.

My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all; 36

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,

Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with.

Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?

Clif.

So cowards fight when they can fly no further; 40

So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;

So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,

Breathe out invectives ’gainst the officers.

York.

O Clifford! but bethink thee once again, 44

And in thy thought o’er-run my former time;

And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,

And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. 48

Clif.

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

[Draws.

Q. Mar.

Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes

I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life. 52

Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

North.

Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much

To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.

What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, 56

For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,

When he might spurn him with his foot away?

It is war’s prize to take all vantages,

And ten to one is no impeach of valour. 60

[They lay hands on York, who struggles.

Clif.

Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.

North.

So doth the cony struggle in the net.

[York is taken prisoner.

York.

So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty;

So true men yield, with robbers so o’er-matched.

North.

What would your Grace have done unto him now? 65

Q. Mar.

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms, 68

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.

What! was it you that would be England’s king?

Was’t you that revell’d in our parliament,

And made a preachment of your high descent?

Where are your mess of sons to back you now? 73

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?

And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,

Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice 76

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?

Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood

That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point 80

Made issue from the bosom of the boy;

And if thine eyes can water for his death,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.

Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly, 84

I should lament thy miserable state.

I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.

What! hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrails

That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death? 88

Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.

Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.

Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport:

York cannot speak unless he wear a crown. 93

A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him:

Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.

[Putting a paper crown on his head.

Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! 96

Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair;

And this is he was his adopted heir.

But how is it that great Plantagenet

Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath?

As I bethink me, you should not be king 101

Till our King Henry had shook hands with death.

And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory,

And rob his temples of the diadem, 104

Now in his life, against your holy oath?

O! ’tis a fault too-too unpardonable.

Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;

And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. 108

Clif.

That is my office, for my father’s sake.

Q. Mar.

Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he makes.

York.

She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! 112

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex

To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,

Upon their woes whom fortune captivates!

But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging, 116

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:

To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv’d,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. 120

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem;

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?

It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen, 125

Unless the adage must be verified,

That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;

But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:

’Tis virtue that doth make them most admir’d;

The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at:

’Tis government that makes them seem divine;

The want thereof makes thee abominable. 133

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion. 136

O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!

How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,

To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face? 140

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bidd’st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; 144

For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

And when the rage allays, the rain begins.

These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies,

And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman. 149

North.

Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so

That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

York.

That face of his the hungry cannibals

Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood; 153

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,—

O! ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears: 156

This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy,

And I with tears do wash the blood away.

Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;

[Giving back the handkerchief.

And if thou tell’st the heavy story right, 160

Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;

Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,

And say, ‘Alas! it was a piteous deed!’

There, take the crown, and, with the crown my curse, 164

And in thy need such comfort come to thee

As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;

My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads! 168

North.

Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,

I should not for my life but weep with him,

To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

Q. Mar.

What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? 172

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clif.

Here’s for my oath; here’s for my father’s death.

[Stabbing him.

Q. Mar.

And here’s to right our gentlehearted king.

[Stabbing him.

York.

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! 177

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.

[Dies.

Q. Mar.

Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York. 180

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— A Plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire.

Drums. Enter Edward and Richard, with their Forces, marching.

Edw.

I wonder how our princely father ’scap’d,

Or whether he be ’scap’d away or no

From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.

Had he been ta’en we should have heard the news; 4

Had he been slain we should have heard the news;

Or had he ’scap’d, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? why is he so sad? 8

Rich.

I cannot joy until I be resolv’d

Where our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about,

And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop 13

As doth a lion in a herd of neat;

Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs,

Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. 17

So far’d our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my war-like father:

Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son. 20

See how the morning opes her golden gates,

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun;

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love. 24

Edw.

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Rich.

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. 28

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vow’d some league inviolable:

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.

In this the heaven figures some event. 32

Edw.

’Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field;

That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

Each one already blazing by our meeds, 36

Should notwithstanding join our lights together,

And over-shine the earth, as this the world.

Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair-shining suns. 40

Rich.

Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.

But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? 44

Mess.

Ah! one that was a woeful looker-on,

When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father, and my loving lord.

Edw.

O! speak no more, for I have heard too much. 48

Rich.

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Mess.

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy. 52

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.

By many hands your father was subdu’d; 56

But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,

Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite;

Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept, 60

The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks,

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:

And after many scorns, many foul taunts, 64

They took his head, and on the gates of York

They set the same; and there it doth remain,

The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d.

Edw.

Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon, 68

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!

O Clifford! boist’rous Clifford! thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him, 72

For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee.

Now my soul’s palace is become a prison:

Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body

Might in the ground be closed up in rest, 76

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich.

I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart: 80

Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden;

For self-same wind, that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,

And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench. 84

To weep is to make less the depth of grief:

Tears then, for babes; blows and revenge for me!

Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death,

Or die renowned by attempting it. 88

Edw.

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich.

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,

Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun: 92

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick and the Marquess of Montague, with Forces.

War.

How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Rich.

Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount 96

Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliv’rance

Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

O valiant lord! the Duke of York is slain. 100

Edw.

O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet

Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War.

Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears, 104

And now, to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befallen.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breath’d his latest gasp, 108

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

I, then in London, keeper of the king,

Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends,

And very well appointed, as I thought, 113

March’d towards Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised 116

That she was coming with a full intent

To dash our late decree in parliament,

Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.

Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met, 120

Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought:

But whether ’twas the coldness of the king,

Who look’d full gently on his war-like queen,

That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen;

Or whether ’twas report of her success; 125

Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour,

Who thunders to his captives blood and death,

I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth, 128

Their weapons like to lightning came and went;

Our soldiers’—like the night-owl’s lazy flight,

Or like a lazy thresher with a flail—

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause, 133

With promise of high pay, and great rewards:

But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

And we in them no hope to win the day; 136

So that we fled: the king unto the queen;

Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,

In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;

For in the marches here we heard you were, 140

Making another head to fight again.

Edw.

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.

Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers; 144

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.

’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled: 148

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

War.

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine 152

Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head,

And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,

Were he as famous, and as bold in war

As he is fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer.

Rich.

I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not: 157

’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.

But, in this troublous time what’s to be done?

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, 160

And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,

Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? 164

If for the last, say ‘Ay,’ and to it, lords.

War.

Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;

And therefore comes my brother Montague.

Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,

With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,

And of their feather many more proud birds,

Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.

He swore consent to your succession, 172

His oath enrolled in the parliament;

And now to London all the crew are gone,

To frustrate both his oath and what beside

May make against the house of Lancaster. 176

Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:

Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,

Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,

Why, Via! to London will we march amain,

And once again bestride our foaming steeds,

And once again cry, ‘Charge upon our foes!’ 184

But never once again turn back and fly.

Rich.

Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak:

Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day,

That cries ‘Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay. 188

Edw.

Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

And when thou fail’st—as God forbid the hour!—

Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!

War.

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: 192

The next degree is England’s royal throne;

For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d

In every borough as we pass along;

And he that throws not up his cap for joy 196

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.

King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,

Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets, and about our task. 200

Rich.

Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,—

As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,—

I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw.

Then strike up, drums! God, and Saint George for us! 204

Enter a Messenger.

War.

How now! what news?

Mess.

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The queen is coming with a puissant host;

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

War.

Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Before York.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, the Prince of Wales, Clifford and Northumberland, with drums and trumpets.

Q. Mar.

Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy,

That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? 4

K. Hen.

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack:

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow. 8

Clif.

My gracious liege, this too much lenity

And harmful pity must be laid aside.

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

Not to the beast that would usurp their den. 12

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?

Not his that spoils her young before her face.

Who ’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting?

Not he that sets his foot upon her back. 16

The smallest worm will turn being trodden on,

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York did level at thy crown;

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows: 20

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, bless’d with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him, 24

Which argu’d thee a most unloving father.

Unreasonable creatures feed their young;

And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes,

Yet, in protection of their tender ones, 28

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have us’d with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest,

Offering their own lives in their young’s defence?

For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.

Were it not pity that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault,

And long hereafter say unto his child, 36

‘What my great grandfather and grandsire got,

My careless father fondly gave away?’

Ah! what a shame were this. Look on the boy;

And let his manly face, which promiseth 40

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

K. Hen.

Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force. 44

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell? 48

I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;

And would my father had left me no more!

For all the rest is held at such a rate

As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep 52

Than in possession any jot of pleasure.

Ah! cousin York, would thy best friends did know

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Q. Mar.

My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh, 56

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promis’d knighthood to our forward son:

Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.

Edward, kneel down. 60

K. Hen.

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;

And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.

Prince.

My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown, 64

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Clif.

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Royal commanders, be in readiness:

For with a band of thirty thousand men 68

Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York;

And in the towns, as they do march along,

Proclaims him king, and many fly to him:

Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. 72

Clif.

I would your highness would depart the field:

The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Q. Mar.

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen.

Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay. 76

North.

Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince.

My royal father, cheer these noble lords,

And hearten those that fight in your defence:

Unsheathe your sword, good father: cry, ‘Saint George!’ 80

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers.

Edw.

Now, perjur’d Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar.

Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy! 84

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

Edw.

I am his king, and he should bow his knee;

I was adopted heir by his consent: 88

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caus’d him, by new act of parliament,

To blot out me, and put his own son in. 92

Clif.

And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Rich.

Are you there, butcher? O! I cannot speak.

Clif.

Ay, crook-back; here I stand to answer thee, 96

The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. 112

Clif.

I slew thy father: call’st thou him a child?

Rich.

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;

But ere sun-set I’ll make thee curse the deed.

K. Hen.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak. 117

Q. Mar.

Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen.

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:

I am a king, and privileg’d to speak. 120

Clif.

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cur’d by words; therefore be still.

Rich.

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.

By him that made us all, I am resolv’d 124

That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw.

Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?

A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,

That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown. 128

War.

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince.

If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but everything is right. 132

Rich.

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

Q. Mar.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, 136

Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.

Rich.

Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,— 140

As if a channel should be call’d the sea,—

Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw.

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns, 144

To make this shameless callet know herself.

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,

Although thy husband may be Menelaus;

And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d

By that false woman as this king by thee. 149

His father revell’d in the heart of France,

And tam’d the king, and made the Dauphin stoop;

And had he match’d according to his state, 152

He might have kept that glory to this day;

But when he took a beggar to his bed,

And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal day,

Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him, 156

That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France,

And heap’d sedition on his crown at home.

For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride?

Hadst thou been meek our title still had slept,

And we, in pity of the gentle king, 161

Had slipp’d our claim until another age.

Geo.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase, 164

We set the axe to thy usurping root;

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,

We’ll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,

Or bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods.

Edw.

And in this resolution I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deny’st the gentle king to speak. 172

Sound trumpets!—let our bloody colours wave!

And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar.

Stay, Edward.

Edw.

No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay: 176

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter Warwick.

War.

Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe;

For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid,

Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength, 4

And spite of spite needs must I rest a while.

Enter Edward, running.

Edw.

Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.

War.

How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good? 8

Enter George.

Geo.

Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.

What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw.

Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings; 12

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Richard.

Rich.

Ah! Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance;

And in the very pangs of death he cried, 17

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,

‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’

So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 20

That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War.

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly. 24

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;

And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors? 28

Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I’ll never pause again, never stand still

Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine,

Of fortune given me measure of revenge. 32

Edw.

O Warwick! I do bend my knee with thine;

And in this vow do chain my soul to thine.

And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,

I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,

Thou setter up and plucker down of kings, 37

Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands

That to my foes this body must be prey,

Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, 40

And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

Rich.

Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, 44

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:

I, that did never weep, now melt with woe

That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

War.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell. 48

Geo.

Yet let us all together to our troops,

And give them leave to fly that will not stay,

And call them pillars that will stand to us;

And if we thrive, promise them such rewards 52

As victors wear at the Olympian games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;

For yet is hope of life and victory.

Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. 56

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford.

Rich.

Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,

And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,

Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall. 4

Clif.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;

And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death 8

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother,

To execute the like upon thyself;

And so, have at thee!

[They fight. Warwick enters; Clifford flies.

Rich.

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase; 12

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter King Henry.

K. Hen.

This battle fares like to the morning’s war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 4

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea

Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind: 8

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;

Now one the better, then another best;

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered: 12

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory!

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 16

Have chid me from the battle; swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so;

For what is in this world but grief and woe? 20

O God! methinks it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;

To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 24

Thereby to see the minutes how they run,

How many make the hour full complete;

How many hours bring about the day;

How many days will finish up the year; 28

How many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the times:

So many hours must I tend my flock;

So many hours must I take my rest; 32

So many hours must I contemplate;

So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean; 36

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,

Pass’d over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 40

Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy 44

To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery?

O, yes! it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 48

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 52

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his Father, with the dead body.

Son.

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight, 56

May be possessed with some store of crowns;

And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them

To some man else, as this dead man doth me. 60

Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face,

Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d.

O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the king was I press’d forth; 64

My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,

Came on the part of York, press’d by his master;

And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life,

Have by my hands of life bereaved him. 68

Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;

And no more words till they have flow’d their fill.

K. Hen.

O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear;

And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war, 77

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief.

Enter a Father that hath killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

Fath.

Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, 80

For I have bought it with a hundred blows.

But let me see: is this our foeman’s face?

Ah! no, no, no, it is mine only son.

Ah! boy, if any life be left in thee, 84

Throw up thine eye: see, see! what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.

O! pity, God, this miserable age. 88

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,

Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!

O boy! thy father gave thee life too soon, 92

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

K. Hen.

Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O! that my death would stay these ruthful deeds.

O! pity, pity; gentle heaven, pity. 96

The red rose and the white are on his face,

The fatal colours of our striving houses:

The one his purple blood right well resembles;

The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth:

Wither one rose, and let the other flourish! 101

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son.

How will my mother for a father’s death

Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied! 104

Fath.

How will my wife for slaughter of my son

Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!

K. Hen.

How will the country for these woeful chances

Misthink the king and not be satisfied! 108

Son.

Was ever son so ru’d a father’s death?

Fath.

Was ever father so bemoan’d a son?

K. Hen.

Was ever king so griev’d for subjects’ woe?

Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

Son.

I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

[Exit with the body.

Fath.

These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,

For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go:

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; 117

And so obsequious will thy father be,

E’en for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 120

I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,

For I have murder’d where I should not kill.

[Exit with the body.

K. Hen.

Sad-hearted men,’ much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are. 124

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince of Wales, and Exeter.

Prince.

Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Q. Mar.

Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. 128

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds

Having the fearful flying hare in sight,

With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,

And bloody steel grasp’d in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe.

Away! for vengeance comes along with them.

Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,

Or else come after: I’ll away before. 136

K. Hen.

Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go

Whither the queen intends. Forward! away!

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— The Same.

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded.

Clif.

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,

Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.

O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow

More than my body’s parting with my soul. 4

My love and fear glu’d many friends to thee;

And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,

Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York:

The common people swarm like summer flies; 8

And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?

And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?

O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent

That Phæthon should check thy fiery steeds, 12

Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth;

And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do,

Or as thy father and his father did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York, 16

They never then had sprung like summer flies;

I and ten thousand in this luckless realm

Had left no mourning widows for our death,

And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air? 21

And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;

No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: 24

The foe is merciless, and will not pity;

For at their hands I have deserv’d no pity.

The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.

Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest;

I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.

[He faints.

Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers.

Edw.

Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks. 32

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen,

That led calm Henry, though he were a king,

As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust,

Command an argosy to stern the waves. 36

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

War.

No, ’tis impossible he should escape;

For, though before his face I speak the words,

Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave;

And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead. 41

[Clifford groans and dies.

Edw.

Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

Rich.

A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

Edw.

See who it is: and now the battle’s ended, 44

If friend or foe let him be gently us’d.

Rich.

Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford;

Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth, 48

But set his murd’ring knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,

I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

War.

From off the gates of York fetch down the head, 52

Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;

Instead whereof let this supply the room:

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw.

Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house, 56

That nothing sung but death to us and ours:

Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,

And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

[Attendants bring the body forward.

War.

I think his understanding is bereft. 60

Speak, Clifford; dost thou know who speaks to thee?

Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life,

And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich.

O! would he did; and so perhaps he doth: 64

Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?

War.

They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont. 76

Rich.

What! not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard

When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.

I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul,

If this right hand would buy two hours’ life, 80

That I in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood

Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy. 84

War.

Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s head,

And rear it in the place your father’s stands.

And now to London with triumphant march,

There to be crowned England’s royal king: 88

From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,

And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together;

And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread 92

The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again;

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,

Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.

First will I see the coronation; 96

And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea,

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.

Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

For on thy shoulder do I build my seat, 100

And never will I undertake the thing

Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.

Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;

And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself,

Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best. 105

Rich.

Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,

For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.

War.

Tut! that’s a foolish observation: 108

Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,

To see these honours in possession.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— A Chase in the North of England.

Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands.

First Keep.

Under this thick-grown hrake we’ll shroud ourselves;

For through this laund anon the deer will come;

And in this covert will we make our stand,

Culling the principal of all the deer. 4

Sec. Keep.

I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

First Keep.

That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow

Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.

Here stand we both, and aim we at the best: 8

And, for the time shall not seem tedious,

I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day

In this self place where now we mean to stand.

Sec. Keep.

Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past. 12

Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer-book.

K. Hen.

From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure love,

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.

No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine;

Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee,

Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed: 17

No bending knee will call thee Cæsar now,

No humble suitors press to speak for right,

No, not a man comes for redress of thee; 20

For how can I help them, and not myself?

First Keep.

Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee:

This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

K. Hen.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,

For wise men say it is the wisest course. 25

Sec. Keep.

Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

First Keep.

Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.

K. Hen.

My queen and son are gone to France for aid; 28

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick

Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s sister

To wife for Edward. If this news be true,

Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; 32

For Warwick is a subtle orator,

And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.

By this account then Margaret may win him,

For she’s a woman to be pitied much: 36

Her sighs will make a battery in his breast;

Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;

The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn;

And Nero will be tainted with remorse, 40

To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.

Ay, but she’s come to beg; Warwick, to give:

She on his left side craving aid for Henry;

He on his right asking a wife for Edward. 44

She weeps, and says her Henry is depos’d;

He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d;

That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more:

Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, 48

Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,

And in conclusion wins the king from her,

With promise of his sister, and what else,

To strengthen and support King Edward’s place.

O Margaret! thus ’twill be; and thou, poor soul,

Sec. Keep.

Well, if you be a king crown’d with content,

Your crown content and you must be contented

To go along with us; for, as we think, 68

You are the king King Edward hath depos’d;

And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance,

And you were sworn true subjects unto me:

And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

First Keep.

No; 80

For we were subjects but while you were king.

K. Hen.

Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man?

Ah! simple men, you know not what you swear.

Look, as I blow this feather from my face, 84

And as the air blows it to me again,

Obeying with my wind when I do blow,

And yielding to another when it blows,

Commanded always by the greater gust; 88

Such is the lightness of you common men.

But do not break your oaths; for of that sin

My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.

Go where you will, the king shall be commanded;

And be you kings: command, and I’ll obey. 93

First Keep.

We are true subjects to the king, King Edward.

K. Hen.

So would you be again to Henry,

If he were seated as King Edward is. 96

First Keep.

We charge you, in God’s name, and in the king’s,

To go with us unto the officers.

K. Hen.

In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be obey’d:

And what God will, that let your king perform;

And what he will, I humbly yield unto.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Clarence, and Lady Grey.

K. Edw.

Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s field

This lady’s husband, Sir John Grey, was slain,

His lands then seiz’d on by the conqueror:

Her suit is now, to repossess those lands; 4

Which we in justice cannot well deny,

Because in quarrel of the house of York

The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

Glo.

Your highness shall do well to grant her suit; 8

It were dishonour to deny it her.

K. Edw.

It were no less: but yet I’ll make a pause.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Yea; is it so?

I see the lady hath a thing to grant 12

Before the king will grant her humble suit.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] He knows the game: how true he keeps the wind!

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] Silence!

K. Edw.

Widow, we will consider of your suit, 16

And come some other time to know our mind.

L. Grey.

Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay:

May it please your highness to resolve me now,

Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.

What love think’st thou I sue so much to get?

L. Grey.

My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers:

That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.

K. Edw.

No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. 64

Accords not with the sadness of my suit:

Please you dismiss me, either with ‘ay,’ or ‘no.’

K. Edw.

Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request;

No, if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand. 80

L. Grey.

Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

Glo.

[Aside to Clarence.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

Clar.

[Aside to Gloucester.] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.

K. Edw.

[Aside.] Her looks do argue her replete with modesty; 84

Her words do show her wit incomparable;

All her perfections challenge sovereignty:

One way or other, she is for a king;

And she shall be my love, or else my queen. 88

K. Edw.

See that he be convey’d unto the Tower: 120

And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,

To question of his apprehension.

Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Glo.

Ay, Edward will use women honourably. 124

Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,

That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,

To cross me from the golden time I look for!

And yet, between my soul’s desire and me— 128

The lustful Edward’s title buried,—

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,

And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies,

To take their rooms, ere I can place myself: 132

A cold premeditation for my purpose!

Why then, I do but dream on sovereignty;

Like one that stands upon a promontory,

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye; 137

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,

Saying, he’ll lade it dry to have his way:

So do I wish the crown, being so far off, 140

And so I chide the means that keep me from it,

And so I say I’ll cut the causes off,

Flattering me with impossibilities.

My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much,

Unless my hand and strength could equal them. 145

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;

What other pleasure can the world afford?

I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap, 148

And deck my body in gay ornaments,

And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.

O miserable thought! and more unlikely

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns. 152

Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb:

And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,

She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,

To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub;

To make an envious mountain on my back, 157

Where sits deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part, 160

Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp

That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be belov’d?

O monstrous fault! to harbour such a thought.

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me 165

But to command, to check, to o’erbear such

As are of better person than myself,

I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown;

And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,

Until my mis-shap’d trunk that bears this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown, 172

For many lives stand between me and home:

And I, like one lost in a thorny wood,

That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns,

Seeking a way and straying from the way; 176

Not knowing how to find the open air,

But toiling desperately to find it out,

Torment myself to catch the English crown:

And from that torment I will free myself, 180

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,

And cry, ‘Content,’ to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, 184

And frame my face to all occasions.

I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;

I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk;

I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor, 188

Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, 192

And set the murd’rous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down.

[Exit.

Scene III.— France. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, his sister Lady Bona, attended: his Admiral called Bourbon; the King takes his state. Then enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and the Earl of Oxford. Lewis sits, and riseth up again.

K. Lew.

Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,

Sit down with us: it ill befits thy state

And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit.

Q. Mar.

No, mighty King of France: now Margaret 4

Must strike her sail, and learn a while to serve

Where kings command. I was, I must confess,

Great Albion’s queen in former golden days;

But now mischance hath trod my title down, 8

And with dishonour laid me on the ground,

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,

And to my humble seat conform myself.

K. Lew.

Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair? 12

Q. Mar.

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears

And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in cares.

K. Lew.

Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,

And sit thee by our side. [Seats her by him.] Yield not thy neck 16

To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind

Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;

It shall be eas’d, if France can yield relief. 20

Q. Mar.

Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts,

And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.

Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis,

That Henry, sole possessor of my love, 24

Is of a king become a banish’d man,

And forc’d to live in Scotland a forlorn;

While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York

Usurps the regal title and the seat 28

Of England’s true-anointed lawful king.

This is the cause that I, poor Margaret,

With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir,

Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; 32

And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.

Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;

Our people and our peers are both misled,

Our treasure seiz’d, our soldiers put to flight, 36

And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

K. Lew.

Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm,

While we bethink a means to break it off.

Q. Mar.

The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. 40

K. Lew.

The more I stay, the more I’ll succour thee.

Q. Mar.

O! but impatience waiteth on true sorrow:

And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

Enter Warwick, attended.

K. Lew.

What’s he, approacheth boldly to our presence? 44

Q. Mar.

Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend.

K. Lew.

Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France?

[Descending from his state. Queen Margaret rises.

Q. Mar.

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise;

For this is he that moves both wind and tide. 48

War.

From worthy Edward, King of Albion,

My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,

I come, in kindness and unfeigned love,

First, to do greetings to thy royal person; 52

And then to crave a league of amity;

And lastly to confirm that amity

With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant

That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister, 56

To England’s king in lawful marriage.

Q. Mar.

If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

War.

[To Bona.] And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf,

I am commanded, with your leave and favour, 60

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sov’reign’s heart;

Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,

Hath plac’d thy beauty’s image and thy virtue.

Q. Mar.

King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak, 65

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,

But from deceit bred by necessity; 68

For how can tyrants safely govern home,

Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?

To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice,

That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, 72

Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son.

Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage

Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour;

For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, 76

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

War.

Injurious Margaret!

Prince.

And why not queen?

War.

Because thy father Henry did usurp,

And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

Oxf.

Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, 81

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;

And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,

Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; 84

And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,

Who by his prowess conquered all France:

From these our Henry lineally descends.

War.

Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse, 88

You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost

All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten?

Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.

But for the rest, you tell a pedigree 92

Of threescore and two years; a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth.

Oxf.

Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,

Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years, 96

And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

War.

Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?

For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king.

Oxf.

Call him my king, by whose injurious doom 101

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,

Was done to death? and more than so, my father,

Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years, 104

When nature brought him to the door of death?

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,

This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

War.

And I the house of York. 108

K. Lew.

Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,

Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside,

While I use further conference with Warwick.

[They stand aloof.

Q. Mar.

Heaven grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not! 112

K. Lew.

Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,

Is Edward your true king? for I were loath

To link with him that were not lawful chosen.

War.

Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour. 116

K. Lew.

But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

War.

The more that Henry was unfortunate.

K. Lew.

Then further, all dissembling set aside,

Tell me for truth the measure of his love 120

Unto our sister Bona.

War.

Such it seems

As may beseem a monarch like himself.

Myself have often heard him say and swear

That this his love was an eternal plant, 124

Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground,

The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun,

Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,

Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. 128

K. Lew.

Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

Bona.

Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine:

[To Warwick.] Yet I confess that often ere this day,

When I have heard your king’s desert recounted,

Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. 133

K. Lew.

Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s;

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make, 136

Which with her dowry shall be counterpois’d.

Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness

That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

Prince.

To Edward, but not to the English king. 140

Q. Mar.

Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device

By this alliance to make void my suit:

Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend.

K. Lew.

And still is friend to him and Margaret: 144

But if your title to the crown be weak,

As may appear by Edward’s good success,

Then ’tis but reason that I be releas’d

From giving aid which late I promised. 148

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand

That your estate requires and mine can yield.

War.

Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,

Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. 152

And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,

You have a father able to maintain you,

And better ’twere you troubled him than France.

Q. Mar.

Peace! impudent and shameless Warwick, peace; 156

Proud setter up and puller down of kings;

I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears,

Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold

Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love; 160

For both of you are birds of self-same feather.

[A horn winded within.

K. Lew.

Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

Enter a Post.

Mess.

My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,

Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague:

These from our king unto your majesty; 165

[To Margaret.] And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not.

[They all read their letters.

Oxf.

I like it well that our fair queen and mistress

Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. 168

Prince.

Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled:

I hope all’s for the best.

K. Lew.

Warwick, what are thy news? and yours, fair queen?

Q. Mar.

Mine, such as fill my heart with unhop’d joys. 172

War.

Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.

K. Lew.

What! has your king married the Lady Grey?

And now, to soothe your forgery and his,

Sends me a paper to persuade me patience? 176

Is this the alliance that he seeks with France?

Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

Q. Mar.

I told your majesty as much before:

This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty. 180

War.

King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven,

And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,

That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s;

No more my king, for he dishonours me; 184

But most himself, if he could see his shame.

Did I forget that by the house of York

My father came untimely to his death?

Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece? 188

Did I impale him with the regal crown?

Did I put Henry from his native right?

And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame?

Shame on himself! for my desert is honour: 192

And, to repair my honour, lost for him,

I here renounce him and return to Henry.

My noble queen, let former grudges pass,

And henceforth I am thy true servitor. 196

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,

And replant Henry in his former state.

Q. Mar.

Warwick, these words have turn’d my hate to love;

And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 200

And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend.

War.

So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us

With some few bands of chosen soldiers, 204

I’ll undertake to land them on our coast,

And force the tyrant from his seat by war.

’Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him:

And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, 208

He’s very likely now to fall from him,

For matching more for wanton lust than honour,

Or than for strength and safety of our country.

Bona.

Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng’d, 212

But by thy help to this distressed queen?

Q. Mar.

Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live,

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

Bona.

My quarrel and this English queen’s are one. 216

War.

And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

K. Lew.

And mine with hers, and thine and Margaret’s.

Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv’d

You shall have aid. 220

Q. Mar.

Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

K. Lew.

Then, England’s messenger, return in post,

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,

To revel it with him and his new bride. 225

Thou seest what’s past; go fear thy king withal.

Bona.

Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,

I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake. 228

Q. Mar.

Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside,

And I am ready to put armour on.

War.

Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long.

There’s thy reward: be gone.

[Exit Messenger.

K. Lew.

But, Warwick, 233

Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,

Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle;

And, as occasion serves, this noble queen 236

And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.

Yet ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:

What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

War.

This shall assure my constant loyalty:

That if our queen and this young prince agree,

I’ll join mine eldest daughter and my joy

To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

Q. Mar.

Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. 244

Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous,

Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick;

And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable,

That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine.

Prince.

Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it; 249

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

[He gives his hand to Warwick.

K. Lew.

Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, 252

Shall waft them over with our royal fleet.

I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance,

For mocking marriage with a dame of France.

[Exeunt all except Warwick.

War.

I came from Edward as ambassador,

But I return his sworn and mortal foe: 257

Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,

But dreadful war shall answer his demand.

Had he none else to make a stale but me? 260

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

I was the chief that rais’d him to the crown,

And I’ll be chief to bring him down again:

Not that I pity Henry’s misery, 264

But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, Montague, and Others.

Glo.

Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?

Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

Clar.

Alas! you know, ’tis far from hence to France; 4

How could he stay till Warwick made return?

Som.

My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the king.

Glo.

And his well-chosen bride.

Clar.

I mind to tell him plainly what I think. 8

Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended; Lady Grey, as Queen; Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and Others.

K. Edw.

Now, brother Clarence, how like you our choice,

That you stand pensive, as half malcontent?

Clar.

As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick;

Which are so weak of courage and in judgment

That they’ll take no offence at our abuse. 13

K. Edw.

Suppose they take offence without a cause,

They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward,

Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my will. 16

Glo.

And you shall have your will, because our king:

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

K. Edw.

Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

Glo.

Not I: 20

No, God forbid, that I should wish them sever’d

Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and ’twere pity

To sunder them that yoke so well together.

K. Edw.

Setting your scorns and your mislike aside, 24

Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey

Should not become my wife and England’s queen:

And you too, Somerset and Montague,

Speak freely what you think. 28

Clar.

Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis

Becomes your enemy for mocking him

About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

Glo.

And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, 32

Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

K. Edw.

What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas’d

By such invention as I can devise?

Mont.

Yet to have join’d with France in such alliance 36

Would more have strengthen’d this our commonwealth

’Gainst foreign storms, than any home-bred marriage.

Hast.

Why, knows not Montague, that of itself

England is safe, if true within itself? 40

Mont.

Yes; but the safer when ’tis back’d with France.

Hast.

’Tis better using France than trusting France:

Let us be back’d with God and with the seas

Which he hath given for fence impregnable, 44

And with their helps only defend ourselves:

In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

Clar.

For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. 48

K. Edw.

Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;

And for this once my will shall stand for law.

Glo.

And yet methinks your Grace hath not done well,

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales 52

Unto the brother of your loving bride:

She better would have fitted me or Clarence:

But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Clar.

Or else you would not have bestow’d the heir 56

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

K. Edw.

Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

Clar.

In choosing for yourself you show’d your judgment, 61

Which being shallow, you shall give me leave

To play the broker on mine own behalf;

And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. 64

K. Edw.

Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king,

And not be tied unto his brother’s will.

Q. Eliz.

My lords, before it pleas’d his majesty

To raise my state to title of a queen, 68

Do me but right, and you must all-confess

That I was not ignoble of descent;

And meaner than myself have had like fortune.

But as this title honours me and mine, 72

So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,

Do cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

K. Edw.

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns:

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee, 76

So long as Edward is thy constant friend,

And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?

Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,

Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; 80

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

Glo.

[Aside.] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Edw.

Now, messenger, what letters or what news 84

From France?

Mess.

My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words;

But such as I, without your special pardon,

Dare not relate. 88

K. Edw.

Go to, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief,

Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.

What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?

Mess.

At my depart these were his very words: 92

He, more incens’d against your majesty

Than all the rest, discharg’d me with these words: 109

‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long.’

K. Edw.

Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? 112

Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d:

They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.

But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

Mess.

Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link’d in friendship, 116

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter.

Clar.

Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.

Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,

For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter;

That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage

I may not prove inferior to yourself.

You, that love me and Warwick, follow me.

[Exit Clarence, and Somerset follows.

Glo.

[Aside.] Not I. 124

My thoughts aim at a further matter; I

Stay not for love of Edward, but the crown.

K. Edw.

Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!

Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen,

And haste is needful in this desperate case. 129

Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf

Go levy men, and make prepare for war:

They are already, or quickly will be landed: 132

Myself in person will straight follow you,

[Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford.

But ere I go, Hastings and Montague,

Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,

Are near to Warwick by blood, and by alliance:

Tell me if you love Warwick more than me? 137

If it be so, then both depart to him;

I rather wish you foes than hollow friends:

But if you mind to hold your true obedience,

Give me assurance with some friendly vow 141

That I may never have you in suspect.

Mont.

So God help Montague as he proves true!

Hast.

And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause! 144

K. Edw.

Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

Glo.

Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

K. Edw.

Why, so! then am I sure of victory.

Now therefore let us hence; and lose no hour

Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Plain in Warwickshire.

Enter Warwick and Oxford, with French and other Forces.

War.

Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;

The common people by numbers swarm to us.

Enter Clarence and Somerset.

But see where Somerset and Clarence come!

Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends? 4

Clar.

Fear not that, my lord.

War.

Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;

And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice,

To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 8

Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love;

Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother,

Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings:

But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. 12

And now what rests, but in night’s coverture,

Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d,

His soldiers lurking in the towns about,

And but attended by a simple guard, 16

We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?

Our scouts have found the adventure very easy.

That as Ulysses, and stout Diomede,

With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents, 20

And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds;

So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle,

At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard,

And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him, 24

For I intend but only to surprise him.

You, that will follow me to this attempt,

Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.

[They all cry ‘Henry!’

Why, then, let’s on our way in silent sort. 28

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Edward’s Camp near Warwick.

Enter certain Watchmen to guard the King’s tent.

First Watch.

Come on, my masters, each man take his stand;

The king, by this, is set him down to sleep.

Sec. Watch.

What, will he not to bed?

First Watch.

Why, no: for he hath made a solemn vow 4

Never to lie and take his natural rest

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d.

Sec. Watch.

To-morrow then belike shall be the day,

If Warwick be so near as men report. 8

Third Watch.

But say, I pray, what nobleman is that

That with the king here resteth in his tent?

First Watch.

’Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest friend.

Third Watch.

O! is it so? But why commands the king 12

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,

While he himself keeps in the cold field?

Sec. Watch.

’Tis the more honour, because the more dangerous.

Third Watch.

Ay, but give me worship and quietness; 16

I like it better than a dangerous honour.

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,

’Tis to be doubted he would waken him.

First Watch.

Unless our halberds did shut up his passage. 20

Sec. Watch.

Ay; wherefore else guard we his royal tent,

But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and Forces.

War.

This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.

Courage, my masters! honour now or never! 24

But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

First Watch.

Who goes there?

Sec. Watch.

Stay, or thou diest.

[Warwick and the rest cry all, ‘Warwick! Warwick!’ and set upon the Guard; who fly, crying, ‘Arm! Arm!’ Warwick and the rest following them.

Drums beating, and Trumpets sounding, re-enter Warwick and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in a chair. Gloucester and Hastings fly over the stage.

Som.

What are they that fly there?

War.

Richard and Hastings: let them go; here’s the duke. 28

K. Edw.

The duke! Why, Warwick, when we parted last,

Thou call’dst me king!

War.

Ay, but the case is alter’d:

When you disgrac’d me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king, 32

And come now to create you Duke of York.

Alas! how should you govern any kingdom,

That know not how to use ambassadors,

Nor how to be contented with one wife, 36

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

K. Edw.

Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too? 40

Nay, then, I see that Edward needs must down.

Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,

Of thee thyself, and all thy complices,

Edward will always bear himself as king: 44

Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state,

My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

War.

Then, for his mind, be Edward England’s king:

[Takes off his crown.

But Henry now shall wear the English crown, 48

And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.

My Lord of Somerset, at my request,

See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d

Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. 52

When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,

I’ll follow you, and tell what answer

Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him:

Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York. 56

K. Edw.

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

[Exit, led out; Somerset with him.

Oxf.

What now remains, my lords, for us to do,

These news, I must confess, are full of grief;

Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may:

Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day.

Q. Eliz.

Till then fair hope must hinder life’s decay. 16

And I the rather wean me from despair

For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb:

This is it that makes me bridle passion,

And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross;

Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear, 21

And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,

Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown

King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English crown. 24

Riv.

But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

Q. Eliz.

I am inform’d that he comes towards London,

To set the crown once more on Henry’s head:

Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends must down. 28

But, to prevent the tyrant’s violence,—

For trust not him that hath once broken faith,—

I’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary,

To save at least the heir of Edward’s right: 32

There shall I rest secure from force and fraud.

Come, therefore; let us fly while we may fly:

If Warwick take us we are sure to die.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— A Park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire.

Enter Gloucester, Hastings, Sir William Stanley, and Others.

Glo.

Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,

Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither,

Into this chiefest thicket of the park.

Thus stands the case. You know, our king, my brother, 4

Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands

He hath good usage and great liberty,

And often but attended with weak guard,

Comes hunting this way to disport himself. 8

I have advertis’d him by secret means,

That if about this hour he make this way,

Under the colour of his usual game,

He shall here find his friends, with horse and men

To set him free from his captivity. 13

Enter King Edward and a Huntsman.

Hunt.

This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

K. Edw.

Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest, 16

Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer?

Glo.

K. Edw.

Bishop, farewell: shield thee from Warwick’s frown, 28

And pray that I may repossess the crown.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— A Room in the Tower.

Enter King Henry, Clarence, Warwick, Somerset, young Richmond, Oxford, Montague, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants.

K. Hen.

Master lieutenant, now that God and friends

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat,

And turn’d my captive state to liberty,

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys, 4

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

Lieu.

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;

But if a humble prayer may prevail,

I then crave pardon of your majesty. 8

K. Hen.

For what, lieutenant? for well using me?

Nay, be thou sure, I’ll well requite thy kindness,

For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure;

Ay, such a pleasure as encaged birds 12

Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts

At last by notes of household harmony

They quite forget their loss of liberty.

But, Warwick, after God, thou set’st me free, 16

And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee;

He was the author, thou the instrument.

Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite

By living low, where Fortune cannot hurt me, 20

And that the people of this blessed land

May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars,

Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,

I here resign my government to thee, 24

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

War.

Your Grace hath still been fam’d for virtuous;

And now may seem as wise as virtuous,

By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice; 28

For few men rightly temper with the stars:

Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace,

For choosing me when Clarence is in place.

Clar.

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway, 32

To whom the heavens, in thy nativity

Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown,

As likely to be blest in peace, and war;

And therefore I yield thee my free consent. 36

War.

And I choose Clarence only for protector.

K. Hen

Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands:

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,

That no dissension hinder government: 40

I make you both protectors of this land,

While I myself will lead a private life,

And in devotion spend my latter days,

To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise. 44

War.

What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will?

Clar.

That he consents, if Warwick yield consent;

For on thy fortune I repose myself.

War.

Why then, though loath, yet must I be content: 48

We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow

To Henry’s body, and supply his place;

I mean, in bearing weight of government,

While he enjoys the honour and his ease. 52

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful

Forthwith that Edward be pronounc’d a traitor,

And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

Clar.

What else? and that succession be determin’d. 56

War.

Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

K. Hen.

But, with the first of all your chief affairs,

Let me entreat, for I command no more,

That Margaret your queen, and my son Edward,

Be sent for, to return from France with speed:

For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear

My joy of liberty is half eclips’d.

Clar.

It shall be done, my sov’reign, with all speed. 64

K. Hen.

My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that

Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

Som.

My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

K. Hen.

Come hither, England’s hope: [Lays his hand on his head.] If secret powers 68

Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,

This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss.

His looks are full of peaceful majesty,

His head by nature fram’d to wear a crown, 72

His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself

Likely in time to bless a regal throne.

Make much of him, my lords; for this is he

Must help you more than you are hurt by me.

Enter a Post.

War.

What news, my friend? 77

Mess.

That Edward is escaped from your brother,

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

War.

Unsavoury news! but how made he escape? 80

Mess.

He was convey’d by Richard Duke of Gloucester,

And the Lord Hastings, who attended him

In secret ambush on the forest side,

And from the bishop’s huntsmen rescu’d him:

For hunting was his daily exercise. 85

War.

My brother was too careless of his charge.

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide

A salve for any sore that may betide. 88

[Exeunt King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Lieutenant, and Attendant.

Som.

My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s;

For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,

And we shall have more wars before’t be long.

As Henry’s late presaging prophecy 92

Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,

So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts

What may befall him to his harm and ours:

Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, 96

Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany,

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Oxf.

Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,

’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down. 100

Som.

It shall be so; he shall to Brittany.

Come, therefore, let’s about it speedily.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Before York.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, Hastings, and Forces.

K. Edw.

Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,

Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends,

And says, that once more I shall interchange

My waned state for Henry’s regal crown. 4

Well have we pass’d, and now repass’d the seas,

And brought desired help from Burgundy:

What then remains, we being thus arriv’d

From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, 8

But that we enter, as into our dukedom?

Glo.

The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;

For many men that stumble at the threshold

Are well foretold that danger lurks within. 12

K. Edw.

Tush, man! abodements must not now affright us.

By fair or foul means we must enter in,

For hither will our friends repair to us.

Hast.

My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them. 16

Enter, on the Walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren.

May

My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves;

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

K. Edw.

But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your king, 20

Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

May.

True, my good lord, I know you for no less.

K. Edw.

Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,

As being well content with that alone. 24

Glo.

[Aside.] But when the fox hath once got in his nose,

He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

Hast.

Why, Master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt?

Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends. 28

May

Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open’d.

[Exit, with Aldermen, above.

Glo

A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded.

Hast.

The good old man would fain that all were well,

So ’twere not ’long of him; but being enter’d, 32

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade

Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

Re-enter the Mayor and two Aldermen.

K. Edw.

So, Master Mayor: these gates must not be shut

But in the night, or in the time of war. 36

What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys;

[Takes his keys.

For Edward will defend the town and thee,

And all those friends that deign to follow me.

Enter Montgomery and Forces.

Glo.

Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,

Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv’d. 41

K. Edw.

Welcome, Sir John! but why come you in arms?

Mont.

To help King Edward in his time of storm,

As every loyal subject ought to do. 44

K. Edw.

Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget

Our title to the crown, and only claim

Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

Mont.

Then fare you well, for I will hence again: 48

I came to serve a king and not a duke.

Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

[A march begun.

K. Edw.

Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile; and we’ll debate

By what safe means the crown may be recover’d. 52

Mont.

What talk you of debating? in few words,

If you’ll not here proclaim yourself our king.

I’ll leave you to your fortune, and be gone

To keep them back that come to succour you.

Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title? 57

Glo.

Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

K. Edw.

When we grow stronger then we’ll make our claim;

Till then, ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. 60

Hast.

Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule.

Glo.

And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

K. Edw.

Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right, 65

And Henry but usurps the diadem.

Mont.

Ay, now my sov’reign speaketh like himself;

And now will I be Edward’s champion. 68

Hast.

Sound, trumpet! Edward shall be here proclaim’d;

Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation.

[Gives him a paper. Flourish.

Sold.

Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c. 73

Mont.

And whosoe’er gainsays King Edward’s right,

By this I challenge him to single fight.

[Throws down his gauntlet.

All.

Long live Edward the Fourth! 76

K. Edw.

Thanks, brave Montgomery;—and thanks unto you all:

If Fortune serve me, I’ll requite this kindness.

Now, for this night, let’s harbour here in York;

And when the morning sun shall raise his car

Above the border of this horizon, 81

We’ll forward towards Warwick, and his mates;

For well I wot that Henry is no soldier.

Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee

To flatter Henry, and forsake thy brother! 85

Yet, as we may, we’ll meet both thee and Warwick.

Come on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day;

And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.

[Exeunt.

Scene VIII.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Montague, Exeter, and Oxford.

War

What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,

With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,

Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas,

And with his troops doth march amain to London; 4

And many giddy people flock to him.

Oxf.

Let’s levy men, and beat him back again.

Clar.

A little fire is quickly trodden out,

Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench. 8

War.

In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,

Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war;

Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence,

Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, 12

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee:

Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,

Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find

Men well inclin’d to hear what thou command’st:

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov’d

In Oxfordshire, shalt muster up thy friends.

My sov’reign, with the loving citizens,

Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 20

Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,

Shall rest in London till we come to him.

Fair lords, take leave, and stand not to reply.

Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,

And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

War.

Farewell, sweet lords: let’s meet at Coventry. 32

[Exeunt all but King Henry and Exeter.

K. Hen.

Here at the palace will I rest awhile.

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?

Methinks the power that Edward hath in field

Should not be able to encounter mine. 36

Exe.

The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

K. Hen.

That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame:

I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands,

Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; 40

My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,

My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs,

My mercy dried their water-flowing tears;

I have not been desirous of their wealth; 44

Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies,

Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d.

Then why should they love Edward more than me?

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace: 48

And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb,

The lamb will never cease to follow him.

[Shout within, ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster!’

Exe.

Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Soldiers.

K. Edw.

Seize on the shame-fac’d Henry! bear him hence: 52

And once again proclaim us King of England.

You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow:

Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry,

And swell so much the higher by their ebb. 56

Hence with him to the Tower! let him not speak.

[Exeunt some with King Henry.

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,

Where peremptory Warwick now remains:

The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay, 60

Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay.

Glo.

Away betimes, before his forces join,

And take the great-grown traitor unawares:

Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Coventry.

Enter, upon the Walls, Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and Others.

War.

Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

First Mess.

By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

War.

Who should that be? belike, unlook’d for friends.

Som.

They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

Enter King Edward, Gloucester, and Forces.

K. Edw.

Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. 16

Glo.

See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

War.

O, unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc’d,

That we could hear no news of his repair? 20

K. Edw

Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates,

Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee?—

Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy?

And he shall pardon thee these outrages. 24

War.

Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,—

Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down?—

Call Warwick patron, and be penitent;

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

Glo.

I thought, at least, he would have said the king; 29

Or did he make the jest against his will?

War.

Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

Glo.

Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

War.

I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,

And with the other fling it at thy face,

Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee. 52

K. Edw.

Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend;

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,

Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,

Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:

‘Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.’ 57

Enter Oxford, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

War.

O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes!

Oxf.

Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

The gates are open, let us enter too. 60

K. Edw.

So other foes may set upon our backs.

Stand we in good array; for they no doubt

Will issue out again and bid us battle:

If not, the city being but of small defence, 64

We’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.

War.

O! welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help.

Enter Montague, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Mont.

Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason 68

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.

K. Edw.

The harder match’d, the greater victory:

My mind presageth happy gain, and conquest.

Enter Somerset, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Som.

Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster! 72

[He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.

Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,

Have sold their lives unto the house of York;

And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.

Enter Clarence, with Forces, drum, and colours.

War.

And lo! where George of Clarence sweeps along, 76

Of force enough to bid his brother battle;

With whom an upright zeal to right prevails

More than the nature of a brother’s love.

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call.

Clar.

Father of Warwick, know you what this means? 81

[Taking the red rose out of his hat.

Look here, I throw my infamy at thee:

I will not ruinate my father’s house,

Who gave his blood to lime the stones together,

And set up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, Warwick, 85

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,

To bend the fatal instruments of war

Against his brother and his lawful king? 88

Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath:

To keep that oath were more impiety

Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrific’d his daughter.

I am so sorry for my trespass made 92

That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands,

I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe;

With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee—

As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad— 96

To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.

And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,

And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.

Scene II.— A Field of Battle near Barnet.

Alarums and Excursions. Enter King Edward, bringing in Warwick, wounded.

K. Edw.

So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear;

For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all.

Now Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,

That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.

[Exit.

War.

Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe, 5

And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?

Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, 8

That I must yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.

Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge,

Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,

Under whose shade the ramping lion slept, 13

Whose top branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree,

And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind.

These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil, 16

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world:

The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood,

Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres; 20

For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo! now my glory smear’d in dust and blood;

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, 24

Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands

Is nothing left me but my body’s length.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?

And, live we how we can, yet die we must. 28

Enter Oxford and Somerset.

Som.

Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,

We might recover all our loss again.

The queen from France hath brought a puissant power;

Even now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly. 32

War.

Why, then, I would not fly. Ah! Montague,

If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,

And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.

Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,

Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood

That glues my lips and will not let me speak.

Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

Som.

Ah! Warwick, Montague hath breath’d his last; 40

And to the latest gasp, cried out for Warwick,

And said, ‘Commend me to my valiant brother.’

And more he would have said; and more he spoke,

Which sounded like a clamour in a vault, 44

That mought not be distinguish’d: but at last

I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan,

‘O! farewell, Warwick!’

War.

Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves; 48

For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.

[Dies.

Oxf.

Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power.

[Exeunt, bearing off Warwick’s body.

Scene III.— Another Part of the Field.

Flourish. Enter King Edward, in triumph: with Clarence, Gloucester, and the rest.

K. Edw.

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,

And we are grac’d with wreaths of victory.

But in the midst of this bright-shining day,

I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud, 4

That will encounter with our glorious sun,

Ere he attain his easeful western bed:

I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen

Hath rais’d in Gallia, have arriv’d our coast, 8

And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clar.

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud,

And blow it to the source from whence it came:

Thy very beams will dry those vapours up, 12

For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Glo.

The queen is valu’d thirty thousand strong,

And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her:

If she have time to breathe, be well assur’d 16

Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

K. Edw.

We are advertis’d by our loving friends

That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury.

We, having now the best at Barnet field, 20

Will thither straight, for willingness rids way;

And, as we march, our strength will be augmented

In every county as we go along.

Strike up the drum! cry ‘Courage!’ and away.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Plains near Tewksbury.

March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and Soldiers.

Q. Mar.

Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

What though the mast be now blown over-board,

The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 4

And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood?

Yet lives our pilot still: is’t meet that he

Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad

With tearful eyes add water to the sea, 8

And give more strength to that which hath too much;

Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,

Which industry and courage might have sav’d?

Ah! what a shame! ah, what a fault were this.

Say, Warwick was our anchor; what of that? 13

And Montague our top-mast; what of him?

Our slaughter’d friends the tackles; what of these?

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? 16

And Somerset, another goodly mast?

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?

And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I

For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge? 20

We will not from the helm, to sit and weep,

But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,

From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.

As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.

And what is Edward but a ruthless sea? 25

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?

All those the enemies to our poor bark. 28

Say you can swim; alas! ’tis but a while:

Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink:

Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,

Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death. 32

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

In case some one of you would fly from us,

That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the brothers

More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks. 36

Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided

’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

Prince.

Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit

Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 40

Infuse his breast with magnanimity,

And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.

I speak not this, as doubting any here;

For did I but suspect a fearful man, 44

He should have leave to go away betimes,

Lest in our need he might infect another,

And make him of like spirit to himself.

If any such be here, as God forbid! 48

Let him depart before we need his help.

Oxf.

Women and children of so high a courage,

And warriors faint! why, ’twere perpetual shame.

O brave young prince! thy famous grandfather

Doth live again in thee: long mayst thou live

To bear his image and renew his glories!

Som.

And he, that will not fight for such a hope,

Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day, 56

If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at.

Q. Mar.

Thanks, gentle Somerset: sweet Oxford, thanks.

Prince.

And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, 60

Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

Oxf.

I thought no less: it is his policy

To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Som.

But he’s deceiv’d; we are in readiness.

Q. Mar.

This cheers my heart to see your forwardness. 65

Oxf.

Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

March. Enter, at a distance, King Edward, Clarence, Gloucester, and Forces.

K. Edw.

Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,

Which, by the heavens’ assistance, and your strength, 68

Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.

I need not add more fuel to your fire,

For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out:

Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords. 72

Q. Mar.

Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say

My tears gainsay; for every word I speak,

Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.

Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign, 76

Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp’d,

His realm a slaughter house, his subjects slain,

His statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent;

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. 80

You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords,

Be valiant, and give signal to the fight.

[Exeunt both armies.

Scene V.— Another Part of the Same.

Alarums: Excursions: and afterwards a retreat. Then enter King Edward, Clarence, Gloucester, and Forces; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset prisoners.

K. Edw.

Now, here a period of tumultuous broils.

Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight:

For Somerset, off with his guilty head.

Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak.

Oxf.

For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words. 5

Som.

Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

[Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded.

Q. Mar.

So part we sadly in this troublous world,

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. 8

K. Edw.

Is proclamation made, that who finds Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

Glo.

It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes.

Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward.

K. Edw.

Bring forth the gallant: let us hear him speak. 12

What! can so young a thorn begin to prick?

Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make,

For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,

And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to? 16

Prince.

Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York!

Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth:

Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,

For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.

Prince.

Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather.

K. Edw.

Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

Clar.

Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.

Prince.

I know my duty; you are all undutiful: 33

Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur’d George,

And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all,

I am your better, traitors as ye are; 36

And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.

K. Edw.

Take that, the likeness of this railer here.

[Stabs him.

Glo.

Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony.

[Stabs him.

Clar.

And there’s for twitting me with perjury.

[Stabs him.

Q. Mar.

O, kill me too! 41

Glo.

Marry, and shall.

[Offers to kill her.

K. Edw.

Hold, Richard, hold! for we have done too much.

Glo.

Why should she live, to fill the world with words? 44

K. Edw.

What! doth she swoon? use means for her recovery.

Glo.

Clarence, excuse me to the king, my brother;

I’ll hence to London on a serious matter:

Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.

Clar.

What? what? 49

Glo.

The Tower! the Tower!

[Exit.

Q. Mar.

O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!

Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers! 52

They that stabb’d Cæsar shed no blood at all,

Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,

If this foul deed were by, to equal it:

He was a man; this, in respect, a child; 56

And men ne’er spend their fury on a child.

What’s worse than murderer, that I may name it?

No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak:

And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. 60

Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals!

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d!

You have no children, butchers! if you had,

The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse: 64

But if you ever chance to have a child,

Look in his youth to have him so cut off

Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed;

Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back. 80

K. Edw.

Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.

Q. Mar.

So come to you and yours, as to this prince!

[Exit, led out forcibly.

K. Edw.

Where’s Richard gone?

Clar.

To London, all in post; and, as I guess, 84

To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

K. Edw.

He’s sudden if a thing comes in his head.

Now march we hence: discharge the common sort

With pay and thanks, and let’s away to London

And see our gentle queen how well she fares; 89

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.

[Exeunt.

Scene VI.— London. A Room in the Tower.

King Henry is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Good day, my lord. What! at your book so hard?

K. Hen.

Ay, my good lord:—my lord, I should say rather;

’Tis sin to flatter, ‘good’ was little better:

‘Good Gloucester’ and ‘good devil’ were alike, 4

And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘good lord.’

Glo.

Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.

[Exit Lieutenant.

K. Hen.

So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;

So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece,

And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife. 9

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

Glo.

K. Hen.

Hadst thou been kill’d, when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine. 36

And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand,

Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear,

And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s,

And many an orphan’s water-standing eye, 40

Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’,

And orphans for their parents’ timeless death,

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.

The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign; 44

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;

Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees!

The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top,

And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. 48

Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,

And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope;

To wit an indigest deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. 52

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,

To signify thou cam’st to bite the world:

And, if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam’st— 56

Glo.

I’ll hear no more: die, prophet, in thy speech:

[Stabs him.

For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.

K. Hen.

Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.

O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

[Dies.

Glo.

What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 61

Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.

See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death!

O! may such purple tears be always shed 64

From those that wish the downfall of our house.

If any spark of life be yet remaining,

Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither,

[Stabs him again.

I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. 68

Indeed, ’tis true, that Henry told me of;

For I have often heard my mother say

I came into the world with my legs forward.

Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, 72

And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right?

The midwife wonder’d, and the women cried

‘O! Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth.’

And so I was; which plainly signified 76

That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.

Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so,

Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother; 80

And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine,

Be resident in men like one another

And not in me: I am myself alone.

Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light: 84

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;

For I will buzz abroad such prophecies

That Edward shall be fearful of his life;

And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death. 88

King Henry and the prince his son are gone:

Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,

Counting myself but bad till I be best.

I’ll throw thy body in another room, 92

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

[Exit with the body.

Scene VII.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

King Edward is discovered sitting on his throne: Queen Elizabeth with the infant Prince, Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, and Others, near him.

K. Edw.

Once more we sit in England’s royal throne,

Re-purchas’d with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen like to autumn’s corn,

Have we mow’d down, in tops of all their pride! 4

Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d

For hardy and undoubted champions;

Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;

And two Northumberlands: two braver men 8

Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound;

With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,

That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion,

And made the forest tremble when they roar’d. 12

Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat,

And made our footstool of security.

Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.

Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself 16

Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night;

Went all a-foot in summer’s scalding heat,

That thou might’st repossess the crown in peace;

And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. 20

Glo.

[Aside.] I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;

For yet I am not look’d on in the world.

This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave;

And heave it shall some weight, or break my back: 24

Work thou the way, and thou shalt execute.

K. Edw.

Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen;

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

Clar.

The duty, that I owe unto your majesty, 28

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

K. Edw.

Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

Glo.

And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. 32

[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master,

And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm.

K. Edw.

Now am I seated as my soul delights,

Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves. 36

Clar.

What will your Grace have done with Margaret?

Reignier, her father, to the King of France

Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem,

And hither have they sent it for her ransom. 40

K. Edw.

Away with her, and waft her hence to France.

And now what rests but that we spend the time

With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,

Such as befit the pleasure of the court? 44

Sound, drums and trumpets! farewell, sour annoy!

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

[Exeunt.

THE TRAGEDY OF KING RICHARD THE THIRD

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Edward the Fourth.
Edward, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Edward the Fifth, }	Sons to the King.
Richard, Duke of York, }	Sons to the King.
George, Duke of Clarence, }	Brothers to the King.
Richard, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard the Third, }	Brothers to the King.
A young Son of Clarence.
Henry,	Earl of Richmond; afterwards King Henry the Seventh.
Cardinal Bourchier,	Archbishop of Canterbury.
Thomas Rotherham,	Archbishop of York.
John Morton,	Bishop of Ely.
Duke of Buckingham.
Duke of Norfolk.
Earl of Surrey,	his Son.
Earl Rivers,	Brother to King Edward’s Queen.
Marquess of Dorset, and Lord Grey,	her Sons.
Earl of Oxford.
Lord Hastings.
Lord Stanley, called also Earl of Derby.
Lord Lovel.
Sir Thomas Vaughan.
Sir Richard Ratcliff.
Sir William Catesby.
Sir James Tyrrell.
Sir James Blount.
Sir Walter Herbert.
Sir Robert Brakenbury,	Lieutenant of the Tower.
Sir William Brandon.
Christopher Urswick,	a Priest.
Another Priest.
Lord Mayor of London.	Sheriff of Wiltshire.
Tressel and Berkeley,	Gentlemen attending on Lady Anne.
Elizabeth,	Queen of King Edward the Fourth.
Margaret,	Widow of King Henry the Sixth.
Duchess of York,	Mother to King Edward the Fourth, Clarence, and Gloucester.
Lady Anne,	Widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, Son to King Henry the Sixth; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester.
Lady Margaret Plantagenet,	a young Daughter of Clarence.
Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts of those murdered by Richard the Third, Soldiers, &c.

Scene.—England.

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. A Street.

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 4

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings;

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 8

Grim-visag’d war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

And now,—instead of mounting barbed steeds,

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber 12

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty 16

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time 20

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, 24

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to see my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 28

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain,

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, 32

By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if King Edward be as true and just 36

As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,

About a prophecy, which says, that G

Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. 40

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

Enter Clarence, guarded, and Brakenbury.

Brother, good day: what means this armed guard

That waits upon your Grace?

Clar.

His majesty,

Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed 44

This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo.

Upon what cause?

Clar.

Because my name is George.

Glo.

Alack! my lord, that fault is none of yours;

He should, for that, commit your godfathers. 48

O! belike his majesty hath some intent

That you should be new-christen’d in the Tower.

But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clar.

Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

As yet I do not: but, as I can learn, 53

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,

And says a wizard told him that by G 56

His issue disinherited should be;

And, for my name of George begins with G,

It follows in his thought that I am he.

These, as I learn, and such like toys as these, 60

Have mov’d his highness to commit me now.

Glo.

Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by women:

’Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower;

My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, ’tis she 64

That tempers him to this extremity.

Was it not she and that good man of worship,

Antony Woodville, her brother there,

That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, 68

From whence this present day he is deliver’d?

We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

Clar.

By heaven, I think there is no man secure

But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds 72

That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

Heard you not what a humble suppliant

Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

Glo.

Humbly complaining to her deity 76

Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.

I’ll tell you what; I think it is our way,

If we will keep in favour with the king,

To be her men and wear her livery: 80

The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself,

Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen,

Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brak.

I beseech your Graces both to pardon me; 84

His majesty hath straitly given in charge

That no man shall have private conference,

Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Glo.

Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, 88

You may partake of anything we say:

We speak no treason, man: we say the king

Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen

Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; 92

We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,

A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;

And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.

I beseech your Grace to pardon me; and withal

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clar.

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. 105

Glo.

We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey.

Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

And whatsoe’er you will employ me in, 108

Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister,

I will perform it to enfranchise you.

Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood

Touches me deeper than you can imagine. 112

Clar.

I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Glo.

Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;

I will deliver you, or else lie for you:

Meantime, have patience.

Clar.

I must perforce: farewell.

[Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard.

Glo.

Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return, 117

Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so

That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,

If heaven will take the present at our hands. 120

But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings!

Enter Hastings.

Hast.

Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

Glo.

As much unto my good lord chamberlain!

Well are you welcome to this open air. 124

How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment?

Hast.

With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:

But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks

That were the cause of my imprisonment. 128

Glo.

No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;

For they that were your enemies are his,

And have prevail’d as much on him as you.

Hast.

[Exit Hastings.

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die 144

Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to heaven.

I’ll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,

With lies well steel’d with weighty arguments;

And, if I fail not in my deep intent, 148

Clarence hath not another day to live:

Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,

And leave the world for me to bustle in!

For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter. 152

What though I kill’d her husband and her father,

The readiest way to make the wench amends

Is to become her husband and her father:

The which will I; not all so much for love 156

As for another secret close intent,

By marrying her, which I must reach unto.

But yet I run before my horse to market:

Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns: 160

When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit.

Scene II.— London. Another Street.

Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, borne in an open coffin; Gentlemen bearing halberds to guard it; and Lady Anne, as mourner.

Anne.

Set down, set down your honourable load,

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,

Whilst I a while obsequiously lament

The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. 4

Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!

Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!

Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!

Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost, 8

To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son,

Stabb’d by the self-same hand that made these wounds!

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life, 12

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.

O! cursed be the hand that made these holes;

Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!

Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence! 16

More direful hap betide that hated wretch,

That makes us wretched by the death of thee,

Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,

Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives! 20

If ever he have child, abortive be it,

Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,

Whose ugly and unnatural aspect

May fright the hopeful mother at the view; 24

And that be heir to his unhappiness!

If ever he have wife, let her be made

More miserable by the death of him

Than I am made by my young lord and thee! 28

Come, now toward Chertsey with your holy load,

And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.

Avaunt! thou dreadful minister of hell,

Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,

His soul thou canst not have: therefore, be gone.

Glo.

Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

Anne.

Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not;

For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,

Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. 52

If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,

Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.

O! gentlemen; see, see! dead Henry’s wounds

Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh.

Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, 57

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells:

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, 60

Provokes this deluge most unnatural.

O God! which this blood mad’st, revenge his death;

O earth! which this blood drink’st, revenge his death;

Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, 64

Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick,

As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood,

Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!

Glo.

Lady, you know no rules of charity, 68

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Anne.

Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man:

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Glo.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast. 72

Anne.

O! wonderful, when devils tell the truth.

Glo.

More wonderful when angels are so angry.

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

Of these supposed evils, to give me leave, 76

By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

Anne.

Vouchsafe, diffus’d infection of a man,

For these known evils, but to give me leave,

By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. 80

Glo.

Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have

Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

Anne.

Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make

No excuse current, but to hang thyself. 84

Glo.

By such despair I should accuse myself.

Anne.

And by despairing shouldst thou stand excus’d

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others. 88

Glo.

Say that I slew them not.

Anne.

Then say they were not slain:

But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

Glo.

I did not kill your husband.

Anne.

Why, then he is alive.

Glo.

Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand. 92

Anne.

In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw

Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;

The which thou once didst bend against her breast,

But that thy brothers beat aside the point. 96

Glo.

I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,

That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Anne.

Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,

That never dreamt on aught but butcheries. 100

Let him thank me, that help’d to send him thither; 108

I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,

To leave this keen encounter of our wits, 116

And fall somewhat into a slower method,

Is not the causer of the timeless deaths

Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,

As blameful as the executioner? 120

Anne.

Thou wast the cause, and most accurs’d effect.

Glo.

Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world, 124

So might I live one hour in your sweet bosom.

Anne.

If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,

These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

Glo.

These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack; 128

You should not blemish it if I stood by:

As all the world is cheered by the sun,

So I by that; it is my day, my life.

Anne.

Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life! 132

Glo.

Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

Anne.

I would I were, to be reveng’d on thee.

Glo.

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be reveng’d on him that loveth thee. 136

Anne.

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

To be reveng’d on him that kill’d my husband.

Glo.

He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,

Glo.

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

Anne.

Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

Glo.

I would they were, that I might die at once; 152

For now they kill me with a living death.

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,

Sham’d their aspects with store of childish drops;

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear;

No, when my father York and Edward wept 157

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

When black-fac’d Clifford shook his sword at him;

Nor when thy war-like father like a child, 160

Told the sad story of my father’s death,

And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,

That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,

Like trees bedash’d with rain: in that sad time,

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; 165

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

I never su’d to friend, nor enemy; 168

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing words;

But, now thy beauty is propos’d my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

[She looks scornfully at him.

Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made 172

For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;

Which if thou please to hide in this true breast,

And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, 177

I lay it open to the deadly stroke,

And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

[He lays his breast open: she offers at it with his sword.

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry;

But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. 181

Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young Edward;

[She again offers at his breast.

But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[She lets fall the sword.

Take up the sword again, or take up me. 184

Anne.

Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

To take is not to give.

[She puts on the ring.

Glo.

Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger, 204

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

And if thy poor devoted servant may

But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, 208

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Anne.

What is it?

Glo.

That it may please you leave these sad designs

To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,

And presently repair to Crosby-place; 213

Where, after I have solemnly interr’d

At Chertsey monastery this noble king,

And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 216

I will with all expedient duty see you:

For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,

Grant me this boon.

Anne.

With all my heart; and much it joys me too 220

To see you are become so penitent.

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

Glo.

Bid me farewell.

Anne.

’Tis more than you deserve;

But since you teach me how to flatter you, 224

Imagine I have said farewell already.

[Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley.

Glo.

Sirs, take up the corse.

Gent.

Toward Chertsey, noble lord?

Glo.

No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? 229

Was ever woman in this humour won?

I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long.

What! I, that kill’d her husband, and his father, 232

To take her in her heart’s extremest hate;

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

The bleeding witness of her hatred by;

Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, 236

And nothing I to back my suit withal

But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

Ha! 240

Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,

Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 244

Fram’d in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,

The spacious world cannot again afford:

And will she yet abase her eyes on me, 248

That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince,

And made her widow to a woeful bed?

On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?

On me, that halt and am misshapen thus? 252

My dukedom to a beggarly denier

I do mistake my person all this while:

Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,

Myself to be a marvellous proper man. 256

I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,

And entertain a score or two of tailors,

To study fashions to adorn my body:

Since I am crept in favour with myself, 260

I will maintain it with some little cost.

But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave,

And then return lamenting to my love.

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, 264

That I may see my shadow as I pass.

[Exit.

Scene III.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey.

Riv.

Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt his majesty

Will soon recover his accustom’d health.

Grey.

In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse:

Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, 4

And cheer his Grace with quick and merry words.

Q. Eliz.

If he were dead, what would betide on me?

Grey.

No other harm but loss of such a lord.

Q. Eliz.

The loss of such a lord includes all harms. 8

Grey.

The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly son,

To be your comforter when he is gone.

Q. Eliz.

Ah! he is young; and his minority

Is put into the trust of Richard Gloucester, 12

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Riv.

Is it concluded he shall be protector?

Q. Eliz.

It is determin’d, not concluded yet:

But so it must be if the king miscarry. 16

Enter Buckingham and Stanley.

Grey.

Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Stanley.

Buck.

Good time of day unto your royal Grace!

Stan.

God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

Q. Eliz.

The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Stanley, 20

To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.

Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she’s your wife,

And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur’d

I hate not you for her proud arrogance. 24

Stan.

I do beseech you, either not believe

The envious slanders of her false accusers;

Or, if she be accus’d on true report,

Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds

From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Q. Eliz.

Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Stanley?

Stan.

But now the Duke of Buckingham and I,

Are come from visiting his majesty. 32

Q. Eliz.

What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buck.

Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully.

Q. Eliz.

God grant him health! did you confer with him?

Buck.

Ay, madam: he desires to make atonement 36

Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,

And between them and my lord chamberlain;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Q. Eliz.

Would all were well! But that will never be. 40

I fear our happiness is at the highest.

Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset.

Glo.

They do me wrong, and I will not endure it:

Who are they that complain unto the king,

That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not? 44

By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly

That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.

Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,

Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,

Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, 49

I must be held a rancorous enemy.

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,

But thus his simple truth must be abus’d 52

By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Grey.

To whom in all this presence speaks your Grace?

Glo.

To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.

When have I injur’d thee? when done thee wrong? 56

Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?

A plague upon you all! His royal person,—

Whom God preserve better than you would wish!—

Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, 60

But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Q. Eliz.

Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.

The king, on his own royal disposition,

And not provok’d by any suitor else, 64

Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,

That in your outward action shows itself

Against my children, brothers, and myself,

Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather 68

The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

Glo.

I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:

Since every Jack became a gentleman 72

There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.

Q. Eliz.

Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester;

You envy my advancement and my friends’.

God grant we never may have need of you! 76

Glo.

Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:

Our brother is imprison’d by your means,

Myself disgrac’d, and the nobility

Held in contempt; while great promotions 80

Are daily given to ennoble those

That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Q. Eliz.

By him that rais’d me to this careful height

From that contented hap which I enjoy’d, 84

I never did incense his majesty

Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been

An earnest advocate to plead for him.

My lord, you do me shameful injury, 88

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Glo.

You may deny that you were not the mean

Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

Riv.

She may, my lord; for— 92

Glo.

She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows not so?

She may do more, sir, than denying that:

She may help you to many fair preferments,

And then deny her aiding hand therein, 96

And lay those honours on your high deserts.

What may she not? She may,—ay, marry, may she,—

Riv.

What, marry, may she?

Glo.

What, marry, may she! marry with a king, 100

A bachelor, a handsome stripling too.

I wis your grandam had a worser match.

Q. Eliz.

My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne

Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs;

By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty 105

Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur’d.

I had rather be a country servantmaid

Than a great queen, with this condition, 108

To be so baited, scorn’d, and stormed at:

Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

Enter Queen Margaret, behind.

Q. Mar.

[Apart.] And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech him!

Thy honour, state, and seat is due to me. 112

Glo.

What! threat you me with telling of the king?

Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said

I will avouch in presence of the king:

I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. 116

’Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar.

[Apart.] Out, devil! I remember them too well:

Thou kill’dst my husband Henry in the Tower,

And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. 120

Glo.

Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,

I was a pack-horse in his great affairs,

A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,

A liberal rewarder of his friends; 124

To royalize his blood I split mine own.

Q. Mar.

Ay, and much better blood than his, or thine.

Glo.

In all which time you and your husband Grey

Were factious for the house of Lancaster; 128

And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband

In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain?

Let me put in your minds, if you forget,

What you have been ere now, and what you are;

Withal, what I have been, and what I am. 133

Q. Mar.

A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

Glo.

Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick,

Ay, and forswore himself,—which Jesu pardon!— 136

Q. Mar.

Which God revenge!

Glo.

To fight on Edward’s party for the crown;

And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew’d up.

I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s; 140

Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine:

I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Q. Mar.

Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world,

Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is. 144

Riv.

My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days

Which here you urge to prove us enemies,

We follow’d then our lord, our lawful king;

So should we you, if you should be our king. 148

Glo

If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar.

Far be it from my heart the thought thereof!

Q. Eliz.

As little joy, my lord, as you suppose

You should enjoy, were you this country’s king,

As little joy you may suppose in me 153

That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

Q. Mar.

As little joy enjoys the queen thereof;

For I am she, and altogether joyless. 156

I can no longer hold me patient.

[Advancing.

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out

In sharing that which you have pill’d from me!

Which of you trembles not that looks on me?

If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, 161

Yet that, by you depos’d, you quake like rebels?

Ah! gentle villain, do not turn away.

Glo.

Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight? 164

Q. Mar.

But repetition of what thou hast marr’d;

That will I make before I let thee go.

Glo.

Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

Q. Mar.

I was; but I do find more pain in banishment 168

Than death can yield me here by my abode.

A husband and a son thou ow’st to me;

And thou, a kingdom; all of you, allegiance:

This sorrow that I have by right is yours, 172

And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

Glo.

The curse my noble father laid on thee,

When thou didst crown his war-like brows with paper,

And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes; 176

And then, to dry them, gav’st the duke a clout

Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;

His curses, then from bitterness of soul

Denounc’d against thee, are all fall’n upon thee; 180

And God, not we, hath plagu’d thy bloody deed.

Q. Eliz.

So just is God, to right the innocent

Hast.

O! ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

And the most merciless, that e’er was heard of.

Riv.

Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. 185

Dors.

No man but prophesied revenge for it.

Buck.

Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Q. Mar.

What! were you snarling all before I came, 188

Ready to catch each other by the throat,

And turn you all your hatred now on me?

Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven

That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death,

Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment,

Should all but answer for that peevish brat?

Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?

Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! 196

Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,

As ours by murder, to make him a king!

Edward, thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,

For Edward, my son, which was Prince of Wales,

Die in his youth by like untimely violence! 201

Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,

Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!

Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s loss, 204

And see another, as I see thee now,

Deck’d in thy rights, as thou art stall’d in mine!

Long die thy happy days before thy death;

And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief, 208

Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen!

Rivers, and Dorset, you were standers by,—

And so wast thou, Lord Hastings,—when my son

Was stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him, 212

That none of you may live your natural age,

But by some unlook’d accident cut off.

Glo.

Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d hag!

Q. Mar.

And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. 216

If heaven have any grievous plague in store

Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,

O! let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,

And then hurl down their indignation 220

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace.

The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!

Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, 225

Unless it be while some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog! 228

Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity

The slave of nature and the son of hell!

Thou slander of thy mother’s heavy womb!

Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins! 232

Q. Mar.

Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply. 237

O! let me make the period to my curse.

Glo.

’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret.’

Q. Eliz.

Thus have you breath’d your curso against yourself. 240

Q. Mar.

Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!

Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider,

Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?

Fool, fool! thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself.

The day will come that thou shalt wish for me

To help thee curse this pois’nous bunch-back’d toad.

Hast.

False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,

Peace! Master marquess, you are malapert:

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. 256

O! that your young nobility could judge

What ’twere to lose it, and be miserable!

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,

And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

Glo.

Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess. 261

Dor.

It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

Glo.

Ay, and much more; but I was born so high,

Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, 264

And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.

Q. Mar.

And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas!

Witness my son, now in the shade of death;

Q. Mar.

I will not think but they ascend the sky,

And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace.

O Buckingham! take heed of yonder dog: 289

Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites

His venom tooth will rankle to the death:

Have not to do with him, beware of him; 292

Sin, death and hell have set their marks on him,

And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo.

What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.

Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. 296

Q. Mar.

What! dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel,

And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?

O! but remember this another day,

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, 300

And say poor Margaret was a prophetess.

Live each of you the subject to his hate,

And he to yours, and all of you to God’s!

[Exit.

Hast.

My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. 304

Riv.

And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty.

Glo.

I cannot blame her: by God’s holy mother,

She hath had too much wrong, and I repent

My part thereof that I have done to her. 308

Q. Eliz.

I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Glo.

Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.

I was too hot to do somebody good,

That is too cold in thinking of it now. 312

Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;

He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains:

God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

Riv.

A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, 316

To pray for them that have done scath to us.

Glo.

So do I ever [Aside], being well-advis’d;

For had I curs’d now, I had curs’d myself.

Enter Catesby.

Cates.

Madam, his majesty doth call for you;

And for your Grace; and you, my noble lords. 321

Q. Eliz.

Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me?

Riv.

We wait upon your Grace.

[Exeunt all but Gloucester.

Glo.

I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach 325

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in darkness,

I do beweep to many simple gulls; 328

Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;

And tell them ’tis the queen and her allies

That stir the king against the duke my brother.

Now they believe it; and withal whet me 332

To be reveng’d on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey;

But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture,

Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:

And thus I clothe my naked villany 336

With odd old ends stol’n forth of holy writ,

And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murderers.

But soft! here come my executioners.

How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates! 340

Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

First Murd.

We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant,

That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo.

Well thought upon; I have it here about me:

[Gives the warrant.

When you have done, repair to Crosby-place. 345

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 348

May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

First Murd.

Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers: be assur’d

We go to use our hands and not our tongues. 352

Glo.

Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes fall tears:

I like you, lads; about your business straight;

Go, go, dispatch.

First Murd.

We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. The Tower.

Enter Clarence and Brakenbury.

Brak.

Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?

Clar.

O, I have pass’d a miserable night,

So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 4

I would not spend another such a night,

Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days,

So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak.

What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me. 8

Clar.

Methought that I had broken from the Tower,

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company my brother Gloucester,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 12

Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward England,

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall’n us. As we pac’d along 16

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,

Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,

Into the tumbling billows of the main. 20

Lord, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown:

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks; 24

A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalu’d jewels,

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea. 28

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,

As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,

That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 32

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.

Brak.

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon those secrets of the deep?

Clar.

Methought I had; and often did I strive 36

To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood

Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth

To find the empty, vast, and wandering air;

But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 40

Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak.

Awak’d you not with this sore agony?

Clar.

No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life;

O! then began the tempest to my soul. 44

I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,

With that grim ferryman which poets write of,

Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul,

Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;

Who cried aloud, ‘What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?’

And so he vanish’d: then came wandering by 52

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he shriek’d out aloud,

‘Clarence is come,—false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence,

That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury;— 56

Seize on him! Furies, take him unto torment.’

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends

Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise 60

I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak.

No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; 64

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar

O Brakenbury! I have done these things

That now give evidence against my soul,

For Edward’s sake; and see how he requites me.

O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,

But thou wilt be aveng’d on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:

O! spare my guiltless wife and my poor children. 72

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak.

I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest!

[Clarence sleeps.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, 76

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations, 80

They often feel a world of restless cares:

So that, between their titles and low names,

There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter the two Murderers.

First Murd.

Ho! who’s here? 84

Brak.

What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam’st thou hither?

First Murd.

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak.

What! so brief? 88

Sec. Murd.

’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious.—

Let him see our commission, and talk no more.

[A paper is delivered to Brakenbury, who reads it.

Brak.

I am, in this, commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands: 92

I will not reason what is meant hereby,

Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.

There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys.

I’ll to the king; and signify to him 96

That thus I have resign’d to you my charge.

First Murd.

To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

Where is the evidence that doth accuse me? 192

What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc’d

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?

Before I be convict by course of law, 196

To threaten me with death is most unlawful.

I charge you, as you hope to have redemption

By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins,

That you depart and lay no hands on me; 200

The deed you undertake is damnable.

First Murd.

What we will do, we do upon command.

Sec. Murd.

And he that hath commanded is our king.

Clar.

Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings 204

Hath in the table of his law commanded

That thou shalt do no murder: will you, then,

Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man’s?

Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand,

To hurl upon their heads that break his law. 209

Sec. Murd.

And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,

For false forswearing and for murder too:

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight 212

In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

First Murd.

And, like a traitor to the name of God,

Didst break that vow, and, with thy treacherous blade

Unripp’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. 216

Sec. Murd.

Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

First Murd.

How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us,

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

Clar.

Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed? 220

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake:

He sends you not to murder me for this;

For in that sin he is as deep as I.

If God will be avenged for the deed, 224

O! know you yet, he doth it publicly:

Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm;

He needs no indirect or lawless course

To cut off those that have offended him. 228

First Murd.

Who made thee then a bloody minister,

When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar.

My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage. 232

First Murd.

Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy fault,

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clar.

If you do love my brother, hate not me;

I am his brother, and I love him well. 236

If you are hir’d for meed, go back again,

And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,

Who shall reward you better for my life

Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 240

Sec. Murd.

You are deceiv’d, your brother Gloucester hates you.

Clar.

O, no! he loves me, and he holds me dear:

Go you to him from me.

Both Murd.

Ay, so we will.

Clar.

Tell him, when that our princely father York 244

Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm,

And charg’d us from his soul to love each other,

He little thought of this divided friendship:

Bid Gloucester think on this, and he will weep.

First Murd.

Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to weep. 249

Clar.

O! do not slander him, for he is kind.

First Murd.

Right;

As snow in harvest. Thou deceiv’st thyself: 252

’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.

Clar.

It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,

And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,

That he would labour my delivery. 256

First Murd.

Why, so he doth, when he delivers you

From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.

Sec. Murd.

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clar.

Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul, 260

To counsel me to make my peace with God,

And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind,

That thou wilt war with God by murdering me?

O! sirs, consider, he that set you on 264

To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.

Sec. Murd.

What shall we do?

Clar.

Relent and save your souls.

First Murd.

Relent! ’tis cowardly, and womanish.

Clar.

Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish. 268

Which of you, if you were a prince’s son,

Being pent from liberty, as I am now,

If two such murd’rers as yourselves came to you,

Would not entreat for life? 272

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;

O! if thine eye be not a flatterer,

Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,

As you would beg, were you in my distress: 276

A begging prince what beggar pities not?

Sec. Murd.

Look behind you, my lord.

First Murd.

[Stabs him.] Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. 280

[Exit with the body.

Sec. Murd.

A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch’d!

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

Of this most grievous murder.

Re-enter first Murderer.

First Murd.

How now! what mean’st thou, that thou help’st me not? 284

By heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have been.

Sec. Murd.

I would he knew that I had sav’d his brother!

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;

For I repent me that the duke is slain.

[Exit.

First Murd.

So do not I: go, coward as thou art. 289

Well, I’ll go hide the body in some hole,

Till that the duke give order for his burial:

And when I have my meed, I will away; 292

For this will out, and here I must not stay.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.— London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Edward sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and Others.

K. Edw.

Why, so: now have I done a good day’s work.

You peers, continue this united league:

I every day expect an embassage

From my Redeemer to redeem me hence; 4

And more in peace my soul shall part to heaven,

Since I have made my friends at peace on earth.

Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand;

Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. 8

Riv.

By heaven, my soul is purg’d from grudging hate;

And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.

Hast.

So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

K. Edw.

Take heed, you dally not before your king; 12

Lest he that is the supreme King of kings

Confound your hidden falsehood, and award

Either of you to be the other’s end.

Hast.

So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

Riv.

And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

K. Edw.

Madam, yourself are not exempt in this,

Nor you, son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you;

You have been factious one against the other. 20

Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;

And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

Q. Eliz.

There, Hastings; I will never more remember

Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine! 24

K. Edw.

Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess.

Dor.

This interchange of love, I here protest,

Upon my part shall be inviolable.

Hast.

And so swear I.

[They embrace.

K. Edw.

Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league 29

With thy embracements to my wife’s allies,

And make me happy in your unity.

Buck.

[To the Queen.] Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate 32

Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love

Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me

With hate in those where I expect most love!

When I have most need to employ a friend, 36

And most assured that he is a friend,

Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,

Be he unto me! This do I beg of God,

When I am cold in love to you or yours. 40

[They embrace.

K. Edw.

A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,

Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.

There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here

To make the blessed period of this peace. 44

Buck.

And, in good time, here comes the noble duke.

Enter Gloucester.

Glo.

Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen;

And princely peers, a happy time of day!

K. Edw.

Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. 48

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity;

Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,

Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo.

A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord. 52

Among this princely heap, if any here,

By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,

Hold me a foe;

If I unwittingly, or in my rage, 56

Have aught committed that is hardly borne

By any in this presence, I desire

To reconcile me to his friendly peace:

’Tis death to me to be at enmity; 60

I hate it, and desire all good men’s love.

First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,

Which I will purchase with my duteous service;

Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, 64

If ever any grudge were lodg’d between us;

Of you, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey, of you,

That all without desert have frown’d on me;

Of you, Lord Woodvile, and Lord Scales, of you;

Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. 69

I do not know that Englishman alive

With whom my soul is any jot at odds

More than the infant that is born to-night: 72

I thank my God for my humility.

Q. Eliz.

A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:

I would to God all strifes were well compounded.

My sov’reign lord, I do beseech your highness 76

To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Glo.

Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this,

To be so flouted in this royal presence?

Who knows not that the gentle duke is dead? 80

[They all start.

You do him injury to scorn his corse.

K. Edw.

Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?

Q. Eliz.

All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

Buck.

Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest? 84

Dor.

Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence

But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

K. Edw.

Is Clarence dead? the order was revers’d.

Glo.

But he, poor man, by your first order died, 88

And that a winged Mercury did bear;

Some tardy cripple bore the countermand,

That came too lag to see him buried.

God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, 92

Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,

My brother kill’d no man, his fault was thought;

And yet his punishment was bitter death.

Who su’d to me for him? who, in my wrath,

Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advis’d? 108

Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love?

Who told me how the poor soul did forsake

The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?

Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, 112

When Oxford had me down, he rescu’d me,

And said, ‘Dear brother, live, and be a king?’

Who told me, when we both lay in the field

Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me 116

Even in his garments; and did give himself,

All thin and naked, to the numb cold night?

All this from my remembrance brutish wrath

Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you 120

Had so much grace to put it in my mind.

But when your carters or your waiting-vassals

Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d

The precious image of our dear Redeemer, 124

You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;

And I, unjustly too, must grant it you;

But for my brother not a man would speak,

Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself 128

For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all

Have been beholding to him in his life,

Yet none of you would once beg for his life.

O God! I fear, thy justice will take hold 132

On me and you and mine and yours for this.

Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. O! poor Clarence!

[Exeunt King Edward, Queen, Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, and Grey.

Glo.

This is the fruit of rashness. Mark’d you not

How that the guilty kindred of the queen 136

Look’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death?

O! they did urge it still unto the king:

God will revenge it. Come, lords; will you go

To comfort Edward with our company? 140

Buck.

We wait upon your Grace.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Duchess of York, with a Son and Daughter of Clarence.

Boy.

Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Duch.

No, boy.

Daugh.

Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,

And cry—‘O Clarence, my unhappy son?’ 4

Boy.

Why do you look on us, and shake your head,

And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,

If that our noble father be alive?

Duch.

My pretty cousins, you mistake me much; 8

I do lament the sickness of the king,

As loath to lose him, not your father’s death;

It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost.

Boy.

Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead. 12

The king mine uncle is to blame for it:

God will revenge it; whom I will importune

With earnest prayers all to that effect.

Daugh.

And so will I. 16

Duch.

Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:

Incapable and shallow innocents,

You cannot guess who caus’d your father’s death.

Boy.

Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester 20

Told me, the king, provok’d to’t by the queen,

Devis’d impeachments to imprison him:

And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

And pitied me, and kindly kiss’d my cheek; 24

Bade me rely on him, as on my father,

And he would love me dearly as his child.

Duch.

Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape,

And with a virtuous vizard hide deep vice. 28

He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Boy.

Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Duch.

Ay, boy. 32

Boy.

I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

Enter Queen Elizabeth, distractedly; Rivers and Dorset following her.

Q. Eliz.

Oh! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,

To chide my fortune, and torment myself?

I’ll join with black despair against my soul, 36

And to myself become an enemy.

Duch.

What means this scene of rude impatience?

Q. Eliz.

To make an act of tragic violence:

Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead! 40

Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?

Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?

If you will live, lament: if die, be brief,

That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s; 44

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Duch.

Ah! so much interest have I in thy sorrow

As I had title in thy noble husband. 48

I have bewept a worthy husband’s death,

And liv’d with looking on his images;

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death, 52

And I for comfort have but one false glass,

That grieves me when I see my shame in him.

Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,

And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:

But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine arms, 57

And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs,

Clarence and Edward. O! what cause have I—

Thine being but a moiety of my grief— 60

To overgo thy plaints, and drown thy cries!

Boy.

Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death;

How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Daugh.

Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d; 64

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept.

Q. Eliz.

Give me no help in lamentation;

I am not barren to bring forth complaints:

All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,

Was never mother had so dear a loss.

Alas! I am the mother of these griefs: 80

Their woes are parcell’d, mine are general.

She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;

I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:

These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I; 84

I for an Edward weep, so do not they:

Alas! you three, on me, threefold distress’d,

Pour all your tears; I am your sorrow’s nurse,

And I will pamper it with lamentation. 88

Dor.

Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas’d

That you take with unthankfulness his doing.

In common worldly things ’tis call’d ungrateful

With dull unwillingness to repay a debt 92

Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;

Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,

For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Riv.

Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, 96

Of the young prince your son: send straight for him;

Let him be crown’d; in him your comfort lives.

Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave,

And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne.

Enter Gloucester, Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, Ratcliff, and Others.

Glo.

Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause

To wail the dimming of our shining star;

But none can cure their harms by wailing them.

Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; 104

I did not see your Grace: humbly on my knee

I crave your blessing.

Duch.

God bless thee! and put meekness in thy mind,

Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. 108

Glo.

Amen; [Aside.] and make me die a good old man!

That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing;

I marvel that her Grace did leave it out.

Buck

You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers, 112

That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,

Now cheer each other in each other’s love:

Though we have spent our harvest of this king,

We are to reap the harvest of his son. 116

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together,

Must gently be preserv’d, cherish’d, and kept:

Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,

Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d 121

Hither to London, to be crown’d our king.

Riv.

Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.

Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,

The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out; 125

Which would be so much the more dangerous,

By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern’d;

Where every horse bears his commanding rein,

And may direct his course as please himself, 129

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,

In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Glo.

I hope the king made peace with all of us; 132

And the compact is firm and true in me.

Riv.

And so in me; and so, I think, in all:

Yet, since it is but green, it should be put

To no apparent likelihood of breach, 136

Which haply by much company might be urg’d:

Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hast.

And so say I. 140

Glo.

Then be it so; and go we to determine

Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.

Madam, and you my mother, will you go

To give your censures in this business? 144

[Exeunt all except Buckingham and Gloucester.

Buck.

My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,

For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home:

For by the way I’ll sort occasion,

As index to the story we late talk’d of, 148

To part the queen’s proud kindred from the prince.

Glo.

My other self, my counsel’s consistory,

My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin,

I, as a child, will go by thy direction. 152

Towards Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— The Same. A Street.

Enter two Citizens, meeting.

First Cit.

Good morrow, neighbour: whither away so fast?

Sec. Cit.

That in his nonage council under him,

And in his full and ripen’d years himself,

No doubt, shall then and till then govern well.

First Cit.

So stood the state when Henry the Sixth 16

Was crown’d at Paris but at nine months old.

Third Cit.

Stood the state so? no, no, good friends, God wot;

For then this land was famously enrich’d

With politic grave counsel; then the king 20

Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace.

First Cit.

Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

Third Cit.

Better it were they all came by his father,

Or by his father there were none at all; 24

For emulation, who shall now be nearest,

Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.

O! full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester!

And the queen’s sons and brothers haught and proud; 28

And were they to be rul’d, and not to rule,

This sickly land might solace as before.

First Cit.

Come, come, we fear the worst, all will be well.

Third Cit.

When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; 32

When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;

When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?

Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.

All may be well; but, if God sort it so, 36

’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

Sec. Cit.

Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear:

You cannot reason almost with a man

That looks not heavily and full of dread. 40

Third Cit.

Before the days of change, still is it so:

By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust

Ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see

The waters swell before a boisterous storm. 44

But leave it all to God. Whither away?

Sec. Cit.

Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

Third Cit.

And so was I: I’ll bear you company.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York.

Arch.

Last night, I hear, they lay at Northampton;

At Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night:

To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

Duch.

I long with all my heart to see the prince. 4

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

Q. Eliz.

But I hear, no; they say my son of York

Hath almost overta’en him in his growth.

York.

Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.

Duch.

Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. 9

York.

Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,

My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow

More than my brother: ‘Ay,’ quoth my uncle Gloucester, 12

‘Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:’

And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,

Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

Duch.

Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold 16

In him that did object the same to thee:

He was the wretched’st thing when he was young,

So long a-growing, and so leisurely,

That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

Arch.

And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam. 21

Duch.

I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

York.

Now, by my troth, if I had been remember’d,

I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout, 24

To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine.

Duch.

How, my young York? I prithee, let me hear it.

York.

Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast,

That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old: 28

’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.

Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

Duch.

I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this?

York.

Grandam, his nurse. 32

Duch.

His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast born.

York.

If ’twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

Q. Eliz.

A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd.

Arch.

Good madam, be not angry with the child. 36

Q. Eliz.

Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger.

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duch.

Who hath committed them?

Mess.

The mighty dukes, 44

Gloucester and Buckingham.

Arch.

For what offence?

Mess.

The sum of all I can I have disclos’d:

Why or for what the nobles were committed

Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. 48

Q. Eliz.

Ah me! I see the ruin of my house!

The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;

Insulting tyranny begins to jet

Upon the innocent and aweless throne: 52

Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre!

I see, as in a map, the end of all.

Duch.

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

How many of you have mine eyes beheld! 56

My husband lost his life to get the crown,

And often up and down my sons were toss’d,

For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:

And being seated, and domestic broils 60

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors,

Make war upon themselves; brother to brother,

Blood to blood, self against self: O! preposterous

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen; 64

Or let me die, to look on death no more.

Q. Eliz.

Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.

Madam, farewell.

Duch.

Stay, I will go with you.

Q. Eliz.

You have no cause.

Arch.

[To the Queen.] My gracious lady, go;

And thither bear your treasure and your goods.

For my part, I’ll resign unto your Grace

The seal I keep: and so betide to me

As well I tender you and all of yours! 72

Come; I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The Same. A Street.

The Trumpets sound. Enter the Prince of Wales, Gloucester, Buckingham, Catesby, Cardinal Bourchier, and Others.

Buck.

Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

Glo.

Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign;

The weary way hath made you melancholy.

Prince.

No, uncle; but our crosses on the way 4

Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:

I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glo.

Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit: 8

No more can you distinguish of a man

Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,

Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.

Those uncles which you want were dangerous;

Your Grace attended to their sugar’d words, 13

But look’d not on the poison of their hearts:

God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

Prince.

God keep me from false friends! but they were none. 16

Glo.

My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you.

Enter the Lord Mayor and his Train.

May.

God bless your Grace with health and happy days!

Prince.

I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.

I thought my mother and my brother York 20

Would long ere this have met us on the way:

Fie! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not

To tell us whether they will come or no.

Enter Hastings.

Buck.

And in good time here comes the sweating lord. 24

Prince.

Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come?

Hast.

On what occasion, God he knows, not I,

The queen your mother, and your brother York,

Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince 28

Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace,

But by his mother was perforce withheld.

Buck.

Fie! what an indirect and peevish course

Is this of hers! Lord Cardinal, will your Grace

Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York

Unto his princely brother presently?

If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him,

And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.

Card.

My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory 37

Can from his mother win the Duke of York,

Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate

To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid 40

We should infringe the holy privilege

Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land

Would I be guilty of so great a sin.

Buck.

You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, 44

Too ceremonious and traditional:

Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,

You break not sanctuary in seizing him.

The benefit thereof is always granted 48

To those whose dealings have deserv’d the place

And those who have the wit to claim the place:

This prince hath neither claim’d it, nor deserv’d it;

And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it:

Then, taking him from thence that is not there,

You break no privilege nor charter there.

Oft have I heard of sanctuary men,

But sanctuary children ne’er till now. 56

Card.

My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for once.

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

Hast.

I go, my lord.

Prince.

Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. 60

[Exeunt Cardinal Bourchier and Hastings.

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,

Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

Glo.

Where it seems best unto your royal self.

If I may counsel you, some day or two 64

Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:

Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit

For your best health and recreation.

Prince.

I do not like the Tower, of any place:

Did Julius Cæsar build that place, my lord? 69

Buck.

He did, my gracious lord, begin that place,

Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

Prince.

Is it upon record, or else reported 72

Successively from age to age, he built it?

Buck.

What! would you have my weapon, little lord?

York.

I would, that I might thank you, as you call me.

Glo.

How? 124

York.

Little.

Prince.

My Lord of York will still be cross in talk.

Uncle, your Grace knows how to bear with him.

York.

You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me: 128

Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me.

Because that I am little, like an ape,

He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

Buck.

With what a sharp provided with he reasons! 132

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

He prettily and aptly taunts himself:

So cunning and so young is wonderful.

Glo.

My lord, will’t please you pass along?

Myself and my good cousin Buckingham 137

Will to your mother, to entreat of her

Prince.

I fear no uncles dead.

Glo.

Nor none that live, I hope.

Prince.

An if they live, I hope, I need not fear.

But come, my lord; and, with a heavy heart,

Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.

[Sennet. Exeunt all but Gloucester, Buckingham, and Catesby.

Buck.

Think you, my lord, this little prating York

Was not incensed by his subtle mother 152

To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

Glo.

No doubt, no doubt: O! ’tis a parlous boy;

Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable:

He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe. 156

Buck.

Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby; thou art sworn

As deeply to effect what we intend

As closely to conceal what we impart.

Thou know’st our reasons urg’d upon the way: 160

What think’st thou? is it not an easy matter

To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,

For the instalment of this noble duke

In the seat royal of this famous isle? 164

Cate.

He for his father’s sake so loves the prince

That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buck.

What think’st thou then of Stanley? what will he?

Cate.

He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

Buck.

Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby, 169

And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings,

How he doth stand affected to our purpose;

And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, 172

To sit about the coronation.

If thou dost find him tractable to us,

Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons:

If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling, 176

Be thou so too, and so break off the talk,

And give us notice of his inclination;

For we to-morrow hold divided councils,

Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d. 180

Glo.

Commend me to Lord William: tell him, Catesby,

His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries

To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle;

And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, 184

Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

Buck.

Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

Cate.

My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

Glo.

Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep? 188

Cate.

You shall, my lord.

Glo.

At Crosby-place, there shall you find us both.

[Exit Catesby.

Buck.

Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive

Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

Glo.

Chop off his head; something we will determine: 193

And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me

The earldom of Hereford, and all the moveables

Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d.

Buck.

I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand. 197

Glo.

And look to have it yielded with all kindness.

Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards

We may digest our complots in some form. 200

Upon the stroke of four.

Enter Hastings.

Hast.

Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?

Mess.

So it appears by that I have to say.

First, he commends him to your noble self. 8

Hast.

What then?

Mess.

Then certifies your lordship, that this night

He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm:

Besides, he says there are two councils held; 12

And that may be determin’d at the one

Which may make you and him to rue at the other.

Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure,

If you will presently take horse with him, 16

And with all speed post with him towards the north,

To shun the danger that his soul divines.

Hast.

Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;

Bid him not fear the separated councils: 20

His honour and myself are at the one,

And at the other is my good friend Catesby;

Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us

Whereof I shall not have intelligence. 24

Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance:

And for his dreams, I wonder he’s so fond

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers.

To fly the boar before the boar pursues, 28

Were to incense the boar to follow us

And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.

Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;

And we will both together to the Tower, 32

Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

Mess.

I’ll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.

[Exit.

Enter Catesby.

Cate.

Many good morrows to my noble lord!

Hast.

Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring. 36

What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

Cate.

It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;

And I believe will never stand upright

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. 40

Hast.

How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

Cate.

Ay, my good lord.

Hast.

I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d. 44

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Cate.

Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward

Upon his party for the gain thereof:

And thereupon he sends you this good news, 48

That this same very day your enemies,

The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

Hast.

Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,

Because they have been still my adversaries; 52

But that I’ll give my voice on Richard’s side,

To bar my master’s heirs in true descent,

God knows I will not do it, to the death.

Cate.

God keep your lordship in that gracious mind! 56

Hast.

But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence,

That they which brought me in my master’s hate,

I live to look upon their tragedy.

Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older,

I’ll send some packing that yet think not on’t.

Stan.

The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,

Were jocund and suppos’d their state was sure,

And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; 84

But yet you see how soon the day o’ercast.

This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt;

Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!

What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent. 88

Hast.

Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord?

To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded.

Stan.

They, for their truth, might better wear their heads,

Than some that have accus’d them wear their hats. 92

But come, my lord, let’s away.

Enter a Pursuivant.

Hast.

Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.

[Exeunt Stanley and Catesby.

How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

Purs.

The better that your lordship please to ask. 96

Hast.

I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now

Than when I met thee last where now we meet:

Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,

By the suggestion of the queen’s allies; 100

But now, I tell thee,—keep it to thyself,—

This day those enemies are put to death,

And I in better state than e’er I was.

Purs.

God hold it to your honour’s good content! 104

Hast.

Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.

[Throws him his purse.

Purs.

God save your lordship.

[Exit.

Enter a Priest.

Pr.

Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

Hast.

I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. 108

I am in your debt for your last exercise;

Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

Enter Buckingham.

Buck.

What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain?

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest:

Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. 113

Hast.

Good faith, and when I met this holy man,

The men you talk of came into my mind.

What, go you toward the Tower? 116

Buck.

I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay:

I shall return before your lordship thence.

Hast.

Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

Buck.

[Aside.] And supper too, although thou know’st it not. 120

Come, will you go?

Hast.

I’ll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Pomfret. Before the Castle.

Enter Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death.

Riv.

Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this:

To-day shalt thou behold a subject die

For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.

Grey.

God bless the prince from all the pack of you! 4

A knot you are of damned blood suckers.

Vaugh.

You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

Rat.

Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.

Riv.

O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison! 8

Fatal and ominous to noble peers!

Within the guilty closure of thy walls

Richard the Second here was hack’d to death;

And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, 12

We give thee up our guitless blood to drink.

Grey.

Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads,

When she exclaim’d on Hastings, you, and I,

For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son. 16

Riv.

Then curs’d she Richard, then curs’d she Buckingham,

Then curs’d she Hastings: O! remember, God,

To hear her prayer for them, as now for us;

And for my sister and her princely sons, 20

Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,

Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt.

Rat.

Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.

Riv.

Come, Grey, come, Vaughan; let us here embrace: 24

And take our leave until we meet in heaven.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— London. The Tower.

Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, and Others, sitting at a table. Officers of the Council attending.

Hast.

My lords, at once: the cause why we are met

Is to determine of the coronation:

In God’s name, speak, when is the royal day?

Buck.

Are all things ready for that royal time? 4

Stan.

It is; and wants but nomination.

Ely.

To-morrow then I judge a happy day.

Buck.

Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein?

Who is most inward with the noble duke? 8

Ely.

Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

Buck.

We know each other’s faces; for our hearts,

He knows no more of mine than I of yours;

Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine. 12

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Hast.

I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well;

But, for his purpose in the coronation,

I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d 16

His gracious pleasure any way therein:

But you, my noble lords, may name the time;

And in the duke’s behalf I’ll give my voice,

Which, I presume, he’ll take in gentle part. 20

Enter Gloucester.

Ely.

In happy time, here comes the duke himself.

Glo.

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper; but, I trust,

My absence doth neglect no great design, 24

Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Buck.

Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,

William Lord Hastings had pronounc’d your part,

I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king. 28

Glo.

Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder:

His lordship knows me well, and loves me well.

My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,

I saw good strawberries in your garden there; 32

I do beseech you send for some of them.

Ely.

Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

[Exit.

Glo.

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, 36

And finds the testy gentleman so hot,

That he will lose his head ere give consent

His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it,

Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne. 40

Buck.

Withdraw yourself a while; I’ll go with you.

[Exeunt Gloucester and Buckingham.

Stan.

We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden;

For I myself am not so well provided 44

As else I would be, were the day prolong’d.

Re-enter Bishop of Ely.

Ely.

Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloucester?

I have sent for these strawberries.

Hast.

His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning: 48

There’s some conceit or other likes him well,

When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.

I think there’s never a man in Christendom

Can lesser hide his hate or love than he; 52

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Stan.

What of his heart perceiv’d you in his face

By any livelihood he show’d to-day?

Hast.

Marry, that with no man here he is offended; 56

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham.

Glo.

I pray you all, tell me what they deserve

That do conspire my death with devilish plots

Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d 60

Upon my body with their hellish charms?

Hast.

The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord,

Makes me most forward in this princely presence

To doom th’ offenders, whosoe’er they be: 64

I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

Glo.

Then be your eyes the witness of their evil.

Look how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm

Is like a blasted sapling, wither’d up: 68

And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch

Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

Hast.

If they have done this thing, my noble lord,— 72

Glo.

If! thou protector of this damned strumpet,

Talk’st thou to me of ifs? Thou art a traitor:

Off with his head! now, by Saint Paul, I swear,

I will not dine until I see the same. 76

Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done:

The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me.

[Exeunt all but Hastings, Ratcliff, and Lovel.

Hast.

Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;

For I, too fond, might have prevented this. 80

Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;

And I did scorn it, and disdain’d to fly.

Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

And startled when he looked upon the Tower, 84

As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.

O! now I need the priest that spake to me:

I now repent I told the pursuivant,

As too triumphing, how mine enemies 88

To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d

And I myself secure in grace and favour.

O Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy curse

Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head. 92

Rat.

Come, come, dispatch; the duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head.

Hast.

O momentary grace of mortal man,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! 96

Who builds his hope in air of your good looks,

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;

Ready with every nod to tumble down

Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 100

Lov.

Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to exclaim.

Hast.

O bloody Richard! miserable England!

I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee

That ever wretched age hath look’d upon. 104

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:

They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.

[Exeunt.

Richard III, by R. Westall.

Scene V.— London. The Tower Walls.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured.

Glo.

Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour,

Murder thy breath in middle of a word,

And then again begin, and stop again,

As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror? 4

Buck.

Tut! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian,

Speak and look back, and pry on every side,

Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,

Intending deep suspicion: ghastly looks 8

Are at my service, like enforced smiles;

And both are ready in their offices,

At any time, to grace my stratagems.

But what! is Catesby gone? 12

Glo.

He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

Glo.

Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Lovel. 20

Lov.

Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,

The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

Glo.

So dear I lov’d the man, that I must weep.

I took him for the plainest harmless creature 24

That breath’d upon the earth a Christian;

Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded

The history of all her secret thoughts:

So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue, 28

That, his apparent open guilt omitted,

I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife,

He liv’d from all attainder of suspect.

Buck.

Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d traitor 32

That ever liv’d.

Would you imagine, or almost believe,—

Were’t not that by great preservation

We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor 36

This day had plotted, in the council-house,

To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester?

May.

Had he done so?

Glo.

What! think you we are Turks or infidels? 40

Or that we would, against the form of law,

Proceed thus rashly in the villain’s death,

But that the extreme peril of the case,

The peace of England and our person’s safety, 44

Enforc’d us to this execution?

May.

Now, fair befall you! he deserv’d his death;

And your good Graces both have well proceeded,

To warn false traitors from the like attempts. 48

I never look’d for better at his hands,

After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.

Buck.

Yet had we not determin’d he should die,

Until your lordship came to see his end; 52

Which now the loving haste of these our friends,

Something against our meaning, hath prevented:

Because, my lord, we would have had you heard

The traitor speak, and timorously confess 56

The manner and the purpose of his treason;

That you might well have signified the same

Unto the citizens, who haply may

Misconster us in him, and wail his death. 60

May.

But, my good lord, your Grace’s word shall serve,

As well as I had seen and heard him speak:

And do not doubt, right noble princes both,

But I’ll acquaint our duteous citizens 64

With all your just proceedings in this cause.

Glo.

And to that end we wish’d your lordship here,

To avoid the censures of the carping world.

Buck.

But since you come too late of our intent, 68

Yet witness what you hear we did intend:

And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell.

[Exit Lord Mayor.

Glo.

Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.

The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post: 72

There, at your meetest vantage of the time,

Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children:

Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen,

Only for saying he would make his son 76

Heir to the crown; meaning indeed his house,

Which by the sign thereof was termed so.

Moreover, urge his hateful luxury

And bestial appetite in change of lust; 80

Which stretch’d unto their servants, daughters, wives,

Even where his raging eye or savage heart

Without control lusted to make a prey.

Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person: 84

Tell them, when that my mother went with child

Of that insatiate Edward, noble York

My princely father then had wars in France;

And, by true computation of the time, 88

Found that the issue was not his begot;

Which well appeared in his lineaments,

Being nothing like the noble duke my father.

Yet touch this sparingly, as ’twere far off; 92

Because, my lord, you know my mother lives.

Buck.

Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the orator

As if the golden fee for which I plead

Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu. 96

Glo.

If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle;

Where you shall find me well accompanied

With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops.

Buck.

I go; and towards three or four o’clock 100

Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.

[Exit.

Glo.

Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw;

[To Catesby.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both

Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle.

[Exeunt Lovel and Catesby.

Now will I in, to take some privy order, 105

To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;

And to give notice that no manner person

Have any time recourse unto the princes.

[Exit.

Scene VI.— The Same. A Street.

Enter a Scrivener.

Scriv.

Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings;

Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d,

That it may be to-day read o’er in Paul’s:

And mark how well the sequel hangs together. 4

Eleven hours I have spent to write it over,

For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me.

The precedent was full as long a-doing;

And yet within these five hours Hastings liv’d, 8

Untainted, unexamin’d, free, at liberty.

Here’s a good world the while! Who is so gross

That cannot see this palpable device?

Yet who so bold but says he sees it not? 12

Bad is the world; and all will come to naught,

When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.

[Exit.

Scene VII.— The Same. The Court of Baynard’s Castle.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, meeting.

Glo.

How, now, how now! what say the citizens?

Buck.

Now, by the holy mother of our Lord,

The citizens are mum, say not a word.

Glo.

Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s children? 4

Buck.

I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy,

And his contract by deputy in France;

The insatiate greediness of his desires,

And his enforcement of the city wives; 8

His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy,

As being got, your father then in France,

And his resemblance, being not like the duke:

Withal I did infer your lineaments, 12

Being the right idea of your father,

Both in your form and nobleness of mind;

Laid open all your victories in Scotland,

Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, 16

Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;

Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose

Untouch’d or slightly handled in discourse;

And when my oratory drew toward end, 20

I bade them that did love their country’s good

Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king!’

Glo.

And did they so?

Buck.

No, so God help me, they spake not a word; 24

But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones,

Star’d each on other, and look’d deadly pale.

Which when I saw, I reprehended them;

And ask’d the mayor what meant this wilful silence: 28

His answer was, the people were not wont

To be spoke to but by the recorder.

Then he was urg’d to tell my tale again:

‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d;’ 32

But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.

When he had done, some followers of mine own,

At lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps,

And some ten voices cried, ‘God save King Richard!’ 36

And thus I took the vantage of those few,

‘Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I;

‘This general applause and cheerful shout

Argues your wisdom and your love to Richard:’

And even here brake off, and came away. 41

Glo.

What tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak?

Will not the mayor then and his brethren come?

Buck.

The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear; 44

Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit:

And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,

And stand between two churchmen, good my lord:

For on that ground I’ll make a holy descant: 48

And be not easily won to our requests;

Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it.

Glo.

I go; and if you plead as well for them

As I can say nay to thee for myself, 52

No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.

Buck.

Go, go, up to the leads! the Lord Mayor knocks.

[Exit Gloucester.

Enter the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens.

Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here;

I think the duke will not be spoke withal. 56

Enter, from the Castle, Catesby.

Now, Catesby! what says your lord to my request?

Cate.

He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord,

To visit him to-morrow or next day.

He is within, with two right reverend fathers, 60

Divinely bent to meditation;

And in no worldly suit would he be mov’d,

To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buck.

Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke: 64

Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen,

In deep designs in matter of great moment,

No less importing than our general good,

Are come to have some conference with his Grace. 68

Cate.

I’ll signify so much unto him straight.

[Exit.

Buck.

Ah, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward!

He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed,

But on his knees at meditation; 72

Not dallying with a brace of courtezans,

But meditating with two deep divines;

Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,

But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. 76

Happy were England, would this virtuous prince

Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof:

But sore, I fear, we shall not win him to it.

May.

Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay! 80

Buck.

I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.

Re-enter Catesby.

Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?

Cate.

He wonders to what end you have assembled

Such troops of citizens to come to him, 84

His Grace not being warn’d thereof before:

My lord, he fears you mean no good to him.

Buck.

Sorry I am my noble cousin should

Suspect me that I mean no good to him. 88

By heaven, we come to him in perfect love;

And so once more return, and tell his Grace.

[Exit Catesby.

When holy and devout religious men

Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence; 92

So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter Gloucester, in a gallery above, between two Bishops. Catesby returns.

May.

See, where his Grace stands ’tween two clergymen!

Buck.

Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,

To stay him from the fall of vanity; 96

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand;

True ornament to know a holy man.

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,

Lend favourable ear to our requests, 100

And pardon us the interruption

Of thy devotion, and right Christian zeal.

Glo.

My lord, there needs no such apology;

I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, 104

Who, earnest in the service of my God,

Deferr’d the visitation of my friends.

But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure?

Buck.

Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, 108

And all good men of this ungovern’d isle.

Glo.

I do suspect I have done some offence

That seems disgracious in the city’s eye;

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

Buck.

You have, my lord: would it might please your Grace, 113

On our entreaties to amend your fault!

Glo.

Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buck.

Know then, it is your fault that you resign 116

The supreme seat, the throne majestical,

The sceptred office of your ancestors,

Your state of fortune and your due of birth,

The lineal glory of your royal house, 120

To the corruption of a blemish’d stock;

Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,—

Which here we waken to our country’s good,—

This noble isle doth want her proper limbs; 124

Her face defac’d with scars of infamy,

Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,

And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf

Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. 128

Which to recure we heartily solicit

Your gracious self to take on you the charge

And kingly government of this your land;

Not as protector, steward, substitute, 132

Or lowly factor for another’s gain;

But as successively from blood to blood,

Your right of birth, your empery, your own.

For this, consorted with the citizens, 136

Your very worshipful and loving friends,

And by their vehement instigation,

In this just cause come I to move your Grace.

Glo.

I cannot tell, if to depart in silence 140

Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,

Best fitteth my degree or your condition:

If not to answer, you might haply think

Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded 144

To bear the golden yoke of sov’reignty,

Which fondly you would here impose on me;

If to reprove you for this suit of yours,

So season’d with your faithful love to me, 148

Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends.

Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first,

And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,

Definitively thus I answer you. 152

Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert

Unmeritable shuns your high request.

First, if all obstacles were cut away,

And that my path were even to the crown, 156

As the ripe revenue and due of birth,

Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,

So mighty and so many my defects,

That I would rather hide me from my greatness,

Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, 161

Than in my greatness covet to be hid,

And in the vapour of my glory smother’d.

But, God be thank’d, there is no need of me; 164

And much I need to help you, were there need;

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,

Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time,

Will well become the seat of majesty, 168

And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.

On him I lay that you would lay on me,

The right and fortune of his happy stars;

Which God defend that I should wring from him! 172

Buck.

My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace;

But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,

All circumstances well considered.

You say that Edward is your brother’s son: 176

So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife;

For first was he contract to Lady Lucy,

Your mother lives a witness to his vow,

And afterward by substitute betroth’d 180

To Bona, sister to the King of France.

These both put by, a poor petitioner,

A care-craz’d mother to a many sons,

A beauty-waning and distressed widow, 184

Even in the afternoon of her best days,

Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,

Seduc’d the pitch and height of his degree

To base declension and loath’d bigamy: 188

By her, in his unlawful bed, he got

This Edward, whom our manners call the prince.

More bitterly could I expostulate,

Save that, for reverence to some alive, 192

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

This proffer’d benefit of dignity;

If not to bless us and the land withal, 196

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry

From the corruption of abusing times,

Unto a lineal true-derived course.

May.

Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you. 200

Buck.

Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love.

Cate.

O! make them joyful: grant their lawful suit:

Glo.

Alas! why would you heap those cares on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty: 204

I do beseech you, take it not amiss,

I cannot nor I will not yield to you.

Buck.

If you refuse it, as, in love and zeal,

Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son;

As well we know your tenderness of heart 209

And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,

Which we have noted in you to your kindred,

And egally, indeed, to all estates, 212

Yet whether you accept our suit or no,

Your brother’s son shall never reign our king;

But we will plant some other in the throne,

To the disgrace and downfall of your house: 216

And in this resolution here we leave you.

Come, citizens, we will entreat no more.

[Exit Buckingham and Citizens.

Cate.

Call them again, sweet prince; accept their suit:

If you deny them, all the land will rue it. 220

Glo.

Will you enforce me to a world of cares?

Call them again: I am not made of stone,

But penetrable to your kind entreats,

[Exit Catesby.

Albeit against my conscience and my soul. 224

Re-enter Buckingham and the rest.

Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,

Since you will buckle fortune on my back,

To bear her burden, whe’r I will or no,

I must have patience to endure the load: 228

But if black scandal or foul-fac’d reproach

Attend the sequel of your imposition,

Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me

From all the impure blots and stains thereof;

For God doth know, and you may partly see, 233

How far I am from the desire of this.

May.

God bless your Grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo.

In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

Buck.

Then I salute you with this royal title:

Long live King Richard, England’s worthy king!

All.

Amen.

Buck.

To-morrow may it please you to be crown’d? 240

Glo.

Even when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck.

To-morrow then we will attend your Grace:

And so most joyfully we take our leave.

Glo.

[To the Bishops.] Come, let us to our holy work again. 244

Farewell, my cousin;—farewell, gentle friends.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— London. Before the Tower.

Enter on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, and Marquess of Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence’s young daughter.

Duch.

Who meets us here? my niece Plantagenet,

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?

Now, for my life, she’s wand’ring to the Tower,

On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender princes.

Daughter, well met.

Anne.

God give your Graces both 5

A happy and a joyful time of day!

Q. Eliz.

As much to you, good sister! whither away?

Anne.

No further than the Tower; and, as I guess, 8

Upon the like devotion as yourselves,

To gratulate the gentle princes there.

Q. Eliz.

Kind sister, thanks: we’ll enter all together:—

Enter Brakenbury.

And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. 12

Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,

How doth the prince, and my young son of York?

Brak.

Right well, dear madam. By your patience,

I may not suffer you to visit them: 16

The king hath strictly charg’d the contrary.

Q. Eliz.

The king! who’s that?

Brak.

I mean the Lord Protector.

Q. Eliz.

The Lord protect him from that kingly title!

Hath he set bounds between their love and me?

I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?

Duch.

I am their father’s mother; I will see them.

Anne.

Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother:

Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear thy blame, 24

And take thy office from thee, on my peril.

Brak.

No, madam, no, I may not leave it so:

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

[Exit.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.

Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, 28

And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother,

And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.

[To the Duchess of Gloucester.] Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,

There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen. 32

Q. Eliz.

Ah! cut my lace asunder,

That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,

Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news.

Anne.

Despiteful tidings! O! unpleasing news! 36

Dor.

Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your Grace?

Q. Eliz.

O, Dorset! speak not to me, get thee gone;

Death and destruction dog thee at the heels:

Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. 40

If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas,

And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell:

Go, hie thee, hie thee, from this slaughter-house,

Lest thou increase the number of the dead, 44

And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,

Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.

Stan.

Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.

[To Dorset.] Take all the swift advantage of the hours; 48

You shall have letters from me to my son

In your behalf, to meet you on the way:

Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.

Duch.

O ill-dispersing wind of misery! 52

O! my accursed womb, the bed of death,

A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,

Whose unavoided eye is murderous!

Stan.

Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent. 56

Anne.

And I with all unwillingness will go.

O! would to God that the inclusive verge

Of golden metal that must round my brow

Were red-hot steel to sear me to the brain. 60

Anointed let me be with deadly venom;

And die, ere men can say ‘God save the queen!’

Q. Eliz.

Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory;

To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. 64

Anne.

No! why? When he, that is my husband now

Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse;

When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his hands,

Which issu’d from my other angel husband, 68

And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d;

O! when I say, I look’d on Richard’s face,

This was my wish, ‘Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘accurs’d,

For making me so young, so old a widow! 72

And, when thou wedd’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;

And be thy wife—if any be so mad—

More miserable by the life of thee

Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!’ 76

Lo! ere I can repeat this curse again,

Within so small a time, my woman’s heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words,

And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse:

Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,

But with his timorous dreams was still awak’d.

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick, 85

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz.

Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

Anne.

No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. 88

Q. Eliz.

Farewell! thou woeful welcomer of glory!

Anne.

Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it!

Duch.

[To Dorset.] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!

[To Anne.] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee! 92

[To Q. Elizabeth.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee!

I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!

Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,

And each hour’s joy wrack’d with a week of teen.

Q. Eliz.

Stay yet, look back with me unto the Tower. 97

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes

Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls,

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones! 100

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes, use my babies well.

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Same. A Room of State in the Palace.

Sennet. Richard, in pomp, crowned: Buckingham, Catesby, a Page, and Others.

K. Rich.

Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham.

Buck.

My gracious sovereign!

K. Rich.

Give me thy hand. [He ascends the throne.] Thus high, by thy advice,

True, noble prince.

K. Rich.

O bitter consequence,

That Edward still should live! ‘True, noble prince!’ 16

Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull:

Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;

And I would have it suddenly perform’d.

What sayst thou now? speak suddenly, be brief. 20

Buck.

Your Grace may do your pleasure.

K. Rich.

Tut, tut! thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes:

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Buck.

Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, 24

Before I positively speak in this:

I will resolve you herein presently.

[Exit.

Cate.

[Aside to another.] The king is angry: see, he gnaws his lip.

K. Rich.

[Descends from his throne.] I will converse with iron-witted fools 28

And unrespective boys: none are for me

That look into me with considerate eyes.

His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.

K. Rich.

I partly know the man: go, call him hither.

[Exit Page.

The deep-revolving witty Buckingham

No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel.

Hath he so long held out with me untir’d, 44

And stops he now for breath? well, be it so.

Enter Stanley.

How now, Lord Stanley! what’s the news?

Stan.

Know, my loving lord,

The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled 48

To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

K. Rich.

Come hither, Catesby: rumour it abroad,

That Anne my wife is very grievous sick;

I will take order for her keeping close. 52

Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,

Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter:

The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.

Look, how thou dream’st! I say again, give out 56

That Anne my queen is sick, and like to die:

About it; for it stands me much upon,

To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.

[Exit Catesby.

I must be married to my brother’s daughter, 60

Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.

Murder her brothers, and then marry her!

Uncertain way of gain! But I am in

So far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin: 64

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Re-enter Page, with Tyrrell.

Why, then thou hast it: two deep enemies,

Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers,

Are they that I would have thee deal upon. 73

Tyrrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tyr.

Let me have open means to come to them,

And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them. 76

K. Rich.

Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrell:

Go, by this token: rise, and lend thine ear.

[Whispers.

There is no more but so: say it is done,

And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it. 80

Tyr.

I will dispatch it straight.

[Exit.

Re-enter Buckingham.

Buck.

My lord, I have consider’d in my mind

The late demand that you did sound me in.

K. Rich.

Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond. 84

Buck.

I hear the news, my lord.

K. Rich.

Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, look to it.

Buck.

My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,

For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d; 88

The earldom of Hereford and the moveables

Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich.

Stanley, look to your wife: if she convey

Buck.

My lord!

K. Rich.

Ay, what’s o’clock? 108

Buck.

I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind

Thou troublest me: I am not in the vein.

[Exeunt King Richard and Train.

Buck.

And is it thus? repays he my deep service

With such contempt? made I him king for this?

O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone 120

To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on.

[Exit.

Scene III.— The Same.

Enter Tyrrell.

Tyr.

The tyrannous and bloody act is done;

The most arch deed of piteous massacre

That ever yet this land was guilty of.

Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn 4

To do this piece of ruthless butchery,

Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,

Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,

Wept like to children in their death’s sad story.

‘Oh! thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘lay the gentle babes:’ 9

‘Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘girdling one another

Within their alabaster innocent arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 12

Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost chang’d my mind;

But, O, the devil’—there the villain stopp’d; 16

When Dighton thus told on: ‘We smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

That from the prime creation e’er she fram’d.’

Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse; 20

They could not speak; and so I left them both,

To bear this tidings to the bloody king:

And here he comes.

Enter King Richard.

All health, my sovereign lord!

K. Rich.

Kind Tyrrell, am I happy in thy news? 24

Tyr.

If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done.

K. Rich.

But didst thou see them dead?

Tyr

I did, my lord.

K. Rich.

And buried, gentle Tyrrell?

Tyr.

The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them; 29

But how or in what place I do not know.

K. Rich.

Come to me, Tyrrell, soon at after-supper,

When thou shalt tell the process of their death. 32

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till then.

Tyr.

I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

The son of Clarence have I pent up close; 36

His daughter meanly have I match’d in marriage;

The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom,

And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.

Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims 40

At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,

And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,

To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.

Enter Catesby.

Cate.

My lord! 44

K. Rich.

Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?

Cate.

Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;

And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen,

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. 48

K. Rich.

Ely with Richmond troubles me more near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.

Come; I have learn’d that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay: 52

Delay leads impotent and snail-pac’d beggary:

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!

Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield; 56

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter Queen Margaret.

Q. Mar.

So, now prosperity begins to mellow

And drop into the rotten mouth of death.

Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d

To watch the waning of mine enemies. 4

A dire induction am I witness to,

And will to France, hoping the consequence

Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical.

Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes here? 8

Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York.

Q. Eliz.

Ah! my poor princes! ah, my tender babes,

My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets,

If yet your gentle souls fly in the air

And be not fix’d in doom perpetual, 12

Hover about me with your airy wings,

And hear your mother’s lamentation.

Q. Mar.

Hover about her; say, that right for right

Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night. 16

Duch.

So many miseries have craz’d my voice,

That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.

Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

Q. Mar.

Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet;

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. 21

Q. Eliz.

Wilt thou, O God! fly from such gentle lambs,

And throw them in the entrails of the wolf?

When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done? 24

Q. Mar.

When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

Duch.

Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,

Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurp’d,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days, 28

Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,

[Sitting down.

Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood!

Q. Eliz.

Ah! that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave

As thou canst yield a melancholy seat; 32

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.

Ah! who hath any cause to mourn but I?

[Sitting down by her.

Q. Mar.

If ancient sorrow be most reverend,

Give mine the benefit of seniory, 36

And let my griefs frown on the upper hand,

If sorrow can admit society.

[Sitting down with them.

Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine:

I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; 40

I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him:

Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him;

Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him.

Duch.

I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; 44

I had a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him.

Q. Mar.

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill’d him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hellhound that doth hunt us all to death: 48

That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,

To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood,

That foul defacer of God’s handiwork,

That excellent grand-tyrant of the earth, 52

That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,

Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.

O! upright, just, and true-disposing God,

How do I thank thee that this carnal cur 56

Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,

And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan.

Duch.

O! Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes:

God witness with me, I have wept for thine. 60

Q. Mar.

Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that kill’d my Edward;

Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; 64

Young York he is but boot, because both they

Match not the high perfection of my loss:

Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb’d my Edward;

And the beholders of this tragic play, 68

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,

Only reserv’d their factor, to buy souls 72

And send them thither; but at hand, at hand,

Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,

To have him suddenly convey’d from hence. 76

Cancel his bond of life, dear God! I pray,

That I may live to say, The dog is dead.

Q. Eliz.

O! thou didst prophesy the time would come

That I should wish for thee to help me curse 80

That bottled spider, that foul bunchback’d toad.

Q. Mar.

I call’d thee then vain flourish of my fortune;

I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen;

The presentation of but what I was; 84

The flattering index of a direful pageant;

One heav’d a-high to be hurl’d down below;

A mother only mock’d with two fair babes;

A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble,

A sign of dignity, a garish flag, 89

To be the aim of every dangerous shot;

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.

Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers? 92

Where are thy children? wherein dost thou joy?

Who sues and kneels and cries God save the queen?

Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee?

Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee? 96

Decline all this, and see what now thou art:

For happy wife, a most distressed widow;

For joyful mother, one that wails the name;

For one being su’d to, one that humbly sues; 100

For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care;

For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me;

For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one;

For one commanding all, obey’d of none. 104

Thus hath the course of justice whirl’d about,

And left thee but a very prey to time;

Having no more but thought of what thou wert,

To torture thee the more, being what thou art.

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not

Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow? 110

Now thy proud neck bears half my burden’d yoke;

From which even here, I slip my wearied head,

And leave the burden of it all on thee. 113

Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mischance:

These English woes shall make me smile in France.

Q. Eliz.

O thou, well skill’d in curses, stay awhile, 116

And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Q. Mar.

Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;

Think that thy babes were fairer than they were,

And he that slew them fouler than he is: 121

Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse:

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Q. Eliz.

My words are dull; O! quicken them with thine! 124

Q. Mar.

Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine.

[Exit.

Duch.

Why should calamity be full of words?

Q. Eliz.

Windy attorneys to their client woes,

Airy succeeders of intestate joys, 128

Poor breathing orators of miseries!

Let them have scope: though what they do impart

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

Duch.

If so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me, 132

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother

My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smother’d.

[A trumpet heard.

The trumpet sounds: be copious in exclaims.

Enter King Richard, and his Train, marching.

K. Rich.

Who intercepts me in my expedition? 136

Duch.

O! she that might have intercepted thee,

By strangling thee in her accursed womb,

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done!

Q. Eliz.

Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown, 140

Where should be branded, if that right were right,

The slaughter of the prince that ow’d that crown,

And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers?

Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children? 144

Duch.

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence

And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?

Q. Eliz.

Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

Duch.

Where is kind Hastings? 148

K. Rich.

A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women

Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say!

[Flourish. Alarums.

Either be patient, and entreat me fair, 152

Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Duch.

Art thou my son?

K. Rich.

Ay; I thank God, my father, and yourself. 156

Duch.

Then patiently hear my impatience.

K. Rich.

Madam, I have a touch of your condition,

K. Rich.

And came I not at last to comfort you?

Duch.

No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well,

Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell.

A grievous burden was thy birth to me; 168

Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;

Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious;

Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;

Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, 172

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:

What comfortable hour canst thou name

That ever grac’d me in thy company?

K. Rich.

Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call’d your Grace 176

To breakfast once forth of my company.

If I be so disgracious in your eye,

Let me march on, and not offend you, madam.

Strike up the drum!

Duch.

I prithee, hear me speak. 180

K. Rich.

You speak too bitterly.

Duch.

Hear me a word;

For I shall never speak to thee again.

K. Rich.

So!

Duch.

Either thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance, 184

Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;

Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish

And never look upon thy face again.

Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,

Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more 189

Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st!

My prayers on the adverse party fight;

And there the little souls of Edward’s children

Whisper the spirits of thine enemies 193

And promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

[Exit.

Q. Eliz.

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse 197

Abides in me: I say amen to her.

[Going.

K. Rich.

Stay, madam; I must talk a word with you.

Q. Eliz.

I have no moe sons of the royal blood 200

For thee to slaughter: for my daughters, Richard,

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens;

And therefore level not to hit their lives.

K. Rich.

You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth, 204

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

Q. Eliz.

And must she die for this? O! let her live,

And I’ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty;

Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed; 208

Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen’d

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. 224

Whose hands soever lanc’d their tender hearts

Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:

No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, 228

To revel in the entrails of my lambs.

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,

My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys

Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes;

And I, in such a desperate bay of death, 233

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

K. Rich.

Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise 236

Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs 252

Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Q. Eliz.

Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness

How canst thou woo her?

K. Rich.

That I would learn of you,

As one being best acquainted with her humour.

Q. Eliz.

And wilt thou learn of me?

K. Rich.

Madam, with all my heart.

Q. Eliz.

Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, 272

A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave

Edward and York; then haply will she weep:

Therefore present to her, as sometime Margaret

Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood, 276

A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body,

And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.

If this inducement move her not to love, 280

Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;

Tell her thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence,

Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for her sake,

Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. 284

K. Rich.

You mock me, madam; this is not the way

To win your daughter.

Q. Eliz.

There is no other way

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,

And not be Richard that hath done all this. 288

K. Rich.

Say, that I did all this for love of her?

Q. Eliz.

Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

K. Rich.

Look, what is done cannot be now amended: 292

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after-hours give leisure to repent.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter.

If I have kill’d the issue of your womb, 297

To quicken your increase, I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter:

A grandam’s name is little less in love 300

Than is the doting title of a mother;

They are as children but one step below,

Even of your mettle, of your very blood;

Of all one pain, save for a night of groans 304

Endur’d of her for whom you bid like sorrow.

Your children were vexation to your youth,

But mine shall be a comfort to your age.

The loss you have is but a son being king, 308

And by that loss your daughter is made queen.

I cannot make you what amends I would,

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.

Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul 312

Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

To high promotions and great dignity:

The king that calls your beauteous daughter wife, 316

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repair’d with double riches of content. 320

What! we have many goodly days to see:

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed

Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl,

Advantaging their loan with interest 324

Of ten times double gain of happiness.

Go then, my mother; to thy daughter go:

Make bold her bashful years with your experience;

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale; 328

Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame

Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess

With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys:

And when this arm of mine hath chastised 332

The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham,

Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,

And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed;

To whom I will retail my conquest won, 336

And she shall be sole victress, Cæsar’s Cæsar.

Q. Eliz.

What were I best to say? her father’s brother

Would be her lord? Or shall I say, her uncle?

Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles?

O, no! my reasons are too deep and dead;

By nothing; for this is no oath.

Thy George, profan’d, hath lost his holy honour;

Thy garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue; 371

Thy crown, usurp’d, disgrac’d his kingly glory.

If something thou wouldst swear to be believ’d,

God’s wrong is most of all.

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,

The unity the king my husband made 380

Had not been broken, nor my brothers died:

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,

The imperial metal, circling now thy head,

Had grac’d the tender temples of my child, 384

And both the princes had been breathing here,

Which now, too tender bed-fellows for dust,

Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.

What canst thou swear by now?

K. Rich.

The time to come. 388

Q. Eliz.

That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast;

For I myself have many tears to wash

Hereafter time for time past wrong’d by thee.

The children live, whose parents thou hast slaughter’d, 392

Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age:

The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher’d,

Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.

Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast

Misus’d ere us’d, by times ill-us’d o’erpast. 397

K. Rich.

As I intend to prosper, and repent,

So thrive I in my dangerous affairs

Of hostile arms! myself myself confound! 400

Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours!

Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest!

Be opposite all planets of good luck

To my proceeding, if, with pure heart’s love, 404

Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter!

In her consists my happiness and thine;

Without her, follows to myself, and thee, 408

Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,

Death, desolation, ruin, and decay:

It cannot be avoided but by this;

It will not be avoided but by this. 412

Therefore, dear mother,—I must call you so,—

Be the attorney of my love to her:

Plead what I will be, not what I have been;

Not my deserts, but what I will deserve: 416

Urge the necessity and state of times,

I go. Write to me very shortly, 429

And you shall understand from me her mind.

K. Rich.

Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so farewell.

[Kissing her. Exit Queen Elizabeth.

Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman!

Enter Ratcliff; Catesby following.

How now! what news? 433

Rat.

Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast

Rideth a puissant navy; to the shores

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,

Unarm’d, and unresolv’d to beat them back. 437

’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;

And there they hull, expecting but the aid

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. 440

K. Rich.

Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk:

First, mighty liege, tell me your highness’ pleasure, 448

What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

K. Rich.

O! true, good Catesby: bid him levy straight

The greatest strength and power he can make,

And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. 452

Cate.

I go.

[Exit.

Rat.

Stan.

Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, 468

He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

K. Rich.

Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway’d?

Is the king dead? the empire unpossess’d?

What heir of York is there alive but we? 472

And who is England’s king but great York’s heir?

Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

Stan.

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

K. Rich.

Unless for that he comes to be your liege, 476

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.

Thou wilt revolt and fly to him I fear.

Stan.

No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

K. Rich.

Where is thy power then to beat him back? 480

Where be thy tenants and thy followers?

Are they not now upon the western shore,

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

Stan.

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. 484

K. Rich.

Cold friends to me: what do they in the north

When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

Stan.

They have not been commanded, mighty king:

Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, 488

I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace,

Where and what time your majesty shall please.

K. Rich.

Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond:

But I’ll not trust thee.

Stan.

Most mighty sovereign, 492

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.

I never was nor never will be false.

K. Rich.

Go then and muster men: but leave behind

Your son, George Stanley: look your heart be firm, 496

Or else his head’s assurance is but frail.

Stan.

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

[Exit.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,

As I by friends am well advertised, 500

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,

Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,

With many moe confederates are in arms.

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.

In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in arms; 504

And every hour more competitors

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

Enter a third Messenger.

Third Mess.

My lord, the army of great Buckingham—

K. Rich.

Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death?

[He strikes him.

There, take thou that, till thou bring better news.

Third Mess.

The news I have to tell your majesty

Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,

Buckingham’s army is dispers’d and scatter’d;

And he himself wander’d away alone, 513

No man knows whither.

K. Rich.

I cry thee mercy:

There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.

Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d 516

Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Third Mess.

Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

Enter a fourth Messenger.

Fourth Mess.

Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Marquess Dorset,

’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms: 520

But this good comfort bring I to your highness,

The Breton navy is dispers’d by tempest.

Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat

Unto the shore to ask those on the banks 524

If they were his assistants, yea or no;

Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham

Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,

Hois’d sail, and made away for Brittany. 528

K. Rich.

March on, march on, since we are up in arms;

If not to fight with foreign enemies,

Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

Re-enter Catesby.

Cate.

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken, 532

That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford

Is colder news, but yet they must be told.

K. Rich.

Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here, 536

A royal battle might be won and lost.

Some one take order Buckingham be brought

To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Same. A Room in Lord Stanley’s House.

Enter Stanley and Sir Christopher Urswick.

Stan.

Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me:

That in the sty of this most bloody boar

My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold:

If I revolt, off goes young George’s head; 4

The fear of that holds off my present aid.

So, get thee gone: commend me to thy lord.

Withal, say that the queen hath heartily consented

He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. 8

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

Chris.

At Pembroke, or at Ha’rford-west, in Wales.

Stan.

What men of name resort to him?

Chris.

Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier, 12

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley,

Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,

And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew;

And many other of great name and worth: 16

And towards London do they bend their power,

If by the way they be not fought withal.

Stan.

Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand:

My letter will resolve him of my mind. 20

Farewell.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Salisbury. An open Place.

Enter the Sheriff and Guard, with Buckingham, led to execution.

Buck.

Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

Sher.

No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

Buck.

Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey and Rivers,

Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, 4

Vaughan, and all that have miscarried

By underhand corrupted foul injustice,

If that your moody discontented souls

Do through the clouds behold this present hour,

Even for revenge mock my destruction! 9

This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not?

Sher.

It is, my lord.

Buck.

Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday. 12

This is the day that, in King Edward’s time,

I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found

False to his children or his wife’s allies;

This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall 16

By the false faith of him whom most I trusted;

This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul

Is the determin’d respite of my wrongs.

That high All-Seer which I dallied with 20

Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head,

And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest.

Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men

To turn their own points on their masters’ bosoms: 24

Thus Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck:

‘When he,’ quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart with sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.’

Come, lead me, officers, to the block of shame:

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— A Plain near Tamworth.

Enter with drum and colours, Richmond, Oxford, Sir James Blunt, Sir Walter Herbert, and Others, with Forces, marching.

Richm.

Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruis’d underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we march’d on without impediment: 4

And here receive we from our father Stanley

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.

The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,

That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines, 8

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine

Is now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn: 12

From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march.

In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends,

To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war. 16

Oxf.

Every man’s conscience is a thousand men,

To fight against this guilty homicide.

Herb.

I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

Blunt.

He hath no friends but what are friends for fear, 20

Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

Richm.

All for our vantage: then, in God’s name, march:

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings;

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— Bosworth Field.

Enter King Richard and Forces; the Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, and Others.

K. Rich.

Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field.

Up with my tent! here will I lie to-night;

[Soldiers begin to set up the King’s tent.

But where to-morrow? Well, all’s one for that. 8

Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

Nor.

Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

K. Rich.

Why, our battalia trebles that account;

Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength,

Which they upon the adverse faction want. 13

Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen,

Let us survey the vantage of the ground;

Call for some men of sound direction: 16

Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay;

For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day.

[Exeunt.

Enter on the other side of the field, Richmond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, and other Officers. Some of the Soldiers pitch Richmond’s tent.

Richm.

The weary sun hath made a golden set,

And, by the bright track of his fiery car, 20

Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.

Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.

Give me some ink and paper in my tent:

I’ll draw the form and model of our battle, 24

Limit each leader to his several charge,

And part in just proportion our small power.

My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon,

And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. 28

The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment:

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him,

And by the second hour in the morning

Desire the earl to see me in my tent. 32

Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me;

Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, do you know?

Blunt.

Unless I have mista’en his colours much,—

Which, well I am assur’d, I have not done,— 36

His regiment lies half a mile at least

South from the mighty power of the king.

Richm.

If without peril it be possible,

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him, 40

And give him from me this most needful note.

Blunt.

Upon my life, my lord, I’ll undertake it;

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night!

Richm.

Good-night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen, 44

Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business;

In to my tent, the air is raw and cold.

Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk. 56

Nor.

I warrant you, my lord.

[Exit.

K. Rich.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord?

K. Rich.

Send out a pursuivant at arms

To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power

Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall 61

Into the blind cave of eternal night.

Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch.

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. 64

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord!

K. Rich.

Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? 68

Rat.

Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,

Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop

Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

K. Rich.

So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine: 72

I have not that alacrity of spirit,

Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.

Set it down. Is ink and paper ready?

Rat.

It is, my lord. 76

K. Rich.

Bid my guard watch; leave me.

Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent

And help to arm me. Leave me, I say.

[King Richard retires into his tent. Exeunt Ratcliff and Catesby.

Richmond’s tent opens, and discovers him and his Officers, &c.

Enter Stanley.

Stan.

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!

Richm.

All comfort that the dark night can afford 81

Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!

Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

Stan.

I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, 84

Who prays continually for Richmond’s good:

So much for that. The silent hours steal on,

And flaky darkness breaks within the east.

In brief, for so the season bids us be, 88

Prepare thy battle early in the morning,

And put thy fortune to the arbitrement

Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war.

I, as I may,—that which I would I cannot,— 92

With best advantage will deceive the time,

And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms:

But on thy side I may not be too forward,

Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, 96

Be executed in his father’s sight.

Farewell: the leisure and the fearful time

Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love

And ample interchange of sweet discourse, 100

Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon:

God give us leisure for these rites of love!

Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well!

Richm.

Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. 104

I’ll strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap,

Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow,

When I should mount with wings of victory.

Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentlemen.

[Exeunt all but Richmond.

O! thou, whose captain I account myself, 109

Look on my forces with a gracious eye;

Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath,

That they may crush down with a heavy fall 112

The usurping helmets of our adversaries!

Make us thy ministers of chastisement,

That we may praise thee in thy victory!

To thee I do commend my watchful soul, 116

Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes:

Sleeping and waking, O! defend me still!

[Sleeps.

The Ghost of Prince Edward, Son to Henry the Sixth, rises between the two tents.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!

Think how thou stab’dst me in my prime of youth 120

At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die!

Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf:

King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

The Ghost of King Henry the Sixth rises.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] When I was mortal, my anointed body 125

By thee was punched full of deadly holes:

Think on the Tower and me; despair and die!

Henry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. 128

[To Richmond.] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!

Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be the king,

Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live thou and flourish!

The Ghost of Clarence rises.

Ghost.

[To King Richard.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! 132

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine,

Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d to death!

To-morrow in the battle think on me,

And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!

[To Richmond.] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster, 137

The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee:

Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish!

The Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan rise.

Ghost of Rivers.

[To King Richard.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! 140

Rivers, that died at Pomfret! despair, and die!

Ghost of Grey.

[To King Richard.] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair.

Ghost of Vaughan.

[To King Richard.] Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear

Let fall thy pointless lance: despair, and die!—

All Three.

[To Richmond.] Awake! and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom 145

[To King Richard.] The first was I that help’d thee to the crown; 168

The last was I that felt thy tyranny.

O! in the battle think on Buckingham,

And die in terror of thy guiltiness!

Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death:

Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath!

[To Richmond.] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid: 174

But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d:

God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side;

And Richard falls in height of all his pride.

[The Ghosts vanish. King Richard starts out of his dream.

K. Rich.

Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! 178

Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream.

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!

The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.

Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.

What! do I fear myself? there’s none else by:

Richard loves Richard, that is, I am I. 184

Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am:

Then fly: what! from myself? Great reason why:

Lest I revenge. What! myself upon myself?

Alack! I love myself. Wherefore? for any good

That I myself have done unto myself? 189

O! no: alas! I rather hate myself

For hateful deeds committed by myself.

I am a villain. Yet I lie; I am not. 192

Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

And every tongue brings in a several tale,

And every tale condemns me for a villain. 196

Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree:

Murder, stern murder, in the dir’st degree;

All several sins, all us’d in each degree,

Throng to the bar, crying all, ‘Guilty! guilty!’

I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;

And if I die, no soul will pity me:

Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself

Find in myself no pity to myself? 204

Methought the souls of all that I had murder’d

Came to my tent; and every one did threat

To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.

Enter Ratcliff.

Rat.

My lord! 208

K. Rich.

’Zounds! who’s there?

Rat.

Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early village cock

Hath twice done salutation to the morn;

Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. 212

K. Rich.

O Ratcliff! I have dream’d a fearful dream.

What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true?

Rat.

No doubt, my lord.

K. Rich.

O Ratcliff! I fear, I fear,—

Rat.

Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. 216

K. Rich.

By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard

Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers

Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.

It is not yet near day. Come, go with me; 221

Under our tents I’ll play the eaves-dropper,

To hear if any mean to shrink from me.

[Exeunt.

Richmond wakes. Enter Oxford and Others.

Lords.

Good morrow, Richmond! 224

Richm.

Cry mercy, lords, and watchful gentlemen,

That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.

Lords.

How have you slept, my lord?

Richm.

The sweetest sleep, the fairest-boding dreams 228

That ever enter’d in a drowsy head,

Have I since your departure had, my lords.

Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard murder’d,

Came to my tent and cried on victory: 232

I promise you, my heart is very jocund

In the remembrance of so fair a dream.

How far into the morning is it, lords?

Lords.

Upon the stroke of four. 236

Richm.

Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction.

His oration to his Soldiers.

More than I have said, loving countrymen,

The leisure and enforcement of the time

Forbids to dwell on: yet remember this, 240

God and our good cause fight upon our side;

The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,

Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces;

Richard except, those whom we fight against 244

Had rather have us win than him they follow.

For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen,

A bloody tyrant and a homicide;

One rais’d in blood, and one in blood establish’d;

One that made means to come by what he hath, 249

And slaughter’d those that were the means to help him;

A base foul stone, made precious by the foil

Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set; 252

One that hath ever been God’s enemy.

Then, if you fight against God’s enemy,

God will in justice, ward you as his soldiers;

If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, 256

You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain;

If you do fight against your country’s foes,

Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the hire;

If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, 260

Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors;

If you do free your children from the sword,

Your children’s children quit it in your age.

Then, in the name of God and all these rights,

Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. 265

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt

Shall be this cold corse on the earth’s cold face;

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt 268

The least of your shall share his part thereof.

Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully;

God and Saint George! Richmond and victory!

[Exeunt.

Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. 277

Who saw the sun to-day?

Rat.

Not I, my lord.

K. Rich.

Then he disdains to shine; for by the book

He should have brav’d the east an hour ago: 280

A black day will it be to somebody.

Ratcliff!

Rat.

My lord?

K. Rich.

The sun will not be seen to-day;

The sky doth frown and lower upon our army.

I would these dewy tears were from the ground.

Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me

More than to Richmond? for the self-same heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. 288

Enter Norfolk.

Nor.

Arm, arm, my lord! the foe vaunts in the field.

K. Rich.

Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse.

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, 292

And thus my battle shall be ordered:

My foreward shall be drawn out all in length

Consisting equally of horse and foot;

Our archers shall be placed in the midst: 296

John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,

Shall have the leading of this foot and horse.

They thus directed, we will follow

In the main battle, whose puissance on either side 300

Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.

This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk?

Nor.

A good direction, war-like sovereign.

This found I on my tent this morning. 304

[Giving a scroll.

K. Rich.

Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.

A thing devised by the enemy.

Go, gentlemen; every man to his charge: 308

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls;

Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devis’d at first to keep the strong in awe:

Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. 312

March on, join bravely, let us to ’t pell-mell;

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

His oration to his Army.

What shall I say more than I have inferr’d?

Remember whom you are to cope withal: 316

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways,

A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,

Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth

To desperate adventures and assur’d destruction.

You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest; 321

You having lands, and bless’d with beauteous wives,

They would restrain the one, distain the other.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, 324

Long kept in Britaine at our mother’s cost?

A milksop, one that never in his life

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the sea again;

Lash hence these overweening rags of France,

These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives;

Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,

For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves: 332

If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us,

And not these bastard Bretons; whom our fathers

Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d,

And, on record, left them the heirs of shame. 336

Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?

Ravish our daughters?

[Drum afar off.

Hark! I hear their drum.

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!

Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;

Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

Enter a Messenger.

What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power?

Mess.

My lord, he doth deny to come. 344

K. Rich.

Off with his son George’s head!

Nor.

My lord, the enemy is pass’d the marsh:

After the battle let George Stanley die.

K. Rich.

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom: 348

Advance our standards! set upon our foes!

Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,

Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!

Upon them! Victory sits upon our helms. 352

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Norfolk and Forces; to him Catesby.

Cate.

Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk! rescue, rescue!

The king enacts more wonders than a man,

Daring an opposite to every danger:

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, 4

Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.

Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

Alarum. Enter King Richard.

K. Rich.

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Cate.

Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse. 8

K. Rich.

Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,

And I will stand the hazard of the die.

I think there be six Richmonds in the field;

Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.— 12

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

What men of name are slain on either side?

Stan.

John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

Richm.

Inter their bodies as becomes their births: 28

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fied

That in submission will return to us;

And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament,

We will unite the white rose and the red: 32

Smile, heaven, upon this fair conjunction,

That long hath frown’d upon their enmity!

What traitor hears me, and says not amen?

England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself; 36

The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood,

The father rashly slaughter’d his own son,

The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire:

All this divided York and Lancaster, 40

Divided in their dire division,

O! now, let Richmond and Elizabeth,

The true succeeders of each royal house,

By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together; 44

And let their heirs—God, if thy will be so,—

Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d peace,

With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, 48

That would reduce these bloody days again,

And make poor England weep in streams of blood!

Let them not live to taste this land’s increase,

That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace! 52

Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again:

That she may long live here, God say amen!

[Exeunt.

THE FAMOUS HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King Henry the Eighth.
Cardinal Wolsey.
Cardinal Campeius.
Capucius,	Ambassador from the Emperor Charles the Fifth.
Cranmer,	Archbishop of Canterbury.
Duke of Norfolk.
Duke of Suffolk.
Duke of Buckingham.
Earl of Surrey.
Lord Chancellor.
Lord Chamberlain.
Gardiner,	Bishop of Winchester.
Bishop of Lincoln.
Lord Abergavenny.
Lord Sands.
Sir Thomas Lovell.
Sir Henry Guildford.
Sir Anthony Denny.
Sir Nicholas Vaux.
Secretaries to Wolsey.
Cromwell,	Servant to Wolsey.
Griffith,	Gentleman-Usher to Queen Katharine.
Three Gentlemen.
Garter King-at-Arms.
Doctor Butts,	Physician to the King.
Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham.
Brandon,	and a Sergeant-at-Arms.
Door-keeper of the Council Chamber.
Porter, and his Man.
Page to Gardiner.
A Crier.
Queen Katharine,	Wife to King Henry; afterwards divorced.
Anne Bullen,	her Maid of Honour; afterwards Queen.
An Old Lady, Friend to Anne Bullen.
Patience,	Woman to Queen Katharine.
Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Spirits which appear to her; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants.

Scene.—Chiefly in London and Westminster; once, at Kimbolton.

PROLOGUE.

I come no more to make you laugh: things now,

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,

Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,

Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow, 4

We now present. Those that can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;

The subject will deserve it. Such as give

Their money out of hope they may believe, 8

May here find truth too. Those that come to see

Only a show or two, and so agree

The play may pass, if they be still and willing,

I’ll undertake may see away their shilling 12

Richly in two short hours. Only they

That come to hear a merry, bawdy play,

A noise of targets, or to see a fellow

In a long molley coat guarded with yellow, 16

Will be deceiv’d; for, gentle hearers, know,

To rank our chosen truth with such a show

As fool and fight is, besides forfeiting

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,

To make that only true we now intend, 21

Will leave us never an understanding friend.

Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known

The first and happiest hearers of the town, 24

Be sad, as we would make ye: think ye see

The very persons of our noble story

As they were living; think you see them great,

And follow’d with the general throng and sweat 28

Of thousand friends; then, in a moment see

How soon this mightiness meets misery:

And if you can be merry then, I’ll say

A man may weep upon his wedding day. 32

ACT I.

Scene I.— London. An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter at one door the Duke of Norfolk; at the other, the Duke of Buckingham and the Lord Abergavenny.

Buck

Good morrow, and well met. How have you done,

Since last we saw in France?

Nor.

I thank your Grace,

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer

Of what I saw there.

Buck.

An untimely ague 4

Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber, when

Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,

Met in the vale of Andren.

Nor.

’Twixt Guynes and Arde:

I was then present, saw them salute on horseback; 8

Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

In their embracement, as they grew together;

Which had they, what four thron’d ones could have weigh’d

Such a compounded one?

Buck.

All the whole time 12

I was my chamber’s prisoner.

Nor.

Then you lost

The view of earthly glory: men might say,

Till this time, pomp was single, but now married

To one above itself. Each following day 16

Became the next day’s master, till the last

Made former wonders its. To-day the French

All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,

Shone down the English; and to-morrow they

Made Britain India: every man that stood 21

Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were

As cherubins, all gilt: the madams, too,

Not us’d to toil, did almost sweat to bear 24

The pride upon them, that their very labour

Was to them as a painting. Now this masque

Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night

Made it a fool, and beggar. The two kings, 28

Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,

As presence did present them; him in eye,

Still him in praise; and, being present both,

’Twas said they saw but one; and no discerner

Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns— 33

For so they phrase ’em—by their heralds challeng’d

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform

Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous story, 36

Being now seen possible enough, got credit,

That Bevis was believ’d.

Buck.

O! you go far.

Nor.

As I belong to worship, and affect

In honour honesty, the tract of every thing 40

Would by a good discourser lose some life,

Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal;

To the disposing of it nought rebell’d,

Order gave each thing view; the office did 44

Distinctly his full function.

Buck.

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs

Of this great sport together, as you guess?

Nor.

One certes, that promises no element 48

In such a business.

Buck.

I pray you, who, my lord?

Nor.

All this was order’d by the good discretion

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

Buck.

The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed 52

From his ambitious finger. What had he

To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder

That such a keech can with his very bulk

Take up the rays o’ the beneficial sun, 56

And keep it from the earth.

Nor.

Surely, sir,

There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends;

For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace

Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon 60

For high feats done to the crown; neither allied

To eminent assistants; but, spider-like,

Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,

The force of his own merit makes his way; 64

A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys

A place next to the king.

Aber.

I cannot tell

What heaven hath given him: let some graver eye

Pierce into that; but I can see his pride 68

Peep through each part of him: whence has he that?

If not from hell, the devil is a niggard,

Or has given all before, and he begins

A new hell in himself.

Buck.

Why the devil, 72

Upon this French going-out, took he upon him,

Without the privity o’ the king, to appoint

Who should attend on him? He makes up the file

Of all the gentry; for the most part such 76

To whom as great a charge as little honour

He meant to lay upon: and his own letter,—

The honourable board of council out,—

Must fetch him in he papers.

Aber.

I do know 80

Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have

By this so sicken’d their estates, that never

They shall abound as formerly.

Buck.

O! many

Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em 84

For this great journey. What did this vanity

But minister communication of

A most poor issue?

Nor.

Grievingly I think,

The peace between the French and us not values 88

The cost that did conclude it.

Buck.

Every man,

After the hideous storm that follow’d, was

A thing inspir’d; and, not consulting, broke

Into a general prophecy: That this tempest, 92

Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded

The sudden breach on’t.

Nor.

Which is budded out;

For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath attach’d

Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux.

Aber.

Is it therefore 96

The ambassador is silenc’d?

Nor.

Marry, is’t.

Aber.

A proper title of a peace; and purchas’d

At a superfluous rate!

Buck.

Why, all this business

Our reverend cardinal carried.

Nor.

Like it your Grace, 100

The state takes notice of the private difference

Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you,—

And take it from a heart that wishes towards you

Honour and plenteous safety,—that you read 104

The cardinal’s malice and his potency

Together; to consider further that

What his high hatred would effect wants not

A minister in his power. You know his nature,

That he’s revengeful; and I know his sword 109

Hath a sharp edge: it’s long, and ’t may be said,

It reaches far; and where ’twill not extend,

Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, 112

You’ll find it wholesome. Lo where comes that rock

That I advise your shunning.

Enter Cardinal Wolsey,—the Purse borne before him,—certain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain.

Wol.

The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha?

Where’s his examination?

First Secr.

Here, so please you. 116

Wol.

Is he in person ready?

First Secr.

Ay, please your Grace.

Wol.

Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham

Shall lessen this big look.

[Exeunt. Wolsey, and Train.

Buck.

This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I 120

Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best

Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book

Outworths a noble’s blood.

Nor.

What! are you chaf’d?

Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only 124

Which your disease requires.

Buck.

I read in’s looks

Matter against me; and his eye revil’d

Me, as his abject object: at this instant

He bores me with some trick: he’s gone to the king; 128

I’ll follow, and out-stare him.

Nor.

Stay, my lord,

And let your reason with your choler question

What ’tis you go about. To climb steep hills

Requires slow pace at first: anger is like 132

A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way,

Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England

Can advise me like you: be to yourself

As you would to your friend.

Buck.

I’ll to the king; 136

And from a mouth of honour quite cry down

This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim

There’s difference in no persons.

Nor.

Be advis’d;

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 140

That it do singe yourself. We may outrun

By violent swiftness that which we run at,

And lose by overrunning. Know you not,

The fire that mounts the liquor till it run o’er,

In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advis’d:

I say again, there is no English soul

More stronger to direct you than yourself,

If with the sap of reason you would quench, 148

Or but allay, the fire of passion.

Buck.

Sir,

I am thankful to you, and I’ll go along

By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow

Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but 152

From sincere motions,—by intelligence,

And proofs as clear as founts in July, when

We see each grain of gravel,—I do know

To be corrupt and treasonous.

Nor.

Say not, ‘treasonous.’ 156

Buck.

To the king I’ll say’t; and make my vouch as strong

As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,

Or wolf, or both,—for he is equal ravenous

As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief 160

As able to perform ’t, his mind and place

Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally,

Only to show his pomp as well in France

As here at home, suggests the king our master

To this last costly treaty, the interview, 165

That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a glass

Did break i’ the rinsing.

Nor.

Faith, and so it did.

Buck.

Praygive me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal 168

The articles o’ the combination drew

As himself pleas’d; and they were ratified

As he cried, ‘Thus let be,’ to as much end

As give a crutch to the dead. But our count-cardinal 172

Has done this, and ’tis well; for worthy Wolsey,

Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,—

Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy

To the old dam, treason, Charles the emperor,

Under pretence to see the queen his aunt,— 177

For ’twas indeed his colour, but he came

To whisper Wolsey,—here makes visitation:

His fears were, that the interview betwixt 180

England and France might, through their amity,

Breed him some prejudice; for from this league

Peep’d harms that menac’d him. He privily

Deals with our cardinal, and, as I trow, 184

Which I do well; for, I am sure the emperor

Paid ere he promis’d; whereby his suit was granted

Ere it was ask’d; but when the way was made,

And pav’d with gold, the emperor thus desir’d:

That he would please to alter the king’s course,

And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know—

As soon he shall by me—that thus the cardinal

Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, 192

And for his own advantage.

Nor.

I am sorry

To hear this of him; and could wish he were

Something mistaken in ’t.

Buck.

No, not a syllable:

I do pronounce him in that very shape 196

He shall appear in proof.

Enter Brandon; a Sergeant-at-Arms before him.

Bran.

Your office, sergeant; execute it.

Serg.

Sir,

My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl

Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 200

Arrest thee of high treason, in the name

Of our most sovereign king.

Buck.

Lo you, my lord,

The net has fall’n upon me! I shall perish

Under device and practice.

Bran.

I am sorry 204

To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on

The business present. ’Tis his highness’ pleasure

You shall to the Tower.

Buck.

It will help me nothing

To plead mine innocence, for that dye is on me

Which makes my whit’st part black. The will of heaven 209

Be done in this and all things! I obey.

O! my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!

Bran.

Nay, he must bear you company. [To Abergavenny.] The king 212

Is pleas’d you shall to the Tower, till you know

How he determines further.

Aber.

As the duke said,

The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure

By me obey’d!

Bran.

Here is a warrant from 216

The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies

Of the duke’s confessor, John de la Car,

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,—

Buck.

So, so;

These are the limbs o’ the plot: no more, I hope.

Bran.

A monk o’ the Chartreux.

Buck.

O! Nicholas Hopkins?

Bran.

He.

Buck.

My surveyor is false; the o’er-great cardinal

Hath show’d him gold. My life is spann’d already:

I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, 224

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,

By dark’ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Council Chamber.

Enter the King, leaning on the Cardinal’s shoulder, the Lords of the Council, Sir Thomas Lovell, Officers, and Attendants. The Cardinal places himself under the King’s feet on the right side.

K. Hen.

It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,

The clothiers all, not able to maintain

The many to them ’longing, have put off 32

The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,

Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger

And lack of other means, in desperate manner

Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar, 36

And danger serves among them.

K. Hen.

Taxation!

Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal,

You that are blam’d for it alike with us,

Know you of this taxation?

Wol.

Please you, sir, 40

I know but of a single part in aught

Pertains to the state; and front but in that file

Where others tell steps with me.

Q. Kath.

No, my lord,

You know no more than others; but you frame

Things that are known alike; which are not wholesome 45

To those which would not know them, and yet must

Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,

Whereof my sov’reign would have note, they are 48

Most pestilent to the hearing; and to bear ’em,

The back is sacrifice to the load. They say

They are devis’d by you, or else you suffer

Too hard an exclamation.

K. Hen.

Still exaction! 52

The nature of it? In what kind, let’s know,

Is this exaction?

Q. Kath.

I am much too venturous

In tempting of your patience; but am bolden’d

Under your promis’d pardon. The subjects’ grief 56

Comes through commissions, which compel from each

The sixth part of his substance, to be levied

Without delay; and the pretence for this

Is nam’d, your wars in France. This makes bold mouths: 60

Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze

Allegiance in them; their curses now

Live where their prayers did; and it’s come to pass,

This tractable obedience is a slave 64

To each incensed will. I would your highness

Would give it quick consideration, for

There is no primer business.

K. Hen.

By my life,

This is against our pleasure.

Wol.

And for me, 68

I have no further gone in this than by

A single voice, and that not pass’d me but

By learned approbation of the judges. If I am

Traduc’d by ignorant tongues, which neither know 72

My faculties nor person, yet will be

The chronicles of my doing, let me say

’Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake

That virtue must go through. We must not stint 76

Our necessary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious censurers; which ever,

As rav’nous fishes, do a vessel follow

That is new-trimm’d, but benefit no further 80

Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,

By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is

Not ours, or not allow’d; what worst, as oft,

Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up 84

For our best act. If we shall stand still,

In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at,

We should take root here where we sit, or sit

State-statues only.

K. Hen.

Things done well, 88

And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;

Things done without example, in their issue

Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent

Of this commission? I believe, not any. 92

We must not rend our subjects from our laws,

And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?

A trembling contribution! Why, we take

From every tree, lop, bark, and part o’ the timber; 96

And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d,

The air will drink the sap. To every county

Where this is question’d, send our letters, with

Free pardon to each man that has denied 100

The force of this commission. Pray, look to ’t;

I put it to your care.

Wol.

[To the Secretary.] A word with you.

Let there be letters writ to every shire,

Of the king’s grace and pardon. The griev’d commons 104

Hardly conceive of me; let it be nois’d

That through our intercession this revokement

And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you

Further in the proceeding.

[Exit Secretary.

Enter Surveyor.

Q. Kath.

I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham 109

Is run in your displeasure.

K. Hen.

It grieves many:

The gentleman is learn’d, and a most rare speaker,

To nature none more bound; his training such

That he may furnish and instruct great teachers,

And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see,

When these so noble benefits shall prove

Not well dispos’d, the mind growing once corrupt, 116

They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly

Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,

Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we,

Almost with ravish’d listening, could not find

His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady, 121

Hath into monstrous habits put the graces

That once were his, and is become as black

As if besmear’d in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear— 124

This was his gentleman in trust—of him

Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount

The fore-recited practices; whereof

We cannot feel too little, hear too much. 128

Wol.

Stand forth; and with bold spirit relate what you,

Most like a careful subject, have collected

Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

K. Hen.

Speak freely.

Surv.

First, it was usual with him, every day

It would infect his speech, that if the king 133

Should without issue die, he’d carry it so

To make the sceptre his. These very words

I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law, 136

Lord Abergavenny, to whom by oath he menac’d

Revenge upon the cardinal.

Wol.

Please your highness, note

This dangerous conception in this point.

Not friended by his wish, to your high person

His will is most malignant; and it stretches 141

Beyond you, to your friends.

Q. Kath.

My learn’d Lord Cardinal,

Deliver all with charity.

K. Hen.

Speak on:

How grounded he his title to the crown 144

Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him

At any time speak aught?

Surv.

He was brought to this

By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

K. Hen.

What was that Hopkins?

Surv.

Sir, a Chartreux friar,

His confessor, who fed him every minute 149

With words of sovereignty.

K. Hen.

How know’st thou this?

Surv.

Not long before your highness sped to France,

The duke being at the Rose, within the parish

Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand 153

What was the speech among the Londoners

Concerning the French journey: I replied,

Men fear’d the French would prove perfidious,

To the king’s danger. Presently the duke 157

Said, ’twas the fear, indeed; and that he doubted

’Twould prove the verity of certain words

Spoke by a holy monk; ‘that oft,’ says he, 160

‘Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit

John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour

To hear from him a matter of some moment:

Whom after under the confession’s seal 164

He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke,

My chaplain to no creature living but

To me should utter, with demure confidence

This pausingly ensu’d: neither the king nor ’s heirs— 168

Tell you the duke—shall prosper: bid him strive

To gain the love o’ the commonalty: the duke

Shall govern England.’

Q. Kath.

If I know you well,

You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office 172

On the complaint o’ the tenants: take good heed

You charge not in your spleen a noble person,

And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed;

Yes, heartily beseech you.

K. Hen.

Let him on. 176

Go forward.

Surv.

On my soul, I’ll speak but truth.

I told my lord the duke, by the devil’s illusions

The monk might be deceiv’d; and that ’twas dangerous for him

To ruminate on this so far, until 180

It forg’d him some design, which, being believ’d,

It was much like to do. He answer’d, ‘Tush!

It can do me no damage;’ adding further,

That had the king in his last sickness fail’d, 184

The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovell’s heads

Should have gone off.

K. Hen.

Ha! what, so rank? Ah, ha!

There’s mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?

Surv.

I can, my liege.

K. Hen.

Proceed.

Surv.

Being at Greenwich,

After your highness had reprov’d the duke 189

About Sir William Blomer,—

K. Hen.

I remember

Of such a time: being my sworn servant,

The duke retain’d him his. But on; what hence? 192

Surv.

‘If,’ quoth he, ‘I for this had been committed,

As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play’d

The part my father meant to act upon

The usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,

Made suit to come in ’s presence; which if granted, 197

As he made semblance of his duty, would

Have put his knife into him.’

K. Hen

A giant traitor!

Wol.

Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom, 200

And this man out of prison?

Q. Kath.

God mend all!

K. Hen.

There’s something more would out of thee? what sayst?

Surv.

After ‘the duke his father,’ with ‘the knife,’

He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger, 204

Another spread on’s breast, mounting his eyes,

He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenour

Was, were he evil us’d, he would outgo

His father by as much as a performance 208

Does an irresolute purpose.

K. Hen.

There’s his period;

To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d;

Call him to present trial: if he may

Find mercy in the law, ’tis his; if none, 212

Let him not seek’t of us: by day and night!

He’s traitor to the height.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands.

Cham.

Cham.

I am glad ’tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs

To think an English courtier may be wise,

And never see the Louvre.

Lov.

They must either—

For so run the conditions—leave those remnants 24

Of fool and feather that they got in France,

With all their honourable points of ignorance

Pertaining thereunto,—as fights and fireworks;

Abusing better men than they can be, 28

Out of a foreign wisdom;—renouncing clean

The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings,

Short blister’d breeches, and those types of travel,

And understand again like honest men; 32

Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,

They may, cum privilegio, wear away

The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh’d at.

Sands.

’Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases 36

Are grown so catching.

Cham.

What a loss our ladies

Will have of these trim vanities!

Lov.

Ay, marry,

There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons

Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies; 40

A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

Sands.

The devil fiddle ’em! I am glad they’re going:

For, sure, there’s no converting of ’em: now

An honest country lord, as I am, beaten 44

A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong

The beauty of this kingdom, I’ll assure you.

Lov.

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; 56

His dews fall everywhere.

Cham.

No doubt he’s noble;

He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands.

He may, my lord; he has wherewithal: in him

Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: 60

Men of his way should be most liberal;

They are set here for examples.

Cham.

True, they are so;

But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;

Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, 64

We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,

This night to be comptrollers.

Sands.

I am your lordship’s.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— The Presence-chamber in York-Place.

Hautboys. A small table under a state for Cardinal Wolsey, a longer table for the guests. Enter, at one door, Anne Bullen, and divers Lords, Ladies, and Gentlewomen, as guests; at another door, enter Sir Henry Guildford.

Guild.

Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace

Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates

To fair content and you. None here, he hopes,

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her 4

One care abroad; he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome

Can make good people.

Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and Sir Thomas Lovell.

O, my lord! you’re tardy:

The very thought of this fair company 8

Clapp’d wings to me.

Cham.

You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

Sands.

Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal

But half my lay-thoughts in him, some of these

Should find a running banquet ere they rested,

I think would better please ’em: by my life, 13

They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Lov.

O! that your lordship were but now confessor

To one or two of these!

Sands.

I would I were; 16

They should find easy penance.

Lov.

Faith, how easy?

Sands.

As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Cham.

Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,

Place you that side, I’ll take the charge of this;

His Grace is ent’ring. Nay you must not freeze;

Two women plac’d together makes cold weather:

My Lord Sands, you are one will keep ’em waking;

Pray, sit between these ladies.

Sands.

By my faith, 24

And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:

[Seats himself between Anne Bullen and another Lady.

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;

I had it from my father.

Anne.

Was he mad, sir?

Sands.

O! very mad, exceeding mad; in love too: 28

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

[Kisses her.

Cham.

Well said, my lord.

So, now you’re fairly seated. Gentlemen,

The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies 32

Pass away frowning.

Sands.

For my little cure,

Let me alone.

Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, attended, and takes his state.

Wol.

You’re welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,

Or gentleman, that is not freely merry, 36

Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome;

And to you all, good health.

[Drinks.

Sands.

Your Grace is noble:

Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,

And save me so much talking.

Wol.

My Lord Sands, 40

I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.

Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen,

Whose fault is this?

Sands.

The red wine first must rise

In their fair cheeks, my lord; then, we shall have ’em 44

Talk us to silence.

Anne.

You are a merry gamester,

My Lord Sands.

Sands.

Yes, if I make my play.

Here’s to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam,

For ’tis to such a thing,—

Anne.

You cannot show me. 48

Sands.

I told your Grace they would talk anon.

[Drum and trumpets within; chambers discharged.

Wol.

What’s that?

Cham.

Look out there, some of ye.

[Exit a Servant.

Wol.

What war-like voice,

And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;

By all the laws of war you’re privileg’d. 52

Re-enter Servant.

Cham.

How now, what is’t?

Serv.

A noble troop of strangers;

For so they seem: they’ve left their barge and landed;

And hither make, as great ambassadors

From foreign princes.

Wol.

Good Lord Chamberlain, 56

Go, give ’em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;

And, pray, receive ’em nobly, and conduct ’em

Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty

Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

[Exit the Lord Chamberlain, attended. All arise, and tables removed.

You have now a broken banquet; but we’ll mend it. 61

A good digestion to you all; and once more

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all.

Hautboys. Enter the King, and Others, as masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute him.

A noble company! what are their pleasures? 64

Cham.

Because they speak no English, thus they pray’d

To tell your Grace: that, having heard by fame

Of this so noble and so fair assembly

This night to meet here, they could do no less,

Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, 69

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,

Crave leave to view these ladies, and entreat

An hour of revels with ’em.

Wol.

Say, Lord Chamberlain,

They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay ’em 73

A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their pleasures.

[They choose Ladies for the dance. The King chooses Anne Bullen.

K. Hen.

The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty,

Till now I never knew thee!

[Music. Dance.

Wol.

My lord.

Cham.

Your Grace?

Wol.

Pray tell them thus much from me:

There should be one amongst ’em, by his person,

More worthy this place than myself; to whom,

If I but knew him, with my love and duty 80

I would surrender it.

Cham.

I will, my lord.

[Whispers the Masquers.

Wol.

What say they?

Cham.

Such a one, they all confess,

There is, indeed; which they would have your Grace

Find out, and he will take it.

Wol.

Let me see then. 84

[Comes from his state.

By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I’ll make

My royal choice.

K. Hen.

[Unmasking.] You have found him, cardinal.

You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:

You are a churchman, or, I’ll tell you, cardinal,

I should judge now unhappily.

Wol.

I am glad

Your Grace is grown so pleasant.

K. Hen.

My Lord Chamberlain,

Prithee, come hither. What fair lady’s that?

Cham.

An’t please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen’s daughter, 92

The Viscount Rochford, one of her highness’ women.

K. Hen.

By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,

I were unmannerly to take you out,

And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! 96

Let it go round.

Lead in your ladies, every one. Sweet partner,

I must not yet forsake you. Let’s be merry: 104

Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths

To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure

To lead ’em once again; and then let’s dream

Who’s best in favour. Let the music knock it.

[Exeunt with trumpets.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Westminster. A Street.

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting.

First Gent.

Whither away so fast?

Sec. Gent.

O! God save ye.

E’en to the hall, to hear what shall become

I’ll tell you in a little. The great duke

Came to the bar; where, to his accusations 12

He pleaded still not guilty, and alleg’d

Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.

The king’s attorney on the contrary

Urg’d on the examinations, proofs, confessions

Of divers witnesses, which the duke desir’d 17

To have brought, vivâ voce, to his face:

At which appear’d against him his surveyor;

Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,

Confessor to him; with that devil-monk, 21

Hopkins, that made this mischief.

Sec. Gent.

That was he

That fed him with his prophecies?

First Gent.

The same.

All these accus’d him strongly; which he fain

Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not: 25

And so his peers, upon this evidence,

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much

He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all 28

Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

Sec. Gent.

After all this how did he bear himself?

First Gent.

When he was brought again to the bar, to hear

His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d

With such an agony, he sweat extremely, 33

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:

All the commons

Hate him perniciously, and o’ my conscience,

Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much

They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham, 52

The mirror of all courtesy;—

First Gent.

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of.

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment; Tipstaves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side: with him Sir Thomas Lovell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir William Sands, and common people.

Sec. Gent.

Let’s stand close, and behold him.

Buck.

All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me, 56

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day receiv’d a traitor’s judgment,

And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear witness,

And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, 60

Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!

The law I bear no malice for my death,

’T has done upon the premises but justice;

But those that sought it I could wish more Christians: 64

Be what they will, I heartily forgive ’em.

Yet let ’em look they glory not in mischief,

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;

For then my guiltless blood must cry against ’em. 68

For further life in this world I ne’er hope,

Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies

More than I dare make faults. You few that lov’d me,

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 72

His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave

Is only bitter to him, only dying,

Go with me, like good angels, to my end;

And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 76

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o’ God’s name.

Lov.

I do beseech your Grace, for charity,

If ever any malice in your heart 80

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

Buck.

Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you

As I would be forgiven: I forgive all.

There cannot be those numberless offences 84

’Gainst me that I cannot take peace with: no black envy

Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace;

And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him

You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers 88

Yet are the king’s; and, till my soul forsake,

Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live

Longer than I have time to tell his years!

Ever belov’d and loving may his rule be! 92

And when old time shall lead him to his end,

Goodness and he fill up one monument!

Lov.

To the water side I must conduct your Grace;

Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,

Who undertakes you to your end.

Vaux.

Prepare there! 97

The duke is coming: see the barge be ready;

And fit it with such furniture as suits

The greatness of his person.

Buck.

Nay, Sir Nicholas, 100

Let it alone; my state now will but mock me.

When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable,

And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun:

Yet I am richer than my base accusers, 104

That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it;

And with that blood will make them one day groan for’t.

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,

Who first rais’d head against usurping Richard,

Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 109

Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d,

And without trial fell: God’s peace be with him!

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying 112

My father’s loss, like a most royal prince,

Restor’d me to my honours, and, out of ruins,

Made my name once more noble. Now his son,

Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all 116

That made me happy, at one stroke has taken

For ever from the world. I had my trial,

And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me

A little happier than my wretched father: 120

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes; both

Fell by our servants, by those men welov’d most:

A most unnatural and faithless service!

Heaven has an end in all; yet, you that hear me,

This from a dying man receive as certain: 125

Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels

Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends

And give your hearts to, when they once perceive 128

The least rub in your fortunes, fall away

Like water from ye, never found again

But where they mean to sink ye. All good people,

Pray for me! I must now forsake ye: the last hour 132

Of my long weary life is come upon me.

Farewell:

And when you would say something that is sad,

Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me!

[Exeunt Buckingham and Train.

First Gent.

O! this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,

I fear, too many curses on their heads

That were the authors.

Sec. Gent.

If the duke be guiltless,

’Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling 140

Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,

Greater than this.

First Gent.

Good angels keep it from us!

What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

Sec. Gent.

This secret is so weighty, ’twill require 144

A strong faith to conceal it.

First Gent.

Let me have it;

I do not talk much.

Sec. Gent.

I am confident:

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear

A buzzing of a separation 148

Between the king and Katharine?

First Gent.

Yes, but it held not;

For when the king once heard it, out of anger

He sent command to the lord mayor straight

To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues 152

That durst disperse it.

Sec. Gent.

But that slander, sir,

Is found a truth now; for it grows again

Fresher than e’er it was; and held for certain

The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal,

Or some about him near, have, out of malice 157

To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple

That will undo her: to confirm this too,

Cardinal Campeius is arriv’d, and lately; 160

As all think, for this business.

First Gent.

’Tis the cardinal;

And merely to revenge him on the emperor

For not bestowing on him, at his asking,

The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos’d.

Sec. Gent.

I think you have hit the mark: but is’t not cruel 165

That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal

Will have his will, and she must fall.

First Gent.

’Tis woeful.

We are too open here to argue this; 168

Let’s think in private more.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— An Antechamber in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter.

Cham.

My lord, The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnished. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal’s, by commission and main power, took them from me; with this reason: His master would be served before a subject, if not before the king; which stopped our mouths, sir.

I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them:

He will have all, I think. 12

Enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

Nor.

Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

Good day to both your Graces.

Suf.

How is the king employ’d?

Cham.

I left him private,

Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

Nor.

What’s the cause?

Cham.

It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife 17

Has crept too near his conscience.

Suf.

No; his conscience

Has crept too near another lady.

Nor.

’Tis so:

This is the cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal:

That blind priest, like the eldest son of Fortune,

Turns what he list. The king will know him one day. 22

Suf.

Pray God he do! he’ll never know himself else.

Nor.

How holily he works in all his business,

And with what zeal! for, now he has crack’d the league 25

Between us and the emperor, the queen’s great nephew,

He dives into the king’s soul, and there scatters

Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, 28

Fears, and despairs; and all these for his marriage:

And out of all these, to restore the king,

He counsels a divorce; a loss of her,

That like a jewel has hung twenty years 32

About his neck, yet never lost her lustre;

Of her, that loves him with that excellence

That angels love good men with; even of her,

That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,

Will bless the king: and is not this course pious?

Cham.

Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’Tis most true

These news are every where; every tongue speaks ’em,

And every true heart weeps for’t. All that dare

Look into these affairs, see this main end, 41

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open

The king’s eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.

Suf.

And free us from his slavery.

Nor.

We had need pray, 45

And heartily, for our deliverance;

Or this imperious man will work us all

From princes into pages. All men’s honours 48

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion’d

Into what pitch he please.

Suf.

For me, my lords,

I love him not, nor fear him; there’s my creed.

As I am made without him, so I’ll stand, 52

If the king please; his curses and his blessings

Touch me alike, they’re breath I not believe in.

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him

To him that made him proud, the pope.

Nor.

Let’s in;

And with some other business put the king 57

From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him.

My lord, you’ll bear us company?

Cham.

Excuse me;

The king hath sent me otherwhere: besides, 60

You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him:

Health to your lordships.

Nor.

Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Norfolk opens a folding-door. The King is discovered sitting and reading pensively.

Suf.

How sad he looks! sure, he is much afflicted.

K. Hen.

Who is there, ha?

Nor.

Pray God he be not angry.

K. Hen.

Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves 65

Into my private meditations?

Who am I, ha?

Nor.

A gracious king that pardons all offences 68

Malice ne’er meant: our breach of duty this way

Is business of estate; in which we come

To know your royal pleasure.

K. Hen.

Ye are too bold.

Go to; I’ll make ye know your times of business:

Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

Enter Wolsey and Campeius.

Who’s there? my good Lord Cardinal? O! my Wolsey,

The quiet of my wounded conscience;

Thou art a cure fit for a king. [To Campeius.] You’re welcome, 76

Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:

Use us, and it. [To Wolsey.] My good lord, have great care

I be not found a talker.

Wol.

Sir, you cannot.

I would your Grace would give us but an hour

Of private conference.

K. Hen.

[To Norfolk and Suffolk.] We are busy: go. 81

Nor.

[Aside to Suffolk.] This priest has no pride in him!

Suf.

[Aside to Norfolk.] Not to speak of;

I would not be so sick though for his place:

But this cannot continue.

Nor.

[Aside to Suffolk.] If it do, 84

I’ll venture one have-at-him.

Suf.

[Aside to Norfolk.] I another.

[Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk.

Wol.

Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom

Above all princes, in committing freely

Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. 88

Who can be angry now? what envy reach you?

The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her,

Must now confess, if they have any goodness,

The trial just and noble. All the clerks, 92

I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms

Have their free voices: Rome, the nurse of judgment,

Invited by your noble self, hath sent

One general tongue unto us, this good man, 96

This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius;

Whom once more I present unto your highness.

K. Hen.

And once more in my arms I bid him welcome,

And thank the holy conclave for their loves:

They have sent me such a man I would have wish’d for. 101

Cam.

Your Grace must needs deserve all strangers’ loves,

You are so noble. To your highness’ hand

I tender my commission, by whose virtue,— 104

The court of Rome commanding,—you, my Lord

Cardinal of York, are join’d with me, their servant,

In the impartial judging of this business.

K. Hen.

Two equal men. The queen shall be acquainted 108

Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

Wol.

I know your majesty has always lov’d her

So dear in heart, not to deny her that

A woman of less place might ask by law, 112

Scholars, allow’d freely to argue for her.

K. Hen.

Ay, and the best, she shall have; and my favour

To him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal,

Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:

I find him a fit fellow.

[Exit Wolsey.

Re-enter Wolsey, with Gardiner.

Wol.

[Aside to Gardiner.] Give me your hand; much joy and favour to you;

You are the king’s now.

Gard.

[Aside to Wolsey.] But to be commanded

For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais’d me. 120

K. Hen.

Come hither, Gardiner.

[They converse apart.

Cam.

My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace

In this man’s place before him?

Wol.

Yes, he was.

Cam.

That’s Christian care enough: for living murmurers

There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, 132

For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow,

If I command him, follows my appointment:

I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,

We live not to be grip’d by meaner persons. 136

K. Hen.

Deliver this with modesty to the queen.

[Exit Gardiner.

The most convenient place that I can think of

For such receipt of learning, is Black-Friars;

There ye shall meet about this weighty business.

My Wolsey, see it furnish’d. O my lord! 141

Would it not grieve an able man to leave

So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience!

O! ’tis a tender place, and I must leave her. 144

[Exeunt.

Scene III.— An Antechamber in the Queen’s Apartments.

Enter Anne Bullen and an Old Lady.

Anne.

Not for that neither: here’s the pang that pinches:

His highness having liv’d so long with her, and she

So good a lady that no tongue could ever

Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, 4

She never knew harm-doing; O! now, after

So many courses of the sun enthron’d,

Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which

To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 8

’Tis sweet at first to acquire, after this process

To give her the avaunt! it is a pity

Would move a monster.

Old Lady.

Hearts of most hard temper

Melt and lament for her.

Anne.

O! God’s will; much better 12

She ne’er had known pomp: though ’t be temporal,

Yet, if that quarrel, Fortune, do divorce

It from the bearer, ’tis a sufferance panging

As soul and body’s severing.

Old Lady.

Alas! poor lady, 16

She’s a stranger now again.

Anne.

So much the more

Must pity drop upon her. Verily,

I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born,

And range with humble livers in content, 20

Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief

And wear a golden sorrow.

Old Lady.

Our content

Is our best having.

Anne.

By my troth and maidenhead

I would not be a queen.

Old Lady.

Beshrew me, I would, 24

And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you,

For all this spice of your hypocrisy.

You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,

Have too a woman’s heart; which ever yet 28

Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty:

Which, to say sooth, are blessings, and which gifts—

Saving your mincing—the capacity

Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,

If you might please to stretch it.

Anne.

Nay, good troth. 33

Old Lady.

Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?

Anne.

No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old Lady.

’Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d would hire me, 36

Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,

What think you of a duchess? have you limbs

To bear that load of title?

Anne.

No, in truth.

Old Lady.

Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little: 40

I would not be a young count in your way,

For more than blushing comes to: if your back

Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

Anne.

How you do talk! 44

I swear again, I would not be a queen

For all the world.

Old Lady.

In faith, for little England

You’d venture an emballing: I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there ’long’d

No more to the crown but that. Lo! who comes here? 49

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

Good morrow, ladies. What were’t worth to know

The secret of your conference?

Anne.

My good lord,

Not your demand; it values not your asking: 52

Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.

Cham.

It was a gentle business, and becoming

The action of good women: there is hope

All will be well.

Anne.

Now, I pray God, amen! 56

Cham.

You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings

Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,

Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s

Ta’en of your many virtues, the king’s majesty

Commends his good opinion of you, and 61

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which title

A thousand pound a year, annual support, 64

Out of his grace he adds.

Anne.

I do not know

What kind of my obedience I should tender;

More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers

Are not words duly hallow’d, nor my wishes 68

More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes

Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,

Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,

As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness,

Whose health and royalty I pray for.

Cham.

Lady, 73

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

The king hath of you. [Aside.] I have perus’d her well;

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled 76

That they have caught the king; and who knows yet

But from this lady may proceed a gem

To lighten all this isle? [To her.] I’ll to the king,

And say, I spoke with you.

Anne.

My honour’d lord. 80

[Exit Lord Chamberlain.

Old Lady.

Why, this it is; see, see!

I have been begging sixteen years in court,

Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could

Come pat betwixt too early and too late; 84

For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here,—fie, fie, upon

This compell’d fortune!—have your mouth fill’d up

Before you open it.

Anne.

This is strange to me. 88

Old Lady.

How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.

There was a lady once,—’tis an old story,—

That would not be a queen, that would she not,

For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?

Anne.

Come, you are pleasant.

Old Lady.

With your theme I could

O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

A thousand pounds a year, for pure respect!

No other obligation! By my life 96

That promises more thousands: honour’s train

Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time

I know your back will bear a duchess: say,

Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne.

Good lady, 100

Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,

And leave me out on’t. Would I had no being,

If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,

To think what follows. 104

The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful

In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver

What here you’ve heard to her.

Old Lady.

What do you think me?

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— A Hall in Black-Friars.

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in the habit of doctors; after them, the Archbishop of Canterbury, alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, at some small distance, follows a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bearing each a silver cross; then a Gentleman Usher bare-headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-Arms, bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen, bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two Cardinals; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. Then enter the King and Queen, and their Trains. The King takes place under the cloth of state; the two Cardinals sit under him as judges. The Queen takes place at some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselves on each side the court, in manner of a consistory; below them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The Crier and the rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the Stage.

Wol.

Whilst our commission from Rome is read,

Let silence be commanded.

K. Hen.

What’s the need?

It hath already publicly been read,

And on all sides the authority allow’d; 4

You may then spare that time.

Wol.

Be’t so. Proceed.

Scribe

Say, Henry King of England, come into the court.

Crier.

Henry King of England, come into the court.

K. Hen.

Here.

Scribe.

Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Crier.

Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

[The Queen makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the King, and kneels at his feet; then speaks.

Q. Kath.

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;

And to bestow your pity on me; for 12

I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,

Born out of your dominions; having here

No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance

Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas! sir,

In what have I offended you? what cause 17

Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure,

That thus you should proceed to put me off

And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness, 20

I have been to you a true and humble wife,

At all times to your will conformable;

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry

As I saw it inclin’d. When was the hour 25

I ever contradicted your desire,

Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends

Have I not strove to love, although I knew 28

He were mine enemy? what friend of mine

That had to him deriv’d your anger, did I

Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice

He was from thence discharg’d. Sir, call to mind 32

That I have been your wife, in this obedience

Upward of twenty years, and have been blest

With many children by you: if, in the course

And process of this time, you can report, 36

And prove it too, against mine honour aught,

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,

Against your sacred person, in God’s name

Turn me away; and let the foul’st contempt 40

Shut door upon me, and so give me up

To the sharp’st kind of justice. Please you, sir,

The king, your father, was reputed for

A prince most prudent, of an excellent 44

And unmatch’d wit and judgment: Ferdinand,

My father, King of Spain, was reckon’d one

The wisest prince that there had reign’d by many

A year before: it is not to be question’d 48

That they had gather’d a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business,

Who deem’d our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may 52

Be by my friends in Spain advis’d, whose counsel

I will implore: if not, i’ the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill’d!

Wol.

You have here, lady,—

And of your choice,—these reverend fathers; men 56

Of singular integrity and learning,

Yea, the elect o’ the land, who are assembled

To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless

That longer you desire the court, as well 60

For your own quiet, as to rectify

What is unsettled in the king.

Cam.

His Grace

Hath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam,

It’s fit this royal session do proceed, 64

And that, without delay, their arguments

Be now produc’d and heard.

Q. Kath.

Lord Cardinal,

To you I speak.

Wol.

Your pleasure, madam?

Q. Kath.

Sir,

I am about to weep; but, thinking that 68

We are a queen,—or long have dream’d so,—certain

The daughter of a king, my drops of tears

I’ll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol.

Be patient yet.

Q. Kath.

I will, when you are humble; nay, before, 72

Or God will punish me. I do believe,

Induc’d by potent circumstances, that

You are mine enemy; and make my challenge

You shall not be my judge; for it is you 76

Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me,

Which God’s dew quench! Therefore I say again,

I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul

Refuse you for my judge, whom, yet once more,

I hold my most malicious foe, and think not 81

At all a friend to truth.

Wol.

I do profess

You speak not like yourself; who ever yet

Have stood to charity, and display’d the effects

Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom 85

O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me wrong:

I have no spleen against you; nor injustice

For you or any: how far I have proceeded, 88

Or how far further shall, is warranted

By a commission from the consistory,

Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me

That I have blown this coal: I do deny it. 92

The king is present: if it be known to him

That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,

And worthily, my falsehood; yea, as much

As you have done my truth. If he know 96

That I am free of your report, he knows

I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him

It lies to cure me; and the cure is, to

Remove these thoughts from you: the which before 100

His highness shall speak in, I do beseech

You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking,

And to say so no more.

Q. Kath.

My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak 104

To oppose your cunning. You’re meek and humble-mouth’d;

You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,

With meekness and humility; but your heart

Is cramm’d with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.

You have, by fortune and his highness’ favours,

Gone slightly o’er low steps, and now are mounted

Where powers are your retainers, and your words,

Domestics to you, serve your will as’t please 112

Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,

You tender more your person’s honour than

Your high profession spiritual; that again

I do refuse you for my judge; and here, 116

Before you all, appeal unto the pope,

To bring my whole cause ’fore his holiness,

And to be judg’d by him.

[She curtsies to the King, and offers to depart.

Cam.

The queen is obstinate,

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and 120

Disdainful to be tried by’t: ’tis not well.

She’s going away.

K. Hen.

Call her again.

Crier.

Katharine Queen of England, come into the court. 124

Grif.

Madam, you are call’d back.

Q. Kath.

What need you note it? pray you, keep your way:

When you are call’d, return. Now, the Lord help!

They vex me past my patience. Pray you, pass on: 128

I will not tarry; no, nor ever more

Upon this business my appearance make

In any of their courts.

[Exeunt Queen, and her Attendants.

K. Hen.

Go thy ways, Kate:

That man i’ the world who shall report he has

A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 133

For speaking false in that: thou art, alone,—

If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,

Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,

Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 137

Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,—

The queen of earthly queens. She’s noble born;

And, like her true nobility, she has 140

Carried herself towards me.

Wol.

Most gracious sir,

In humblest manner I require your highness,

That it shall please you to declare, in hearing

Of all these ears,—for where I am robb’d and bound 144

There must I be unloos’d, although not there

At once, and fully satisfied,—whether ever I

Did broach this business to your highness, or

Laid any scruple in your way, which might 148

Induce you to the question on’t? or ever

Have to you, but with thanks to God for such

A royal lady, spake one the least word that might

Be to the prejudice of her present state, 152

Or touch of her good person?

K. Hen.

My Lord Cardinal,

I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,

I free you from’t. You are not to be taught

That you have many enemies, that know not 156

Why they are so, but, like to village curs,

Bark when their fellows do: by some of these

The queen is put in anger. You’re excus’d:

But will you be more justified? you ever 160

Have wish’d the sleeping of this business; never

Desir’d it to be stirr’d; but oft have hinder’d, oft,

The passages made toward it. On my honour,

I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point,

And thus far clear him. Now, what mov’d me to’t, 165

I will be bold with time and your attention:

Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t:

My conscience first receiv’d a tenderness, 168

Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter’d

By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador,

Who had been hither sent on the debating

A marriage ’twixt the Duke of Orleans and 172

Our daughter Mary. I’ the progress of this business,

Ere a determinate resolution, he—

I mean, the bishop—did require a respite;

Wherein he might the king his lord advertise 176

Whether our daughter were legitimate,

Respecting this our marriage with the dowager,

Sometimes our brother’s wife. This respite shook

The bosom of my conscience, enter’d me, 180

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble

The region of my breast; which forc’d such way,

That many maz’d considerings did throng,

And press’d in with this caution. First, methought 184

I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had

Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb,

If it conceiv’d a male child by me, should

Do no more offices of life to’t than 188

The grave does to the dead; for her male issue

Or died where they were made, or shortly after

This world had air’d them. Hence I took a thought

This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,

Well worthy the best heir o’ the world, should not 193

Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows that

I weigh’d the danger which my realms stood in

By this my issue’s fail; and that gave to me 196

Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in

The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer

Toward this remedy, whereupon we are

Now present here together; that’s to say, 200

I meant to rectify my conscience, which

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,

By all the rev’rend fathers of the land

And doctors learn’d. First, I began in private

With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember

How under my oppression I did reek, 206

When I first mov’d you.

Lin.

Very well, my liege.

K. Hen.

I have spoke long: be pleas’d yourself to say 208

How far you satisfied me.

Lin.

So please your highness,

The question did at first so stagger me,

Bearing a state of mighty moment in’t,

And consequence of dread, that I committed 212

The daring’st counsel that I had to doubt;

And did entreat your highness to this course

Which you are running here.

K. Hen.

Then I mov’d you,

My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave 216

To make this present summons. Unsolicited

I left no reverend person in this court;

But by particular consent proceeded

Under your hands and seals: therefore, go on;

For no dislike i’ the world against the person

Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points

Of my alleged reasons drive this forward.

Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life 224

And kingly dignity, we are contented

To wear our mortal state to come with her,

Katharine our queen, before the primest creature

That’s paragon’d o’ the world.

Cam.

So please your highness, 228

The queen being absent, ’tis a needful fitness

That we adjourn this court till further day:

Mean while must be an earnest motion

Made to the queen, to call back her appeal 232

She intends unto his holiness.

[They rise to depart.

K. Hen.

[Aside.] I may perceive

These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor

This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

My learn’d and well-beloved servant Cranmer,

Prithee, return: with thy approach, I know, 237

My comfort comes along. Break up the court:

I say, set on.

[Exeunt, in manner as they entered.

ACT III.

Scene I.— The Palace at Bridewell. A Room in the Queen’s Apartment.

The Queen and her Women at work.

Q. Kath.

Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles;

Sing and disperse ’em, if thou canst. Leave working.

SONG.

Orpheus with his lute made trees,

And the mountain tops that freeze,  4

Bow themselves, when he did sing:

To his music plants and flowers

Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.  8

Every thing that heard him play,

Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.

In sweet music is such art,  12

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Enter a Gentleman.

Q. Kath.

How now!

Gent.

An’t please your Grace, the two great cardinals 16

Wait in the presence.

Q. Kath.

I know my life so even. If your business

Seek me out, and that way I am wife in,

Out with it boldly: truth loves open dealing.

Wol

Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima,— 40

Q. Kath.

O, good my lord, no Latin;

I am not such a truant since my coming

As not to know the language I have liv’d in:

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; 44

Pray, speak in English: here are some will thank you,

If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ sake:

Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal,

The willing’st sin I ever yet committed 48

May be absolv’d in English.

Wol.

Noble lady,

I am sorry my integrity should breed,—

And service to his majesty and you,—

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant. 52

We come not by the way of accusation,

To taint that honour every good tongue blesses,

Nor to betray you any way to sorrow,

You have too much, good lady; but to know 56

How you stand minded in the weighty difference

Between the king and you; and to deliver,

Like free and honest men, our just opinions

And comforts to your cause.

Cam.

Most honour’d madam, 60

My Lord of York, out of his noble nature,

Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace,

Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure

Both of his truth and him,—which was too far,—

Offers, as I do, in sign of peace, 65

His service and his counsel.

Q. Kath.

[Aside.] To betray me.

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills;

Ye speak like honest men,—pray God, ye prove so!— 68

But how to make ye suddenly an answer,

In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,—

More near my life, I fear,—with my weak wit,

And to such men of gravity and learning, 72

In truth, I know not. I was set at work

Among my maids; full little, God knows, looking

Either for such men or such business.

For her sake that I have been,—for I feel 76

The last fit of my greatness,—good your Graces

Let me have time and counsel for my cause:

Alas! I am a woman, friendless, hopeless.

Wol.

Madam, you wrong the king’s love with these fears: 80

Your hopes and friends are infinite.

Q. Kath.

In England

But little for my profit. Can you think, lords,

That any Englishman dare give me counsel?

Or be a known friend, ’gainst his highness’ pleasure,— 84

Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,—

And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,

They that must weigh out my afflictions, 87

They that my trust must grow to, live not here:

They are, as all my other comforts, far hence

In mine own country, lords.

Cam.

I would your Grace

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

Q Kath.

How, sir?

Cam.

Put your main cause into the king’s protection; 92

He’s loving and most gracious: ’twill be much

Both for your honour better and your cause;

For if the trial of the law o’ertake ye,

You’ll part away disgrac’d.

Wol.

He tells you rightly. 96

Q. Kath.

Ye tell me what ye wish for both; my ruin.

Is this your Christian counsel? out upon ye!

Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge

That no king can corrupt.

Cam.

Your rage mistakes us. 100

Q. Kath.

The more shame for ye! holy men I thought ye,

Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;

But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye.

Mend ’em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? 104

The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady,

A woman lost among ye, laugh’d at, scorn’d?

I will not wish ye half my miseries,

I have more charity; but say, I warn’d ye: 108

Take heed, for heaven’s sake, take heed, lest at once

The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.

Wol.

Madam, this is a mere distraction;

You turn the good we offer into envy. 112

Q. Kath.

Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye,

And all such false professors! Would ye have me,—

If ye have any justice, any pity;

If ye be anything but churchmen’s habits,— 116

Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?

Alas! he has banish’d me his bed already,

His love, too long ago! I am old, my lords,

And all the fellowship I hold now with him 120

Is only my obedience. What can happen

To me above this wretchedness? all your studies

Make me a curse like this.

Cam.

Your fears are worse.

Q. Kath.

Have I liv’d thus long—let me speak myself, 124

Since virtue finds no friends—a wife, a true one?

A woman, I dare say without vain-glory,

Never yet branded with suspicion?

Have I with all my full affections 128

Still met the king? lov’d him next heaven? obey’d him?

Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?

Almost forgot my prayers to content him?

And am I thus rewarded? ’tis not well, lords. 132

Bring me a constant woman to her husband,

One that ne’er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure,

And to that woman, when she has done most,

Yet will I add an honour, a great patience. 136

Wol.

Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

Q. Kath.

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,

To give up willingly that noble title

Your master wed me to: nothing but death 140

Shall e’er divorce my dignities.

Wol.

Pray hear me.

Q. Kath.

Would I had never trod this English earth,

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!

Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts. 144

What will become of me now, wretched lady?

I am the most unhappy woman living.

[To her women.] Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes?

Shipwrack’d upon a kingdom, where no pity, 148

No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me;

Almost no grave allow’d me. Like the lily,

That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d,

I’ll hang my head and perish.

Wol.

If your Grace 152

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,

You’d feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady,

Upon what cause, wrong you? alas! our places,

The way of our profession is against it: 156

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow them.

For goodness’ sake, consider what you do;

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly

Grow from the king’s acquaintance, by this carriage. 160

The hearts of princes kiss obedience,

So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits

They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.

I know you have a gentle, noble temper, 164

A soul as even as a calm: pray think us

Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.

Cam.

Madam, you’ll find it so. You wrong your virtues

With these weak women’s fears: a noble spirit,

As yours was put into you, ever casts 169

Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you;

Beware you lose it not: for us, if you please

To trust us in your business, we are ready 172

To use our utmost studies in your service.

Q. Kath.

Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me

If I have us’d myself unmannerly.

You know I am a woman, lacking wit 176

To make a seemly answer to such persons.

Pray do my service to his majesty:

He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers

While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 180

Bestow your counsels on me: she now begs

That little thought, when she set footing here,

She should have bought her dignities so dear.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Antechamber to the King’s Apartment.

Enter the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.

If you will now unite in your complaints,

And force them with a constancy, the cardinal

Cannot stand under them: if you omit

The offer of this time, I cannot promise 4

But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces

With these you bear already.

Sur.

I am joyful

To meet the least occasion that may give me

Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke, 8

To be reveng’d on him.

Suf.

Which of the peers

Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least

Strangely neglected? when did he regard

The stamp of nobleness in any person, 12

Out of himself?

Cham.

My lords, you speak your pleasures:

What he deserves of you and me, I know;

What we can do to him,—though now the time

Gives way to us,—I much fear. If you cannot 16

Bar his access to the king, never attempt

Any thing on him, for he hath a witchcraft

Over the king in’s tongue.

Nor.

O! fear him not;

His spell in that is out: the king hath found 20

Matter against him that for ever mars

The honey of his language. No, he’s settled,

Not to come off, in his displeasure.

Sur.

Sir,

I should be glad to hear such news as this 24

Once every hour.

Nor.

Believe it, this is true:

In the divorce his contrary proceedings

Are all unfolded; wherein he appears

As I would wish mine enemy.

Sur.

How came 28

His practices to light?

Suf.

Most strangely.

Sur.

O! how? how?

Suf.

The cardinal’s letter to the pope miscarried,

And came to the eye o’ the king; wherein was read,

That the cardinal did entreat his holiness 32

To stay the judgment o’ the divorce; for if

It did take place, ‘I do,’ quoth he, ‘perceive

My king is tangled in affection to

A creature of the queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.’ 36

Sur.

Has the king this?

Suf.

Believe it.

Sur.

Will this work?

Cham.

The king in this perceives him, how he coasts

And hedges his own way. But in this point

All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic

There’s order given for her coronation:

Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left

To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, 48

She is a gallant creature, and complete

In mind and feature: I persuade me, from her

Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall

In it be memoriz’d.

Sur.

But will the king 52

Digest this letter of the cardinal’s?

The Lord forbid!

Nor.

Marry, amen!

Suf.

No, no;

There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose

Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius 56

Is stol’n away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave;

Has left the cause o’ the king unhandled; and

Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal,

To second all his plot. I do assure you 60

The king cried Ha! at this.

Cham.

Now, God incense him,

And let him cry Ha! louder.

Nor.

But, my lord,

When returns Cranmer?

Suf.

He is return’d in his opinions, which 64

Have satisfied the king for his divorce,

Together with all famous colleges

Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe,

His second marriage shall be publish’d, and 68

Her coronation. Katharine no more

Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager,

And widow to Prince Arthur.

Nor.

This same Cranmer’s

A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain 72

In the king’s business.

Suf.

He has; and we shall see him

For it an archbishop.

Nor.

So I hear.

Suf.

’Tis so.

The cardinal!

Enter Wolsey and Cromwell.

Nor.

Observe, observe; he’s moody.

Wol.

The packet, Cromwell, 76

Gave’t you the king?

Crom.

To be her mistress’ mistress! the queen’s queen!

This candle burns not clear: ’tis I must snuff it;

Then, out it goes. What though I know her virtuous

And well deserving? yet I know her for

A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to 100

Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of

Our hard-rul’d king. Again, there is sprung up

A heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one

Hath crawl’d into the favour of the king, 104

And is his oracle.

Nor.

He is vex’d at something.

Sur.

I would ’twere something that would fret the string,

The master-cord on’s heart!

Enter the King, reading a schedule; and Lovell.

Suf.

The king, the king!

K. Hen.

What piles of wealth hath he accumulated 108

To his own portion! and what expense by the hour

Seems to flow from him! How, i’ the name of thrift,

Does he rake this together? Now, my lords,

Saw you the cardinal?

Nor.

My lord, we have 112

Stood here observing him; some strange commotion

Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;

Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,

Then lays his finger on his temple; straight 116

Springs out into fast gait; then stops again,

Strikes his breast hard; and anon he casts

His eye against the moon: in most strange postures

We have seen him set himself.

K. Hen.

It may well be: 120

There is a mutiny in ’s mind. This morning

Papers of state he sent me to peruse,

As I requir’d; and wot you what I found

There, on my conscience, put unwittingly? 124

Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing;

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,

Rich stuffs and ornaments of household, which

I find at such a proud rate that it out-speaks

Possession of a subject.

Nor.

It’s heaven’s will: 129

Some spirit put this paper in the packet

To bless your eye withal.

K. Hen.

If we did think

His contemplation were above the earth, 132

And fix’d on spiritual object, he should still

Dwell in his musings: but I am afraid

His thinkings are below the moon, not worth

His serious considering.

[He takes his seat, and whispers Lovell, who goes to Wolsey.

Wol.

Heaven forgive me! 136

Ever God bless your highness!

K. Hen.

Good my lord,

You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory

Of your best graces in your mind, the which

You were now running o’er: you have scarce time 140

To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span

To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that

I deem you an ill husband, and am glad

To have you therein my companion.

Wol.

Sir, 144

For holy offices I have a time; a time

To think upon the part of business which

I bear i’ the state; and nature does require

Her times of preservation, which perforce 148

I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,

Must give my tendance to.

K. Hen.

You have said well.

Wol.

And ever may your highness yoke together,

As I will lend you cause, my doing well 152

With my well saying!

K. Hen.

’Tis well said again;

And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well:

And yet words are no deeds. My father lov’d you:

He said he did; and with his deed did crown 156

His word upon you. Since I had my office,

I have kept you next my heart; have not alone

Employ’d you where high profits might come home,

But par’d my present havings, to bestow 160

My bounties upon you.

Wol.

[Aside.] What should this mean?

Sur.

[Aside.] The Lord increase this business!

K. Hen.

Have I not made you

The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me

If what I now pronounce you have found true;

And if you may confess it, say withal, 165

If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

Wol.

My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,

Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could 168

My studied purposes requite; which went

Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours

Have ever come too short of my desires,

Yet fil’d with my abilities. Mine own ends 172

Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed

To the good of your most sacred person and

The profit of the state. For your great graces

Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I 176

Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,

My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,

Which ever has and ever shall be growing,

Till death, that winter, kill it.

K. Hen.

Fairly answer’d; 180

A loyal and obedient subject is

Therein illustrated; the honour of it

Does pay the act of it, as, i’ the contrary,

The foulness is the punishment. I presume 184

That as my hand has open’d bounty to you,

My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d honour, more

On you than any; so your hand and heart,

Your brain, and every function of your power,

Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,

As ’twere in love’s particular, be more

To me, your friend, than any.

Wol.

I do profess, 191

That for your highness’ good I ever labour’d

More than mine own; that am, have, and will be.

Though all the world should crack their duty to you,

And throw it from their soul; though perils did

Abound as thick as thought could make ’em, and

Appear in forms more horrid, yet my duty, 197

As doth a rock against the chiding flood,

Should the approach of this wild river break,

And stand unshaken yours.

K. Hen.

’Tis nobly spoken. 200

Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,

For you have seen him open’t. Read o’er this;

[Giving him papers.

And after, this: and then to breakfast with

What appetite you have.

[Exit King, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey; the Nobles throng after him, smiling, and whispering.

Wol.

What should this mean? 204

What sudden anger’s this? how have I reap’d it?

He parted frowning from me, as if ruin

Leap’d from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion

Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him;

Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; 209

I fear, the story of his anger. ’Tis so;

This paper has undone me! ’Tis the account

Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together

For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom,

And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence!

Fit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil

Made me put this main secret in the packet 216

I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?

No new device to beat this from his brains?

I know ’twill stir him strongly; yet I know

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune 220

Will bring me off again. What’s this?—‘To the Pope!’

The letter, as I live, with all the business

I writ to’s holiness. Nay then, farewell!

I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness; 224

And from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,

And no man see me more. 228

Re-enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the Lord Chamberlain.

Nor.

Hear the king’s pleasure, cardinal: who commands you

To render up the great seal presently

Into our hands; and to confine yourself

To Asher-house, my Lord of Winchester’s, 232

Till you hear further from his highness.

Wol.

Stay,

Where’s your commission, lord? words cannot carry

Authority so weighty.

Suf.

Who dare cross ’em,

Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly?

Wol.

Till I find more than will or words to do it, 237

I mean your malice, know, officious lords,

I dare and must deny it. Now I feel

Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy: 240

How eagerly ye follow my disgraces,

As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton

Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin

Follow your envious courses, men of malice; 244

You have Christian warrant for ’em, and, no doubt,

In time will find their fit rewards. That seal

You ask with such a violence, the king—

Mine and your master—with his own hand gave me; 248

Bade me enjoy it with the place and honours

During my life; and to confirm his goodness,

Thy ambition,

Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land 256

Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law:

The heads of all thy brother cardinals—

With thee and all thy best parts bound together—

Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! 260

You sent me deputy for Ireland,

Far from his succour, from the king, from all

That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him; 263

Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,

Absolv’d him with an axe.

Wol.

This and all else

This talking lord can lay upon my credit,

I answer is most false. The duke by law

Found his deserts: how innocent I was 268

From any private malice in his end,

His noble jury and foul cause can witness.

If I lov’d many words, lord, I should tell you,

You have as little honesty as honour, 272

That in the way of loyalty and truth

Toward the king, my ever royal master,

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be,

And all that love his follies.

Sur.

By my soul, 276

Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel

My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else. My lords,

Can ye endure to hear this arrogance?

And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely,

To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, 281

Farewell nobility; let his Grace go forward,

And dare us with his cap like larks.

Wol.

All goodness

Is poison to thy stomach.

Sur.

Yes, that goodness 284

Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one,

Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion;

The goodness of your intercepted packets,

You writ to the pope against the king; your goodness, 288

Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious.

My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,

As you respect the common good, the state

Of our despis’d nobility, our issues, 292

Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,

Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles

Collected from his life; I’ll startle you

Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench 296

Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.

Wol.

How much, methinks, I could despise this man,

But that I am bound in charity against it!

Nor.

Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s hand; 300

But, thus much, they are foul ones.

Wol.

So much fairer

And spotless shall mine innocence arise

When the king knows my truth.

Sur.

This cannot save you:

I thank my memory, I yet remember 304

Some of these articles; and out they shall.

Now, if you can blush, and cry ‘guilty,’ cardinal,

You’ll show a little honesty.

Wol.

Speak on, sir;

I dare your worst objections; if I blush, 308

It is to see a nobleman want manners.

Sur.

I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!

First, that, without the king’s assent or know ledge,

You wrought to be a legate; by which power

You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. 313

Nor.

Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else

To foreign princes, Ego et Rex meus

Was still inscrib’d; in which you brought the king

To be your servant.

Suf.

Then, that without the knowledge 317

Either of king or council, when you went

Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold

To carry into Flanders the great seal. 320

Sur.

Item, you sent a large commission

To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,

Without the king’s will or the state’s allowance,

A league between his highness and Ferrara. 324

Suf.

That, out of mere ambition, you have caus’d

Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin.

Sur.

Then, that you have sent innumerable substance,—

By what means got I leave to your own conscience,— 328

To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways

You have for dignities; to the mere undoing

Of all the kingdom. Many more there are;

Which, since they are of you, and odious, 332

I will not taint my mouth with.

Cham.

O my lord!

Press not a falling man too far; ’tis virtue:

His faults lie open to the laws; let them,

Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him 336

So little of his great self.

Sur.

I forgive him.

Suf.

Lord Cardinal, the king’s further pleasure is,

Because all those things you have done of late,

By your power legatine, within this kingdom,

Fall into the compass of a præmunire, 341

That therefore such a writ be su’d against you;

To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,

Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 344

Out of the king’s protection. This is my charge.

Nor.

And so we’ll leave you to your meditations

How to live better. For your stubborn answer

About the giving back the great seal to us, 348

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.

So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.

[Exeunt all except Wolsey.

Wol.

So farewell to the little good you bear me. 351

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day be puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 356

And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory, 361

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me, and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 364

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate yo:

I feel my heart new open’d. O! how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 372

Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom.

I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.

What! amaz’d

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,

I am fall’n indeed.

Crom.

How does your Grace?

Wol.

Why, well; 377

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities, 380

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur’d me,

I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour: 384

O! ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom.

I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.

Wol.

I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,—

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,— 389

To endure more miseries and greater far

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What news abroad?

Crom.

The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

What, and how true thou art: he will advance thee;

Some little memory of me will stir him—

I know his noble nature—not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide

For thine own future safety.

Crom.

O my lord!

Must I then, leave you? must I needs forego

So good, so noble, and so true a master? 424

Bear witness all that have not hearts of iron,

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.

The king shall have my service; but my prayers

For ever and for ever, shall be yours. 428

Wol.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc’d me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; 432

And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 437

Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 440

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:

By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,

The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t?

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; 444

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues: be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell! 449

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And,—prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have, 452

To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe,

And my integrity to heaven is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal 456

I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Crom.

Good sir, have patience.

Wol.

So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— A Street in Westminster.

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting.

First Gen.

You’re well met once again.

Sec. Gen.

Of those that claim their offices this day

By custom of the coronation. 16

The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims

To be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,

He to be earl marshal: you may read the rest.

Sec. Gen.

I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs, 20

I should have been beholding to your paper.

But, I beseech you, what’s become of Katharine,

The princess dowager? how goes her business?

First Gen.

That I can tell you too. The Archbishop 24

Of Canterbury, accompanied with other

Learned and reverend fathers of his order,

Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off

From Ampthill, where the princess lay; to which 28

She was often cited by them, but appear’d not:

And, to be short, for not appearance and

The king’s late scruple, by the main assent

Of all these learned men she was divorc’d, 32

And the late marriage made of none effect:

Since which she was remov’d to Kimbolton,

Where she remains now sick.

Sec. Gen.

Alas! good lady!

[Trumpets.

The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.

[Hautboys.

The Order of the Coronation.

A lively flourish of trumpets.

1. Two Judges.
2 Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before him.
3. Choristers, singing. [Music.
4. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt copper crown.
5. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the Earl of Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Collars of SS.
6. Duke of Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as high-steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of SS.
7. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports; under it, the Queen in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side of her, the Bishops of London and Winchester.
8. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold, wrought with flowers, bearing the Queen’s train.
9. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers.
They pass over the stage in order and state.

Sec. Gen.

A royal train, believe me. These I know; 37

Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

First Gen.

Marquess Dorset:

And that the Earl of Surrey with the rod.

Sec. Gen.

A bold brave gentleman. That should be 40

The Duke of Suffolk?

First Gen.

’Tis the same; high-steward.

Sec. Gen.

And that my Lord of Norfolk?

First Gen.

Yes.

Sec. Gen.

[Looking on the Queen.] Heaven bless thee!

Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on.

Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; 44

Our king has all the Indies in his arms,

And more and richer, when he strains that lady:

I cannot blame his conscience.

First Gen.

They that bear

The cloth of honour over her, are four barons 48

Of the Cinque-ports.

Sec. Gen.

Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.

I take it, she that carries up the train

Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. 52

First Gen.

It is; and all the rest are countesses.

Sec. Gen.

Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;

And sometimes falling ones.

First Gen.

No more of that.

[Exit Procession, with a great flourish of trumpets.

Enter a third Gentleman.

God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling? 56

Third Gen.

Among the crowd i’ the Abbey; where a finger

Could not be wedg’d in more: I am stifled

With the mere rankness of their joy.

Sec. Gen.

You saw

The ceremony?

Third Gen.

That I did.

First Gen.

How was it? 60

Third Gen

Well worth the seeing.

Sec. Gen.

Good sir, speak it to us.

Third Gen.

As well as I am able. The rich stream

Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen

To a prepar’d place in the choir, fell off 64

A distance from her; while her Grace sat down

To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,

In a rich chair of state, opposing freely

The beauty of her person to the people. 68

Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman

That ever lay by man: which when the people

Had the full view of, such a noise arose

As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, 72

As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks,—

Doublets, I think,—flew up; and had their faces

Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy

I never saw before. Great-bellied women, 76

That had not half a week to go, like rams

In the old time of war, would shake the press,

And make ’em reel before them. No man living

Could say, ‘This is my wife,’ there; all were woven 80

So strangely in one piece.

Sec. Gen.

But, what follow’d?

Third Gen.

At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces

Came to the altar; where she kneel’d, and, saint-like,

Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray’d devoutly. 84

Then rose again and bow’d her to the people:

When by the Archbishop of Canterbury

She had all the royal makings of a queen;

As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown, 88

The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems

Laid nobly on her: which perform’d, the choir,

With all the choicest music of the kingdom,

Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, 92

And with the same full state pac’d back again

To York-place, where the feast is held.

First Gen.

Sir,

You must no more call it York-place, that’s past;

For, since the cardinal fell, that title’s lost: 96

’Tis now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall.

Third Gen.

I know it;

But ’tis so lately alter’d that the old name

Is fresh about me.

Sec. Gen.

What two reverend bishops

Were those that went on each side of the queen? 100

Third Gen.

Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,—

Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary,—

The other, London.

Sec. Gen.

He of Winchester

Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s,

The virtuous Cranmer.

Third Gen.

All the land knows that:

However, yet there’s no great breach; when it comes, 106

Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

Sec. Gen.

Who may that be, I pray you?

Third Gen.

Thomas Cromwell:

A man in much esteem with the king, and truly

A worthy friend. The king

Has made him master o’ the jewel house,

And one, already, of the privy-council. 112

Sec. Gen.

He will deserve more.

Third Gen.

Yes, without all doubt.

Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which

Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests:

Something I can command. As I walk thither,

I’ll tell ye more.

Both.

You may command us, sir. 117

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Kimbolton.

Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick: led between Griffith and Patience.

Grif.

How does your Grace?

Kath.

O Griffith! sick to death!

My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,

Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair:

So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease. 4

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledd’st me,

That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,

Was dead?

Grif.

Yes, madam; but I think your Grace,

Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to’t. 8

Kath.

Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:

If well, he stepp’d before me, happily,

For my example.

Grif.

Well, the voice goes, madam:

For after the stout Earl Northumberland 12

Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,

As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill

He could not sit his mule.

Kath.

Alas! poor man. 16

Grif.

At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester;

Lodg’d in the abbey, where the reverend abbot,

With all his covent, honourably receiv’d him:

To whom he gave these words: ‘O! father abbot, 20

An old man, broken with the storms of state,

Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;

Give him a little earth for charity.’

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness 24

Pursu’d him still; and three nights after this,

About the hour of eight,—which he himself

Foretold should be his last,—full of repentance,

Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, 28

He gave his honours to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Kath.

So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, 32

And yet with charity. He was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking

Himself with princes; one, that by suggestion

Tied all the kingdom; simony was fair-play; 36

His own opinion was his law; i’ the presence

He would say untruths, and be ever double

Both in his words and meaning. He was never,

But where he meant to ruin, pitiful; 40

His promises were, as he then was, mighty;

But his performance, as he is now, nothing:

Of his own body he was ill, and gave

The clergy ill example.

Grif.

Noble madam, 44

Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues

We write in water. May it please your highness

To hear me speak his good now?

Kath.

Yes, good Griffith,

I were malicious else.

Grif.

This cardinal, 48

Though from a humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashion’d to much honour from his cradle.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; 52

Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not;

But, to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

And though he were unsatisfied in getting,—

Which was a sin,—yet in bestowing, madam, 56

He was most princely. Ever witness for him

Those twins of learning that he rais’d in you,

Ipswich, and Oxford! one of which fell with him,

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; 60

The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous,

So excellent in art, and still so rising,

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.

His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him; 64

For then, and not till then, he felt himself,

And found the blessedness of being little:

And, to add greater honours to his age

Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

Kath.

After my death I wish no other herald,

No other speaker of my living actions,

To keep mine honour from corruption,

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. 72

Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,

With thy religious truth and modesty,

Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him!

Patience, be near me still; and set me lower: 76

I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,

Cause the musicians play me that sad note

I nam’d my knell, whilst I sit meditating

On that celestial harmony I go to. 80

[Sad and solemn music.

Grif.

She is asleep: good wench, let’s sit down quiet,

For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.

They promis’d me eternal happiness,

And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel

I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall assuredly.

Grif.

I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams 93

Possess your fancy.

Kath.

Bid the music leave,

They are harsh and heavy to me.

[Musicceases.

Pat.

Do you note

How much her Grace is alter’d on the sudden?

How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, 97

And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!

Grif.

She is going, wench. Pray, pray.

Pat.

Heaven comfort her! 100

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.

An’t like your Grace,—

Kath.

You are a saucy fellow:

Deserve we no more reverence?

Grif.

You are to blame,

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,

To use so rude behaviour; go to, kneel. 104

Mess.

I humbly do entreat your highness pardon;

My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying

A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.

Kath.

Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow 108

Let me ne’er see again.

[Exeunt Griffith and Messenger.

Re-enter Griffith, with Capucius.

If my sight fail not,

You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,

My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.

Cap

Madam, the same; your servant.

Kath.

O my lord! 112

The times and titles now are alter’d strangely

With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,

What is your pleasure with me?

Cap.

Noble lady,

First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, 116

The king’s request that I would visit you;

Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me

Sends you his princely commendations,

And heartily entreats you take good comfort. 120

Kath.

O! my good lord, that comfort comes too late;

’Tis like a pardon after execution:

That gentle physic, given in time, had cur’d me;

But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.

How does his highness?

Cap.

Madam, in good health. 125

Kath.

So may he ever do! and ever flourish,

When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name

Banish’d the kingdom. Patience, is that letter

I caus’d you write, yet sent away?

Pat.

No, madam. 129

[Giving it to Katharine.

Kath.

Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the king.

Cap.

Most willing, madam.

Kath.

In which I have commended to his goodness 132

The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter:

The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!

Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding,—

She is young, and of a noble modest nature, 136

I hope she will deserve well,—and a little

To love her for her mother’s sake, that lov’d him,

Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition

Is, that his noble Grace would have some pity

Upon my wretched women, that so long 141

Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully:

Of which there is not one, I dare avow,—

And now I should not lie,—but will deserve, 144

For virtue, and true beauty of the soul,

For honesty and decent carriage,

A right good husband, let him be a noble;

And, sure, those men are happy that shall have ’em. 148

The last is, for my men: they are the poorest,

But poverty could never draw ’em from me;

That they may have their wages duly paid ’em,

And something over to remember me by: 152

If heaven had pleas’d to have given me longer life

And able means, we had not parted thus.

These are the whole contents: and, good my lord,

By that you love the dearest in this world, 156

As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,

Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king

To do me this last right.

Cap.

By heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man! 160

Kath.

I thank you, honest lord. Remember me

In all humility unto his highness:

Say his long trouble now is passing

Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless’d him; 164

For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,

My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,

You must not leave me yet: I must to bed;

Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, 168

Let me be us’d with honour: strew me over

With maiden flowers, that all the world may know

I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,

Then lay me forth: although unqueen’d, yet like 172

A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.

I can no more.

[Exeunt, leading Katharine.

ACT V.

Scene I.— London. A Gallery in the Palace.

Enter Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Lovell.

Gar.

That seeks dispatch by day.

Lov.

My lord, I love you, 16

And durst commend a secret to your ear

Much weightier than this work. The queen’s in labour,

They say, in great extremity; and fear’d

She’ll with the labour end.

Gar.

The fruit she goes with 20

I pray for heartily, that it may find

Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,

I wish it grubb’d up now.

Lov.

Methinks I could

Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says 24

She’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does

Deserve our better wishes.

Gar.

But, sir, sir,

Hear me, Sir Thomas: you’re a gentleman

Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;

And, let me tell you, it will ne’er be well, 29

’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take ’t of me,

Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,

Sleep in their graves.

Lov.

Now, sir, you speak of two 32

The most remark’d i’ the kingdom. As for Cromwell,

Beside that of the jewel-house, is made master

O’ the rolls, and the king’s secretary; further, sir,

Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,

With which the time will load him. The archbishop 37

Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak

One syllable against him?

Gar.

Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,

There are that dare; and I myself have ventur’d

To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,

Sir,—I may tell it you,—I think I have

Incens’d the lords o’ the council that he is—

For so I know he is, they know he is— 44

A most arch heretic, a pestilence

That does infect the land: with which they mov’d

Have broken with the king; who hath so far

Given ear to our complaint,—of his great grace

And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs

Our reasons laid before him,—hath commanded

To-morrow morning to the council-board 51

He be convented. He’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas,

And we must root him out. From your affairs

I hinder you too long: good-night, Sir Thomas!

Lov.

Many good-nights, my lord. I rest your servant.

[Exeunt Gardiner and Page.

Enter the King and Suffolk.

K. Hen.

Charles, I will play no more to-night; 56

My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.

Suf.

Sir, I did never win of you before.

K. Hen.

But little, Charles;

Nor shall not when my fancy’s on my play. 60

Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?

Lov.

I could not personally deliver to her

What you commanded me, but by her woman

I sent your message; who return’d her thanks 64

In the great’st humbleness, and desir’d your highness

Most heartily to pray for her.

K Hen.

What sayst thou, ha?

To pray for her? what! is she crying out?

Lov.

So said her woman; and that her sufferance made 68

Almost each pang a death.

K. Hen.

Alas! good lady.

Suf.

God safely quit her of her burden, and

With gentle travail, to the gladding of

Your highness with an heir!

K. Hen.

’Tis midnight, Charles; 72

Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember

The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;

For I must think of that which company

Would not be friendly to.

Suf.

I wish your highness 76

A quiet night; and my good mistress will

Remember in my prayers.

K. Hen.

Charles, good-night.

[Exit Suffolk.

Enter Sir Anthony Denny.

Well, Sir, what follows?

Den.

Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop, 80

Lov.

[Aside.] This is about that which the bishop spake: 84

I am happily come hither.

Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer.

K. Hen.

Avoid the gallery.

[Lovell seems to stay.

Ha! I have said. Begone.

What!—

[Exeunt Lovell and Denny.

Cran.

I am fearful. Wherefore frowns he thus? 88

’Tis his aspect of terror: all’s not well.

K. Hen.

How now, my lord! You do desire to know

Wherefore I sent for you.

Cran.

[Kneeling.] It is my duty

To attend your highness’ pleasure.

K. Hen.

Pray you, arise,

My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. 93

Come, you and I must walk a turn together;

I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your hand.

Ah! my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, 96

And am right sorry to repeat what follows.

I have, and most unwillingly, of late

Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord,

Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider’d, 100

Have mov’d us and our council, that you shall

This morning come before us; where, I know,

You cannot with such freedom purge yourself,

But that, till further trial in those charges 104

Which will require your answer, you must take

Your patience to you, and be well contented

To make your house our Tower: you a brother of us,

It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness 108

Would come against you.

Cran.

[Kneeling.] I humbly thank your highness;

And am right glad to catch this good occasion

Most throughly to be winnow’d, where my chaff

And corn shall fly asunder; for I know 112

There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues

Than I myself, poor man.

K. Hen.

Stand up, good Canterbury:

Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted

In us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up:

Prithee, let’s walk. Now, by my holidame, 117

What manner of man are you? My lord, I look’d

You would have given me your petition, that

I should have ta’en some pains to bring together 120

Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,

Without indurance, further.

Cran.

Most dread liege,

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty:

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies, 124

Will triumph o’er my person; which I weigh not,

Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing

What can be said against me.

K. Hen.

Know you not

How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole world? 128

Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices

Must bear the same proportion; and not ever

The justice and the truth o’ the question carries

The due o’ the verdict with it. At what ease 132

Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt

To swear against you? such things have been done.

You are potently oppos’d, and with a malice

Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, 136

I mean in perjur’d witness, than your master,

Whose minister you are, whiles here he liv’d

Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;

You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 140

And woo your own destruction.

Cran.

God and your majesty

Protect mine innocence! or I fall into

The trap is laid for me!

K. Hen.

Be of good cheer;

They shall no more prevail than we give way to. 144

Keep comfort to you; and this morning see

You do appear before them. If they shall chance,

In charging you with matters, to commit you,

The best persuasions to the contrary 148

Fail not to use, and with what vehemency

The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties

Will render you no remedy, this ring

Deliver them, and your appeal to us 152

There make before them. Look! the good man weeps;

He’s honest, on mine honour. God’s blest mother!

I swear he is true-hearted; and a soul

None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, 156

And do as I have bid you. [Exit Cranmer.] He has strangled

His language in his tears.

Enter an Old Lady.

Gent.

[Within.] Come back: what mean you?

Old L.

I’ll not come back; the tidings that I bring 160

Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels

Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person

Under their blessed wings!

K. Hen.

Now, by thy looks

I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver’d?

Say, ay; and of a boy.

Old L.

Ay, ay, my liege; 165

And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven

Both now and ever bless her! ’tis a girl,

Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen 168

Desires your visitation, and to be

Acquainted with this stranger: ’tis as like you

As cherry is to cherry.

K. Hen.

Lovell!

Re-enter Lovell.

Lov.

Sir!

K. Hen.

Give her a hundred marks. I’ll to the queen.

[Exit.

Old L.

A hundred marks! By this light, I’ll ha’ more. 173

An ordinary groom is for such payment:

I will have more, or scold it out of him.

Said I for this the girl was like to him? 176

I will have more, or else unsay’t; and now,

While it is hot, I’ll put it to the issue.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— The Lobby before the Council-Chamber.

Enter Cranmer; Pursuivants, Pages, &c., attending.

Cran.

I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,

That was sent to me from the council, pray’d me

To make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!

Who waits there?

Enter Keeper.

Sure, you know me?

Keep.

Yes, my lord; 4

But yet I cannot help you.

Cran.

Why?

Keep.

Your Grace must wait till you be call’d for.

Enter Doctor Butts.

Cran.

So.

Butts.

[Aside.] This is a piece of malice. I am glad

I came this way so happily: the king 8

Shall understand it presently.

Cran.

[Aside.] ’Tis Butts,

The king’s physician. As he past along,

How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me.

Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For certain, 12

This is of purpose laid by some that hate me,—

God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice,—

To quench mine honour: they would shame to make me

Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor, 16

’Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures

Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience.

Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants,

Pages, and footboys.

K. Hen.

Ha! ’Tis he, indeed: 24

Is this the honour they do one another?

’Tis well there’s one above ’em yet. I had thought

They had parted so much honesty among ’em,—

At least, good manners,—as not thus to suffer 28

A man of his place, and so near our favour,

To dance attendance on their lordships’ pleasures,

And at the door too, like a post with packets.

By holy Mary, Butts, there’s knavery: 32

Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close;

We shall hear more anon.

[Exeunt above.

Scene III.— The Council-Chamber.

Enter the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Suffolk, the Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, Lord Chamberlain, Gardiner, and Cromwell. The Chancellor places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand; a seat being left void above him, as for the Archbishop of Canterbury. The rest seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at the lower end as secretary. Keeper at the door.

Chan.

Speak to the business, Master secretary:

Why are we met in council?

Crom.

Please your honours,

The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.

Gar.

Has he had knowledge of it?

Crom.

Yes.

Nor.

Who waits there? 4

Keep.

Without, my noble lords?

Gar.

Yes.

Keep.

My lord archbishop:

And has done half-an-hour, to know your pleasures.

Chan.

Let him come in.

Keep.

Your Grace may enter now.

[Cranmer enters and approaches the council-table.

Chan.

My good lord archbishop, I’m very sorry 8

To sit here at this present and behold

That chair stand empty: but we all are men,

In our own natures frail, and capable

Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty

And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, 13

Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little,

Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling

The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,— 16

For so we are inform’d,—with new opinions,

Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,

And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious.

Gar.

Which reformation must be sudden too,

My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses

Pace ’em not in their hands to make ’em gentle,

But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur ’em,

Till they obey the manage. If we suffer— 24

Out of our easiness and childish pity

To one man’s honour—this contagious sickness,

Farewell all physic: and what follows then?

Commotions, uproars, with a general taint 28

Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,

The upper Germany, can dearly witness,

Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

Cran.

My good lords, hitherto in all the progress 32

Both of my life and office, I have labour’d,

And with no little study, that my teaching

And the strong course of my authority

Might go one way, and safely; and the end 36

Was ever, to do well: nor is there living,—

I speak it with a single heart, my lords,—

A man that more detests, more stirs against,

Both in his private conscience and his place, 40

Defacers of a public peace, than I do.

Pray heaven the king may never find a heart

With less allegiance in it! Men, that make

Envy and crooked malice nourishment 44

Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships

That, in this case of justice, my accusers,

Be what they will, may stand forth face to face,

And freely urge against me.

Suf.

Nay, my lord, 48

That cannot be: you are a counsellor,

And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.

Gar.

My lord, because we have business of more moment,

We will be short with you. ’Tis his highness’ pleasure, 52

And our consent, for better trial of you,

From hence you be committed to the Tower;

Where, being but a private man again,

You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,

More than, I fear, you are provided for. 57

Cran.

Ah! my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;

You are always my good friend: if your will pass,

I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,

You are so merciful. I see your end; 61

’Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,

Become a churchman better than ambition:

Win straying souls with modesty again, 64

Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,

Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,

I make as little doubt, as you do conscience,

In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, 68

But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

Gar.

My lord, my lord, you are a sectary;

That’s the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,

To men that understand you, words and weakness. 72

Crom.

My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,

By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,

However faulty, yet should find respect

For what they have been: ’tis a cruelty 76

To load a falling man.

Gar.

Good Master secretary,

I cry your honour mercy, you may, worst

Of all this table, say so.

Crom.

Why, my lord?

Gar.

Do not I know you for a favourer 80

Of this new sect? ye are not sound.

Crom.

Not sound?

Gar.

Not sound, I say.

Crom.

Would you were half so honest!

Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

Gar.

I shall remember this bold language.

Crom.

Do. 84

Remember your bold life too.

Chan.

This is too much;

Forbear, for shame, my lords.

Gar.

I have done.

Crom.

And I.

Chan.

Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith 88

You be convey’d to the Tower a prisoner;

There to remain till the king’s further pleasure

Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?

All.

We are.

Cran.

Is there no other way of mercy,

But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

Gar.

What other 93

Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.

Let some o’ the guard be ready there.

Enter Guard.

Cran.

For me?

Must I go like a traitor thither?

Gar.

Receive him, 96

And see him safe i’ the Tower.

Cran.

Stay, good my lords;

I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;

By virtue of that ring I take my cause

Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it 100

To a most noble judge, the king my master.

Chan.

This is the king’s ring.

Sur.

’Tis no counterfeit.

Suf.

’Tis the right ring, by heaven! I told ye all,

When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,

’Twould fall upon ourselves.

Nor.

Do you think, my lords, 105

The king will suffer but the little finger

Of this man to be vex’d?

Cham.

’Tis now too certain:

How much more is his life in value with him?

Would I were fairly out on’t.

Crom.

My mind gave me, 109

In seeking tales and informations

Against this man—whose honesty the devil

And his disciples only envy at— 112

Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

Enter the King, frowning on them: he takes his seat.

Gar.

Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven

In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;

Not only good and wise, but most religious: 116

One that in all obedience makes the Church

The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen

That holy duty, out of dear respect,

His royal self in judgment comes to hear 120

The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

K. Hen.

You were ever good at sudden commendations,

Bishop of Winchester; but know, I come not

To hear such flattery now, and in my presence;

They are too thin and bare to hide offences. 125

To me you cannot reach; you play the spaniel,

And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;

But, whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure 128

Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.

[To Cranmer.] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:

By all that’s holy, he had better starve 132

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

Sur.

May it please your Grace,—

K. Hen.

No, sir, it does not please me.

I had thought I had had men of some understanding

And wisdom of my council; but I find none. 136

Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,

This good man,—few of you deserve that title,—

This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy

At chamber-door? and one as great as you are?

Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission 141

Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye

Power as he was a counsellor to try him,

Not as a groom. There’s some of ye, I see, 144

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;

Which ye shall never have while I live.

Chan.

Thus far,

My most dread sov’reign, may it like your Grace 148

To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos’d

Concerning his imprisonment, was rather—

If there be faith in men—meant for his trial

And fair purgation to the world, than malice, 152

I’m sure, in me.

K. Hen.

Well, well, my lords, respect him;

Take him, and use him well; he’s worthy of it.

I will say thus much for him, if a prince

May be beholding to a subject, I 156

Am, for his love and service, so to him.

Make me no more ado, but all embrace him:

Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury,

I have a suit which you must not deny me; 160

That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,

You must be godfather, and answer for her.

Cran.

The greatest monarch now alive may glory

In such an honour: how may I deserve it, 164

That am a poor and humble subject to you?

K. Hen.

Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will these please you? 169

Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,

Embrace and love this man.

Gar.

With a true heart

And brother-love I do it.

Cran.

And let heaven 172

Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.

K. Hen.

Good man! those joyful tears show thy true heart:

The common voice, I see, is verified

Of thee, which says thus, ‘Do my Lord of Canterbury 176

A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.’

Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long

To have this young one made a Christian.

How got they in, and be hang’d?

Man.

Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot— 20

You see the poor remainder—could distribute,

I made no spare, sir.

Port.

You did nothing, sir.

Man.

I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,

To mow ’em down before me; but if I spar’d any

That had a head to hit, either young or old, 25

He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,

Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again;

And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

[Within.] Do you hear, Master porter? 29

Port.

I shall be with you presently, good

Master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man.

What would you have me do? 32

Port.

What should you do, but knock ’em down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather, and all together. 40

Man.

The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog days now reign in’s nose: all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me: he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out, ‘Clubs!’ when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o’ the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to the broomstaff to me; I defied ’em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely. 64

Port.

These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the Limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come. 72

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham.

Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!

They grow still too, from all parts they are coming,

As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,

These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows: 76

There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these

Your faithful friends o’ the suburbs? We shall have

Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,

When they pass back from the christening.

Port.

An’t please your honour, 80

We are but men; and what so many may do,

Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:

An army cannot rule ’em.

Cham.

As I live,

If the king blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all 84

By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads

Clap round fines for neglect: ye’re lazy knaves;

And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when

Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; 88

They’re come already from the christening.

Go, break among the press, and find a way out

To let the troop pass fairly, or I’ll find

A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. 92

Port.

Make way there for the princess.

Man.

You great fellow,

Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

Port.

You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail:

I’ll pick you o’er the pales else.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.— The Palace.

Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk, with his marshal’s staff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening gifts; then, four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child, richly habited in a mantle, &c., train borne by a Lady; then follows the Marchioness of Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks.

Gart.

Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth! 4

Flourish. Enter King and Train.

Cran.

[Kneeling.] And to your royal Grace, and the good queen,

My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:

All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,

Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, 8

May hourly fall upon ye!

K. Hen.

Thank you, good lord archbishop:

What is her name?

Cran.

Elizabeth.

K. Hen.

Stand up, lord.

[The King kisses the Child.

With this kiss take my blessing; God protect thee!

Into whose hand I give thy life.

Cran.

Amen. 12

K. Hen.

My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:

I thank ye heartily: so shall this lady

When she has so much English.

Cran.

Let me speak, sir,

For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter 16

Let none think flattery, for they’ll find ’em truth.

This royal infant,—heaven still move about her!—

Though in her cradle, yet now promises

Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,

Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be—

But few now living can behold that goodness—

A pattern to all princes living with her,

And all that shall succeed: Saba was never 24

More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue

Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,

That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,

With all the virtues that attend the good, 28

Shall still be doubled on her; truth shall nurse her;

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her;

She shall be lov’d and fear’d; her own shall bless her;

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 32

And hang their heads with sorrow; good grows with her.

In her days every man shall eat in safety

Under his own vine what he plants; and sing

The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.

God shall be truly known; and those about her

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,

And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when

The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phœnix, 41

Her ashes new-create another heir

As great in admiration as herself,

So shall she leave her blessedness to one,— 44

When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,—

Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour,

Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,

And so stand fix’d. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 48

That were the servants to this chosen infant,

Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:

Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,

His honour and the greatness of his name 52

Shall be, and make new nations; he shall flourish,

And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches

To all the plains about him; our children’s children

Shall see this, and bless heaven.

K. Hen.

Thou speakest wonders.

Cran.

She shall be, to the happiness of England, 57

An aged princess; many days shall see her,

And yet no day without a deed to crown it.

Would I had known no more! but she must die,

She must, the saints must have her, yet a virgin;

A most unspotted lily shall she pass

To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.

K. Hen.

O lord archbishop! 64

Thou hast made me now a man: never, before

This happy child, did I get any thing.

This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me,

That when I am in heaven, I shall desire 68

To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.

I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor,

And your good brethren, I am much beholding;

I have receiv’d much honour by your presence,

And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords: 73

Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye;

She will be sick else. This day, no man think

He has business at his house; for all shall stay:

This little one shall make it holiday.

[Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

’Tis ten to one, this play can never please

All that are here: some come to take their ease

And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,

We’ve frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear

They’ll say ’tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abus’d extremely, and to cry, ‘That’s witty!’

Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,

All the expected good we’re like to hear 8

For this play at this time, is only in

The merciful construction of good women;

For such a one we show’d ’em: if they smile,

And say ’twill do, I know, within a while 12

All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap

If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap.

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.

ACT I.

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,

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

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:

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

Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pan.

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

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

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

[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,

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,

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;

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.

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

[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.

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.

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.

[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.

Wherefore should you so? 244

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.

I must needs praise him.

Serv.

The Lord be praised! 8

Pan.

You know me, do you not?

Serv.

Faith, sir, superficially.

Pan.

Pan.

Pan.

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

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!

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.

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;

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.

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?

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

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.

Cres.

Are you aweary of me?

Tro.

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?

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,

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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,

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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

Ulyss.

My lord,—

Tro.

I will be patient; outwardly I will.

Cres.

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.

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

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.

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,

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

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.

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:

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.

All.

No more talking on’t; let it be done.

Soft! who comes here? 52

Enter Menenius Agrippa.

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

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

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

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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,

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

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,

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

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.

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,

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,

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

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.

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.

[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.

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

Third Serv.

What fellow’s this? 20

First Serv.

A strange one as ever I looked on:

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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,—

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,

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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;

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

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:

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?

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.

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

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,

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

O! that which I would hide from heaven’s eye, 60

Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s disgrace!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Gre.

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.

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.

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;

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.

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

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.

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,

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,

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.

Romeo and Juliet, by W. Miller.

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,

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!

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,

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

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,

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;

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!

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.

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,

[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,

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,

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.

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.

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.

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

Help, help! Call help.

Enter Capulet.

Cap.

For shame! bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

Nurse.

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

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:

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,

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.

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.

But what particular rarity? what strange, 4

Which manifold record not matches? See,

Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power

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.

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

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,

Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!

Apem.

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

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.

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!

[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!

Here comes the lord!

Enter Timon, Alcibiades, and Lords, &c.

Tim.

So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again,

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.

Apem.

[Exit Page.

Apem.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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:

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.

A thousand pieces! 24

First Lord.

What of you?

Third Lord

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

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.

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:

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:

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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,

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,

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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:

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.

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;

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

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,

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,

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.

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.

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

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

O my dear brother! 232

This was an ill beginning of the night:

Never come such division ’tween our souls!

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.

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?

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.

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

Oct.

Stir not until the signal.

Bru.

Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?

Oct.

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.

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.

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

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.

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:

Lady M.

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,

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

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.

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

’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

Ross.

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,

Macbeth, by R. Westall.

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!

’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

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

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.

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,

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;

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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,

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

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,—

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.

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.

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.

One fair daughter and no more,

The which he loved passing well. 436

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—

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,

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.

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

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,

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.

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.

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

For if the king like not the comedy,

Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy.

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;

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;

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

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,

Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Ros.

Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence

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

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

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

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.

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

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

Hamlet, by Henrietta Rae.

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,

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,

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.

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.

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

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.

Mine, sir,

O! a pit of clay for to be made 128

For such a guest is meet.

[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,

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

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

She well instructs me.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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,

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

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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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

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

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,

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.

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.

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

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.

‘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.

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.

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.

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;

[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.

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?

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;

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,

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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,

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

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!

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

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

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

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:

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;

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.

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,

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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

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

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.

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;

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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;

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.

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 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

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.

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

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.

O! is that all? What will you give me now

For that same handkerchief?

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

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

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,

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.

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

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

Come, come;

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

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;

Bian.

’Tis very good; I must be circumstanc’d.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Scene I.— Cyprus. Before the Castle.

Enter Othello and Iago.

Iago.

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,

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.

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

Now he importunes him

To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said.

Iago.

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.

Oth.

[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

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;

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

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.

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?

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

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,

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.

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

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

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.

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.

Iago.

What are you here that cry so grievously? 53

Cas.

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!

[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

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,

Ay, I do.

Des.

Then heaven 33

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;

Des.

O! my fear interprets. What! is he dead?

Oth.

Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge

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.

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,

Emil.

O! the more angel she,

And you the blacker devil. 129

Oth.

She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore.

Emil.

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,

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?

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

Char.

Not he; the queen.

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;

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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.

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

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

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:

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

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.

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.

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

Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain, 44

And bear me speak a word.

Pom.

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,

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

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

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

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,

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.

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

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.

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.

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,

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,

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.

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.

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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.

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.

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,

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,

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,

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,

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.

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

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.

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’ll attend your lordship. 44

Clo.

Nay, come, let’s go together.

Sec. Lord.

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.

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

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.

[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!

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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;

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.

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,

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,

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.

The worst of all her scholars, my good lord.

Sim.

Let me ask you one thing. 32

[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;

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.

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,

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.

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.

[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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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,

I am the governor of this place you lie before.

Hel.

Sir,

Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;

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

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.

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

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.

THE SHAKESPEARE MEMORIAL THEATRE STRATFORD ON AVON, [Editor: illegible text] by W. W. Quatremain

POEMS

VENUS AND ADONIS

‘Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.’

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

Right Honourable,

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden: only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart’s content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world’s hopeful expectation.

Your honour’s in all duty,

William Shakespeare.

Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face

Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,

Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase;

Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn;

Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,  5

And like a bold-fac’d suitor ’gins to woo him.

‘Thrice fairer than myself,’ thus she began,

‘The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare,  8

Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,

More white and red than doves or roses are;

Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,

Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.  12

‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed

A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:  16

Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses;

And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses:

‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety,

But rather famish them amid their plenty,  20

Making them red and pale with fresh variety;

Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:

A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,

Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’  24

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,

The precedent of pith and livelihood,

And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,

Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good:  28

Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force

Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein,

Under her other was the tender boy,  32

Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain,

With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,

He red for shame, but frosty in desire.  36

The studded bridle on a ragged bough

Nimbly she fastens;—O! how quick is love:—

The steed is stalled up, and even now

To tie the rider she begins to prove:  40

Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust,

And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along, as he was down,

Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:  44

Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,

And ’gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;

And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,

‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears

Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;

Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs

To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:  52

He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;

What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,  57

Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone;

Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his chin,

And where she ends she doth anew begin.  60

Forc’d to content, but never to obey,

Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;

She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,

And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;  64

Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,

So they were dew’d with such distilling showers.

Look! how a bird lies tangled in a net,

So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies;  68

Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret,

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:

Rain added to a river that is rank

Perforce will force it overflow the bank.  72

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;

Still is he sullen, still he lowers and frets,

’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale;  76

Being red, she loves him best; and being white,

Her best is better’d with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;

And by her fair immortal hand she swears,  80

From his soft bosom never to remove,

Till he take truce with her contending tears,

Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet;

And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt,  84

Upon this promise did he raise his chin

Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,

Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in;

So offers he to give what she did crave;  88

But when her lips were ready for his pay,

He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat

More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.  92

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:

‘O! pity,’ ’gan she cry, ‘flint-hearted boy:

’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?  96

‘I have been woo’d, as I entreat thee now,

Even by the stern and direful god of war,

Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,

Who conquers where he comes in every jar;  100

Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,

And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have.

‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance,

His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest,  104

And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance,

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest;

Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,

Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

‘Thus he that overrul’d I oversway’d,  109

Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:

Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obey’d,

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.  112

O! be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

For mastering her that foil’d the god of fight.

‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,—

Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red,—

The kiss shall be thine own as weil as mine:  117

What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:

Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;

Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?  120

‘Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again,

And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;

Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;

Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:  124

These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean

Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

‘The tender spring upon thy tempting lip

Shows thee unripe, yet mayst thou well be tasted.  128

Make use of time, let not advantage slip;

Beauty within itself should not be wasted:

Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime  131

Rot and consume themselves in little time.

‘Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old,

Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,

O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,

Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;  137

But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

‘Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;

Mine eyes are grey and bright, and quick in turning;  140

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow;

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;

My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,

Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,  145

Or like a fairy trip upon the green,

Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:

Love is a spirit all compact of fire,  149

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;

These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;  152

Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,

From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:

Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be

That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?

Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?

Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,

Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.  160

Narcissus so himself himself forsook,

And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,

Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,  164

Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;

Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse:

Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;

Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.  168

‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,

Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?

By law of nature thou art bound to breed,

That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;

And so in spite of death thou dost survive,  173

In that thy likeness still is left alive.’

By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,

For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,  176

And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,

With burning eye did hotly overlook them;

Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,

So he were like him and by Venus’ side.  180

And now Adonis with a lazy spright,

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,

His louring brows o’er whelming his fair sight,

Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,  184

Souring his cheeks, cries, ‘Fie! no more of love:

The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.’

‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young, and so unkind?

What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone;  188

I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind

Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:

I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;

If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.  192

‘The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,

And lo! I lie between that sun and thee:

The heat I have from thence doth little harm,

Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;

And were I not immortal, life were done  197

Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

‘Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?

Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.  200

Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel

What ’tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?

O! had thy mother borne so hard a mind,

She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.  204

‘What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?

Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?

What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?

Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:  208

Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,

And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.

‘Fie! lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,

Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,  212

Statue contenting but the eye alone,

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:

Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,

For men will kiss even by their own direction.’

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,  217

And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;

Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong;

Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:

And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,  221

And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand;

Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;  224

Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:

She would, he will not in her arms be bound;

And when from thence he struggles to be gone,

She locks her lily fingers one in one.  228

‘Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here

Within the circuit of this ivory pale,

I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;

Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:

Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,  233

Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

‘Within this limit is relief enough,

Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,

Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,  237

To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:

Then be my deer, since I am such a park;

No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’  240

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:

Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,

He might be buried in a tomb so simple;  244

Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,

Why, there Love liv’d and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,

Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.

Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?

Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?  250

Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,

To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?

Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;  254

The time is spent, her object will away,

And from her twining arms doth urge releasing:

‘Pity,’ she cries; ‘some favour, some remorse!’  257

Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,

A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,  260

Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,

And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:

The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree,

Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,  265

And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;

The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,

Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;  268

The iron bit he crushes ’tween his teeth,

Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick’d; his braided hanging mane  271

Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end;

His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,

As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:

His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,

Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,  277

With gentle majesty and modest pride;

Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,

As who should say, ‘Lo! thus my strength is tried;  280

And this I do to captivate the eye

Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,

His flattering ‘Holla,’ or his ‘Stand, I say?’  284

What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?

For rich caparisons or trapping gay?

He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,

Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,

In limning out a well-proportion’d steed,

His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,

As if the dead the living should exceed;  292

So did this horse excel a common one,

In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,

Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,  296

High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,

Save a proud rider on so proud a back.  300

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;

Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;

To bid the wind a base he now prepares,

And whe’r he run or fly they know not whether;

For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,  305

Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;

She answers him as if she knew his mind;  308

Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,

She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,

Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,

Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,  313

He vails his tail that, like a falling plume

Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:

He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.

His love, perceiving how he is enrag’d,  317

Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d.

His testy master goeth about to take him;

When lo! the unback’d breeder, full of fear,  320

Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,

With her the horse, and left Adonis there.

As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,

Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.  324

All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,

Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:

And now the happy season once more fits,

That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;

For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong

When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d,

Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:

So of concealed sorrow may be said;  333

Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;

But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,

The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.  336

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,—

Even as a dying coal revives with wind,—

And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;

Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,

Taking no notice that she is so nigh,  341

For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O! what a sight it was, wistly to view

How she came stealing to the wayward boy;

To note the fighting conflict of her hue,  345

How white and red each other did destroy:

But now her cheek was pale, and by and by

It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,  349

And like a lowly lover down she kneels;

With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,

Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:  352

His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s print,

As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O! what a war of looks was then between them;

Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;  356

His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;

Her eyes woo’d still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing:

And all this dumb play had his acts made plain

With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.  360

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,

A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow,

Or ivory in an alabaster band;

So white a friend engirts so white a foe:  364

This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,

Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:

‘O fairest mover on this mortal round,  368

Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;

For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,

Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure thee.’  372

‘Give me my hand,’ saith he, ‘why dost thou feel it?’

‘Give me my heart,’ saith she, ‘and thou shalt have it;

O! give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,

And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it:

Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard,

Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.’

‘For shame,’ he cries, ‘let go, and let me go;

My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone,  380

And ’tis your fault I am bereft him so:

I pray you hence, and leave me here alone:

For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,

Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.’  384

Thus she replies: ‘Thy palfrey, as he should,

Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:

Affection is a coal that must be cool’d;

Else, suffer’d, it will set the heart on fire:  388

The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;

Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.

‘How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,

Servilely master’d with a leathern rein!  392

But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee,

He held such petty bondage in disdain;

Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,

Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.  396

‘Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,  397

Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,

But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,

His other agents aim at like delight?  400

Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold

To touch the fire, the weather being cold?

‘Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;

And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,  404

To take advantage on presented joy;

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee.

O learn to love; the lesson is but plain,

And once made perfect, never lost again.’  408

‘I know not love,’ quoth he, ‘nor will not know it,

Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;

’Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;

My love to love is love but to disgrace it;  412

For I have heard it is a life in death,

That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.

‘Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d?

Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?

If springing things be any jot diminish’d,  417

They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:

The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being young

Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.  420

‘You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,

And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:

Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;

To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate:  424

Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;

For where a heart is hard, they make no battery.’

‘What! canst thou talk?’ quoth she, ‘hast thou a tongue?

O! would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing;

Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong;  429

I had my load before, now press’d with hearing:

Melodious discord, heavenly tune, harsh-sounding,

Ear’s deep-sweet music, and heart’s deep-sore wounding.  432

‘Had I no eyes, but ears, my ears would love

That inward beauty and invisible;

Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move

Each part in me that were but sensible:  436

Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,

Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

‘Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,

And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,

And nothing but the very smell were left me,

Yet would my love to thee be still as much;

For from the still’tory of thy face excelling

Comes breath perfum’d that breedeth love by smelling.  444

‘But O! what banquet wert thou to the taste,

Being nurse and feeder of the other four;

Would they not wish the feast might ever last,

And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,  448

Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,

Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?’

Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d,

Which to his speech did honey passage yield;

Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d  453

Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,

Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,

Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh:  457

Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth,

Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,

Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,  460

Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,

His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,

For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;

A smile recures the wounding of a frown;  465

But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!

The silly boy, believing she is dead,

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;  468

And all-amaz’d brake off his late intent,

For sharply he did think to reprehend her,

Which cunning love did wittily prevent:

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!  472

For on the grass she lies as she were slain,

Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,

He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,  476

He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks

To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d:

He kisses her; and she, by her good will,

Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.  480

The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day:

Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,

Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array

He cheers the morn and all the world relieveth:  484

And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,

So is her face illumin’d with her eye;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d,

As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine.

Were never four such lamps together mix’d,  489

Had not his clouded with his brows’ repine;

But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,

Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

‘O! where am I?’ quoth she, in earth or heaven,  493

Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire?

What hour is this? or morn or weary even?

Do I delight to die, or life desire?  496

But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy;

But now I died, and death was lively joy.

‘O! thou didst kill me; kill me once again:

Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,  500

Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain

That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine;

And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,

But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.  504

‘Long may they kiss each other for this cure!

O! never let their crimson liveries wear;

And as they last, their verdure still endure,

To drive infection from the dangerous year:  508

That the star-gazers, having writ on death,

May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath.

‘Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?

To sell myself I can be well contented,  513

So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;

Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips

Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.  516

‘A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;

And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.

What is ten hundred touches unto thee?

Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?  520

Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?’

‘Fair queen,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,

Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:  524

Before I know myself, seek not to know me;

No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:

The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast.

Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste.  528

‘Look! the world’s comforter, with weary gait,

His day’s hot task hath ended in the west;

The owl, night’s herald, shrieks, ’tis very late;

The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,

And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light  533

Do summon us to part and bid good night.

‘Now let me say good night, and so say you;

If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’  536

‘Good night,’ quoth she; and ere he says adieu,

The honey fee of parting tender’d is:

Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;

Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward drew

The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,

Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,

Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:

He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth,  545

Their lips together glu’d, fall to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,

And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;  548

Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;

Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,

That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,  553

With blindfold fury she begins to forage;

Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,

And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage;

Planting oblivion, beating reason back,  557

Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,

Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much handling,  560

Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tir’d with chasing,

Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling,

He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,

While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,  565

And yields at last to every light impression?

Things out of hope are compass’d oft with venturing,

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:  568

Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward,

But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O! had she then gave over,  571

Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d.

Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;

What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d:

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,

Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.  576

For pity now she can no more detain him;

The poor fool prays her that he may depart:

She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him,  579

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,

The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,

He carries thence incaged in his breast.

‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I’ll waste in sorrow,

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.  584

Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to-morrow?

Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?’

He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends

To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

‘The boar!’ quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,

Usurps her cheeks, she trembles at his tale,  591

And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:

She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,

He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Now is she in the very lists of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:

All is imaginary she doth prove,  597

He will not manage her, although he mount her;

That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,

To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.  600

Even as poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes,

Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,

Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,

As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.

The warm effects which she in him finds missing,  605

She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:

She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d;  608

Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee;

She’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.

‘Fie, fie!’ he says, ‘you crush me; let me go;

You have no reason to withhold me so.’  612

‘Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,

But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.

O! be advis’d; thou know’st not what it is

With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore,

Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still,  617

Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

‘On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;  620

His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;

His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes;

Being mov’d, he strikes whate’er is in his way,

And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.  624

‘His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d,

Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter;

His short thick neck cannot be easily harm’d;

Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:  628

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,

As fearful of him part, through whom he rushes.

‘Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,

To which Love’s eyes pay tributary gazes;  632

Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,

Whose full perfection all the world amazes;

But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread!

Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.  636

‘O! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;

Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:

Come not within his danger by thy will;

They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.  640

When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,

I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

‘Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?  643

Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?

Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright?

Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,

But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.  648

‘For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy

Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel;

Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,

And in a peaceful hour doth cry “Kill kill!”  652

Distempering gentle Love in his desire,

As air and water do abate the fire.

‘This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,

This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring,

This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,  657

That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,

Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear

That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

‘And more than so, presenteth to mine eye  661

The picture of an angry-chafing boar,

Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie

An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore;  664

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed

Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.

‘What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,

That tremble at the imagination?  668

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,

And fear doth teach it divination:

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,  671

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

‘But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul’d by me;

Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,

Or at the fox which lives by subtilty,

Or at the roe which no encounter dare:  676

Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,

And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy hounds.

‘And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,

Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles

How he outruns the winds, and with what care  681

He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:

The many musits through the which he goes

Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.  684

‘Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,

To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,

And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,

To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,  688

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;

Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

‘For there his smell with others being mingled,

The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,  692

Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled

With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;

Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,

As if another chase were in the skies.  696

‘By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,

To hearken if his foes pursue him still:

Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;  700

And now his grief may be compared well

To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

‘Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch

Turn, and return, indenting with the way;  704

Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,

Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:

For misery is trodden on by many,

And being low never reliev’d by any.  708

‘Lie quietly, and hear a little more;

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:

To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,

Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize,  712

Applying this to that, and so to so;

For love can comment upon every woe.

‘Where did I leave?’ ‘No matter where,’ quoth he;

‘Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:  716

The night is spent,’ ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth she.

‘I am,’ quoth he, ‘expected of my friends;

And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.’

‘In night,’ quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all.’

‘But if thou fall, O! then imagine this,  721

The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,

And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.

Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips  724

Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.

‘Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,  728

Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason,

For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;

Wherein she fram’d thee in high heaven’s despite,  731

To shame the sun by day and her by night.

‘And therefore hath she brib’d the Destinies,

To cross the curious workmanship of nature,

To mingle beauty with infirmities,

And pure perfection with impure defeature;  736

Making it subject to the tyranny

Of mad mischances and much misery;

‘As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,

Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,  740

The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint

Disorder breeds by heating of the blood;

Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair,

Swear nature’s death for framing thee so fair.

‘And not the least of all these maladies  745

But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under:

Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,

Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d and done,  749

As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day sun.

‘Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,

Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,  752

That on the earth would breed a scarcity

And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,

Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night

Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

‘What is thy body but a swallowing grave,  757

Seeming to bury that posterity

Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,

If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?  760

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,

Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

‘So in thyself thyself art made away;

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,  765

Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,

But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.’

‘Nay then,’ quoth Adon, ‘you will fall again  769

Into your idle over-handled theme;

The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain,

And all in vain you strive against the stream;

For by this black-fac’d night, desire’s foul nurse,  773

Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

‘If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,

And every tongue more moving than your own,  776

Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs,

Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;

For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,

And will not let a false sound enter there;  780

‘Lest the deceiving harmony should run

Into the quiet closure of my breast;

And then my little heart were quite undone,

In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest.  784

No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,

But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

‘What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove?

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger;

I hate not love, but your device in love,  789

That lends embracements unto every stranger.

You do it for increase: O strange excuse!

When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse.  792

‘Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,

Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name;

Under whose simple semblance he hath fed

Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;  796

Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,

As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

‘Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,

But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;  800

Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,

Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;

Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.  804

‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say;

The text is old, the orator too green.

Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:  808

Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,

Do burn themselves for having so offended.’

With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace

Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,  812

And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;

Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress’d.

Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,

So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye;  816

Which after him she darts, as one on shore

Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,

Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,

Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:

So did the merciless and pitchy night  821

Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware

Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood,  824

Or ’stonish’d as night-wanderers often are,

Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;

Even so confounded in the dark she lay,

Having lost the fair discovery of her way.  828

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,

That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,

Make verbal repetition of her moans;

Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:  832

‘Ay me!’ she cries, and twenty times, ‘Woe, woe!’

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She marking them, begins a wailing note,

And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;  836

How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;

How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:

Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,

And still the choir of echoes answer so.  840

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,

For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short:

If pleas’d themselves, others, they think, delight

In such like circumstance, with such like sport:  844

Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,

End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal,

But idle sounds resembling parasites;  848

Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every call,

Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?

She says, ‘’Tis so:’ they answer all, ‘’Tis so;’

And would say after her, if she said ‘No.’  852

Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,

And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun ariseth in his majesty;  856

Who doth the world so gloriously behold,

That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:

‘O thou clear god, and patron of all light,  860

From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow

The beauteous influence that makes him bright,

There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother,

May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.’  864

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,

Musing the morning is so much o’erworn,

And yet she hears no tidings of her love;

She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:

Anon she hears them chant it lustily,  869

And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way

Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,

Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:

She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,

Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,

Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this she hears the hounds are at a bay;  877

Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder

Wreath’d up in fatal folds just in his way,

The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;  880

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds

Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,

But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,

Because the cry remaineth in one place,  885

Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:

Finding their enemy to be so curst,

They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.  888

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,

Through which it enters to surprise her heart;

Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,

With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part;  892

Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,

They basely fly and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,

Till, cheering up her senses sore dismay’d,  896

She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy,

And childish error, that they are afraid;

Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:

And with that word she spied the hunted boar,  900

Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,

Like milk and blood being mingled both together,

A second fear through all her sinews spread,

Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:  904

This way she runs, and now she will no further,

But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,

She treads the path that she untreads again;

Her more than haste is mated with delays,  909

Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,

Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,

In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.  912

Here kennel’d in a brake she finds a hound,

And asks the weary caitiff for his master,

And there another licking of his wound,

’Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster,  916

And here she meets another sadly scowling,

To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas’d his ill-resounding noise,

Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim,  920

Against the welkin volleys out his voice;

Another and another answer him,

Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,

Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go.  924

Look, how the world’s poor people are amaz’d

At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,

Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz’d,

Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;  928

So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath,

And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

‘Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,

Hateful divorce of love,’—thus chides she Death,—  932

‘Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou mean

To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,

Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty set

Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?  936

‘If he be dead, O no! it cannot be,

Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it;

O yes! it may; thou hast no eyes to see,

But hatefully at random dost thou hit.  940

Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart

Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant’s heart.

‘Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,

And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.  944

The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;

They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower.

Love’s golden arrow at him should have fied,

And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike him dead.  948

‘Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping?

What may a heavy groan advantage thee?

Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping  951

Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?

Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,

Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.’

Here overcome, as one full of despair,  955

She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp’d

The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair

In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp’d;

But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,

And with his strong course opens them again.

O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow;  961

Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;

Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow,

Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;

But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,

Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,

As striving who should best become her grief;

All entertain’d, each passion labours so,  969

That every present sorrow seemeth chief,

But none is best; then join they all together,

Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla;

A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well:

The dire imagination she did follow

This sound of hope doth labour to expel;  976

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,

And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,

Being prison’d in her eye, like pearls in glass;

Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,  981

Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,

To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,

Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d.  984

O hard-believing love! how strange it seems

Not to believe, and yet too credulous;

Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;

Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:  988

The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,

In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;  992

It was not she that call’d him all to naught,

Now she adds honours to his hateful name;

She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,

Imperious supreme of all mortal things.  996

‘No, no,’ quoth she, ‘sweet Death, I did but jest;

Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear

Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast,

Which knows no pity, but is still severe;  1000

Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess,—

I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease.

‘’Tis not my fault: the boar provok’d my tongue;

Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander;  1004

’Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;

I did but act, he’s author of my slander:

Grief hath two tongues: and never woman yet,

Could rule them both without ten women’s wit.’  1008

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;

And that his beauty may the better thrive,

With Death she humbly doth insinuate;  1012

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs; and stories

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

‘O Jove!’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I,

To be of such a weak and silly mind  1016

To wail his death who lives and must not die

Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind;

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,

And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

‘Fie, fie, fond love! thou art so full of fear  1021

As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves;

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,

Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.’

Even at this word she hears a merry horn,

Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies;

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;

And in her haste unfortunately spies  1029

The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight;

Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view,

Like stars asham’d of day, themselves withdrew:  1032

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,

Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain,

And there, all smother’d up, in shade doth sit,

Long after fearing to creep forth again;  1036

So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled

Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

Where they resign their office and their light

To the disposing of her troubled brain;  1040

Who bids them still consort with ugly night,

And never wound the heart with looks again;

Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,

By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary subject quakes;  1045

As when the wind, imprison’d in the ground,

Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,

Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound.

This mutiny each part doth so surprise  1049

That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

And, being open’d, threw unwilling light

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d  1052

In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench’d:

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,

But stole his blood and seem’d with him to bleed.  1056

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,

Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,

Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;

She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:  1060

Her voice is stopp’d, her joints forget to bow,

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,

That her right dazzling makes the wound seem three;  1064

And then she reprehends her mangling eye,

That makes more gashes where no breach should be:

His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;

For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.  1068

‘My tongue cannot express my grief for one,

And yet,’ quoth she, ‘behold two Adons dead!

My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,

Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead:

Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire!  1073

So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

‘Alas! poor world, what treasure hast thou lost?

What face remains alive that’s worth the viewing?  1076

Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast

Of things long since, or anything ensuing?

The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;

But true-sweet beauty liv’d and died with him.

‘Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!

Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:

Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;

The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you:  1084

But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air

Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:

‘And therefore would he put his bonnet on,

Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;

The wind would blow it off, and, being gone,  1089

Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;

And straight, in pity of his tender years,

They both would strive who first should dry his tears.  1092

‘To see his face the lion walk’d along

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;

To recreate himself when he hath sung,

The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,  1097

And never fright the silly lamb that day.

‘When he beheld his shadow in the brook,

The fishes spread on it their golden gills;  1100

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,

That some would sing, some other in their bills

Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.  1104

‘But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,

Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,

Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;

Witness the entertainment that he gave:  1108

If he did see his face, why then I know

He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so.

‘’Tis true, ’tis true; thus was Adonis slain:

He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,  1112

Who did not whet his teeth at him again,

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine

Sheath’d unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

‘Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess,

With kissing him I should have kill’d him first;

But he is dead, and never did he bless

My youth with his; the more am I accurst.’  1120

With this she falleth in the place she stood,

And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,  1125

As if they heard the woeful words she told;

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,

Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;  1128

Two glasses where herself herself beheld

A thousand times, and now no more reflect;

Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d,

And every beauty robb’d of his effect:  1132

‘Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,

That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.

‘Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy,

Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:  1136

It shall be waited on with jealousy,

Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end;

Ne’er settled equally, but high or low;

That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.  1140

‘It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,

Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;

The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d

With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:

The strongest body shall it make most weak,

Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.  1146

‘It shall be sparing and too full of riot,

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;

The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,  1149

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;

It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,

Make the young old, the old become a child.

‘It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;  1153

It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;

It shall be merciful, and too severe,

And most deceiving when it seems most just;

Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward,  1157

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

‘It shall be cause of war and dire events,

And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire;  1160

Subject and servile to all discontents,

As dry combustious matter is to fire:

Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,

They that love best their love shall not enjoy.’

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill’d  1165

Was melted like a vapour from her sight,

And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d,

A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white;  1168

Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood

Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath;  1172

And says within her bosom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death:

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears

Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.  1176

‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father’s guise,

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire

For every little grief to wet his eyes:

To grow unto himself was his desire,  1180

And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good

To wither in my breast as in his blood.

‘Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;

Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right:

Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,  1185

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:

There shall not be one minute in an hour

Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.’  1188

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,

And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid

Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies

In her light chariot quickly is convey’d;  1192

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen

Means to immure herself and not be seen.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with happiness.

Your lordship’s in all duty,

William Shakespeare.

THE ARGUMENT.

Lucius Tarquinius,—for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus,—after he had caused his own father-in-law, Servius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, and contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people’s suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king’s son, in their discourses after supper, every one commended the virtues of his own wife: among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife—though it were late in the night—spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius, being inflamed with Lucrece’ beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, and another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and the whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and, bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls.

From the besieged Ardea all in post,

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,

Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,

And to Collatium bears the lightless fire  4

Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,

And girdle with embracing flames the waist

Of Collatine’s fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhappily set  8

This bateless edge on his keen appetite;

When Collatine unwisely did not let

To praise the clear unmatched red and white

Which triumph’d in that sky of his delight,  12

Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven’s beauties,

With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent,

Unlock’d the treasure of his happy state;  16

What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent

In the possession of his beauteous mate;

Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,

That kings might be espoused to more fame,

But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.  21

O happiness enjoy’d but of a few!

And, if possess’d, as soon decay’d and done

As is the morning’s silver-melting dew  24

Against the golden splendour of the sun;

An expir’d date, cancell’d ere well begun:

Honour and beauty, in the owner’s arms,

Are weakly fortress’d from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade  29

The eyes of men without an orator;

What needeth then apology be made

To set forth that which is so singular?  32

Or why is Collatine the publisher

Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown

From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sovereignty  36

Suggested this proud issue of a king;

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:

Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting  40

His high-pitch’d thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt

That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate

His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those:  44

His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,

Neglected all, with swift intent he goes

To quench the coal which in his liver glows.

O! rash false heat, wrapp’d in repentant cold,

Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne’er grows old.  49

When at Collatium this false lord arriv’d,

Well was he welcom’d by the Roman dame,

Within whose face beauty and virtue striv’d  52

Which of them both should underprop her fame:

When virtue bragg’d, beauty would blush for shame;

When beauty boasted blushes, in despite

Virtue would stain that o’er with silver white.  56

But beauty, in that white intituled,

From Venus’ doves doth challenge that fair field;

Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red,

Which virtue gave the golden age to gild  60

Their silver cheeks, and call’d it then their shield;

Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,

When shame assail’d, the red should fence the white.

This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen,  64

Argu’d by beauty’s red and virtue’s white:

Of either’s colour was the other queen,

Proving from world’s minority their right:

Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;  68

The sovereignty of either being so great,

That oft they interchange each other’s seat.

This silent war of lilies and of roses,

Which Tarquin view’d in her fair face’s field,  72

In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;

Where, lest between them both it should be kill’d,

The coward captive vanquished doth yield

To those two armies that would let him go,  76

Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue—

The niggard prodigal that prais’d her so—

In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:  81

Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe

Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,

In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.  84

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,

Little suspecteth the false worshipper;

For unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on evil,

Birds never lim’d no secret bushes fear:  88

So guiltless she securely gives good cheer

And reverend welcome to her princely guest,

Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d:

For that he colour’d with his high estate,  92

Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;

That nothing in him seem’d inordinate,

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

Which, having all, all could not satisfy;  96

But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,

That, cloy’d with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never cop’d with stranger eyes,

Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,  100

Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies

Writ in the glassy margents of such books:

She touch’d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no hooks;

Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,  104

More than his eyes were open’d to the light.

He stories to her ears her husband’s fame,

Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

And decks with praises Collatine’s high name,

Made glorious by his manly chivalry  109

With bruised arms and wreaths of victory:

Her joy with heav’d-up hand she doth express,

And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.  112

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,

He makes excuses for his being there:

No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather

Doth yet in this fair welkin once appear;  116

Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,

Upon the world dim darkness doth display,

And in her vaulty prison stows the Day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,  120

Intending weariness with heavy spright;

For after supper long he questioned

With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:

Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight,  124

And every one to rest themselves betake,

Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining;  128

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining;

And when great treasure is the meed propos’d,  132

Though death be adjunct, there’s no death suppos’d.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond,

For what they have not, that which they possess

They scatter and unloose it from their bond,  136

And so, by hoping more, they have but less;

Or, gaining more, the profit of excess

Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,

That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.  140

The aim of all is but to nurse the life

With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;

And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,

That one for all, or all for one we gage;  144

As life for honour in fell battles’ rage;

Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost

The death of all, and all together lost.

So that in venturing ill we leave to be  148

The things we are for that which we expect;

And this ambitious foul infirmity,

In having much, torments us with defect

Of that we have: so then we do neglect  152

The thing we have: and, all for want of wit,

Make something nothing by augmenting it.

Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,

Pawning his honour to obtain his lust,  156

And for himself himself he must forsake:

Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?

When shall he think to find a stranger just,

When he himself himself confounds, betrays

To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days?  161

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,

When heavy sleep had clos’d up mortal eyes;

No comfortable star did lend his light,  164

No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries;

Now serves the season that they may surprise

The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,

While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed,

Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm;

Is madly toss’d between desire and dread;

Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm;

But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm,  173

Doth too too oft betake him to retire,

Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,  176

That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly;

Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,

Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;

And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:  180

‘As from this cold flint I enforc’d this fire,

So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate

The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,  184

And in his inward mind he doth debate

What following sorrow may on this arise:

Then looking scornfully, he doth despise  187

His naked armour of still-slaughter’d lust,

And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:

‘Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not

To darken her whose light excelleth thine;  191

And die, unhallow’d thoughts, before you blot

With your uncleanness that which is divine;

Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:

Let fair humanity abhor the deed

That spots and stains love’s modest snow-white weed.  196

‘O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!

O foul dishonour to my household’s grave!

O impious act, including all foul harms!

A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave!  200

True valour still a true respect should have;

Then my digression is so vile, so base,

That it will live engraven in my face.

‘Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,  204

And be an eye-sore in my golden coat;

Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,

To cipher me how fondly I did dote;

That my posterity sham’d with the note,  208

Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin

To wish that I their father had not been.

‘What win I if I gain the thing I seek?

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.  212

Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?

Or sells eternity to get a toy?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?

Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,

Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?  217

‘If Collatinus dream of my intent,

Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage

Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?  220

This siege that hath engirt his marriage,

This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,

This dying virtue, this surviving shame,

Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?

‘O! what excuse can my invention make,  225

When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?  228

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,

But coward-like with trembling terror die.

‘Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire,  232

Or lain in ambush to betray my life,

Or were he not my dear friend, this desire

Might have excuse to work upon his wife,

As in revenge or quittal of such strife:  236

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,

The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

‘Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known:

Hateful it is; there is no hate in loving:  240

I’ll beg her love; but she is not her own:

The worst is but denial and reproving:

My will is strong, past reason’s weak removing.

Who fears a sentence, or an old man’s saw,

Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’  245

Thus, graceless, holds he disputation

’Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,

And with good thoughts makes dispensation,

Urging the worser sense for vantage still;  249

Which in a moment doth confound and kill

All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,

That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

Quoth he, ‘She took me kindly by the hand,  253

And gaz’d for tidings in my eager eyes,

Fearing some hard news from the war-like band

Where her beloved Collatinus lies.  256

O! how her fear did make her colour rise:

First red as roses that on lawn we lay,

Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

‘And how her hand, in my hand being lock’d,

Forc’d it to tremble with her loyal fear!  261

Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock’d,

Until her husband’s welfare she did hear;

Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,  264

That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,

Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood.

‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?

All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth;  268

Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:

Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;

And when his gaudy banner is display’d,  272

The coward fights and will not be dismay’d.

‘Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die!

Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!

My heart shall never countermand mine eye:

Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage;  277

My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.

Desire my pilot is, beauty my prise;

Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’  280

As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

Is almost chok’d by unresisted lust.

Away he steals with open listening ear,

Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust;  284

Both which, as servitors to the unjust,

So cross him with their opposite persuasion,

That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,  288

And in the self-same seat sits Collatine:

That eye which looks on her confounds his wits;

That eye which him beholds, as more divine,

Unto a view so false will not incline;  292

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,

Which once corrupted, takes the worser part;

And therein heartens up his servile powers,

Who, flatter’d by their leader’s jocund show,

Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;  297

And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,

Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate desire thus madly led,  300

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,

Each one by him enforc’d, retires his ward;

But as they open they all rate his ill,  304

Which drives the creeping thief to some regard:

The threshold grates the door to have him heard;

Night-wandering weasels shriek to see him there;

They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,  309

Through little vents and crannies of the place

The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,

And blows the smoke of it into his face,  312

Extinguishing his conduct in this case;

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch:

And being lighted, by the light he spies  316

Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks:

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,

And griping it, the neeld his finger pricks;

As who should say, ‘This glove to wanton tricks  320

Is not inur’d; return again in haste;

Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;

He in the worst sense construes their denial:  324

The door, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,

He takes for accidental things of trial;

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,

Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let,

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.  329

‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,

Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,

To add a more rejoicing to the prime,  332

And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing;

Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands,

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’  336

Now is he come unto the chamber door,

That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,

Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,

Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he sought.  340

So from himself impiety hath wrought,

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,  344

Having solicited the eternal power

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,

And they would stand auspicious to the hour,

Even there he starts: quoth he, ‘I must deflower;  348

The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact,

How can they then assist me in the act?

‘Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide!

My will is back’d with resolution:  352

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;

The blackest sin is clear’d with absolution;

Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution.

The eye of heaven is out, and misty night  356

Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’

This said, his guilty hand pluck’d up the latch,

And with his knee the door he opens wide.

The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch:  360

Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.

Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside;

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,

Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.  364

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,

And gazeth on her yet unstained bed.

The curtains being close, about he walks,

Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head:  368

By their high treason is his heart misled;

Which gives the watch word to his hand full soon,

To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.

Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun,  372

Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight;

Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun

To wink, being blinded with a greater light:

Whether it is that she reflects so bright,  376

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,

But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.

O! had they in that darksome prison died,

Then had they seen the period of their ill;  380

Then Collatine again, by Lucrece’ side,

In his clear bed might have reposed still:

But they must ope, this blessed league to kill,

And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight  384

Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;

Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,

Swelling on either side to want his bliss;  389

Between whose hills her head entombed is:

Where, like a virtuous monument she lies,

To be admir’d of lewd unhallow’d eyes.  392

Without the bed her other fair hand was,

On the green coverlet; whose perfect white

Show’d like an April daisy on the grass,

With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.  396

Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath’d their light,

And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,

Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair, like golden threads, play’d with her breath;  400

O modest wantons! wanton modesty!

Showing life’s triumph in the map of death,

And death’s dim look in life’s mortality:

Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,  404

As if between them twain there were no strife,

But that life liv’d in death, and death in life.

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,

A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,  408

Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,

And him by oath they truly honoured.

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred;

Who, like a foul usurper, went about  412

From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?

What did he note but strongly he desir’d?

What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,  416

And in his will his wilful eye he tir’d.

With more than admiration he admir’d

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey,  421

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified;  424

Slack’d, not suppress’d; for standing by her side,

His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,

Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins:

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,  428

Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting,

In bloody death and ravishment delighting,

Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,

Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting:  432

Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,

Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,

His eye commends the leading to his hand;  436

His hand, as proud of such a dignity,

Smoking with pride, march’d on to make his stand

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land;

Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,  440

Left their round turrets destitute and pale.

They, mustering to the quiet cabinet

Where their dear goveness and lady lies,

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,  444

And fright her with confusion of their cries:

She, much amaz’d, breaks ope her lock’d-up eyes,

Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,

Are by his flaming torch dimm’d and controll’d.  448

Imagine her as one in dead of night

From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,

That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,

Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking;

What terror ’tis! but she, in worser taking,  453

From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view

The sight which makes supposed terror true.

Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears,

Like to a new-kill’d bird she trambling lies;  457

She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears

Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes:

Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries;

Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,

In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,

Rude ram to batter such an ivory wall!  464

May feel her heart,—poor citizen,—distress’d

Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,

Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.

This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,  468

To make the breach and enter this sweet city.

First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin

To sound a parley to his heartless foe;

Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,  472

The reason of this rash alarm to know,

Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show;

But she with vehement prayers urgeth still

Under what colour he commits this ill.  476

Thus he replies: ‘The colour in thy face,—

That even for anger makes the lily pale,

And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,—

Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale;  480

Under that colour am I come to scale

Thy never-conquer’d fort: the fault is thine,

For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

‘Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:  484

Thy beauty hath ensnar’d thee to this night,

Where thou with patience must my will abide,

My will that marks thee for my earth’s delight,

Which I to conquer sought with all my might;  488

But as reproof and reason beat it dead,

By thy bright beauty was it newly bred.

‘I see what crosses my attempt will bring;

I know what thorns the growing rose defends;

I think the honey guarded with a sting;  493

All this, beforehand, counsel comprehends:

But will is deaf and hears no heedful friends;

Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,  496

And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty.

‘I have debated, even in my soul,

What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;

But nothing can affection’s course control,  500

Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.

I know repentant tears ensue the deed,

Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;

Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.’  504

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,

Which like a falcon towering in the skies,

Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade,

Whose crooked beak threats if he mount he dies:  508

So under his insulting falchion lies

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells

With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells.

‘Lucrece,’ quoth he, ‘this night I must enjoy thee:  512

If thou deny, then force must work my way,

For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee:

That done, some worthless slave of thine I’ll slay,

To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay;  516

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,

Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.

‘So thy surviving husband shall remain

The scornful mark of every open eye;  520

Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,

Thy issue blurr’d with nameless bastardy:

And thou, the author of their obloquy,

Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rimes,  524

And sung by children in succeeding times.

‘But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend:

The fault unknown is as a thought unacted;

A little harm done to a great good end,  528

For lawful policy remains enacted.

The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted

In a pure compound; being so applied,

His venom in effect is purified.  532

‘Then for thy husband and thy children’s sake,

Tender my suit: bequeath not to their lot

The shame that from them no device can take,

The blemish that will never be forgot;  536

Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour’s blot:

For marks descried in men’s nativity

Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.’

Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye  540

He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause;

While she, the picture of pure piety,

Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws,

Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws,  544

To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

But when a black-fac’d cloud the world doth threat,

In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding,

From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth get,  549

Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,

Hindering their present fall by this dividing;

So his unhallow’d haste her words delays,  552

And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,

While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth:

Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly,  556

A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth:

His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth

No penetrable entrance to her plaining:

Tears harden lust though marble wear with raining.  560

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix’d

In the remorseless wrinkles of his face;

Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix’d,

Which to her oratory adds more grace.  564

She puts the period often from his place;

And midst the sentence so her accent breaks,

That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.

She conjures him by high almighty Jove,  568

By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath,

By her untimely tears, her husband’s love,

By holy human law, and common troth,

By heaven and earth, and all the power of both,

That to his borrow’d bed he make retire,  573

And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, ‘Reward not hospitality

With such black payment as thou hast pretended;  576

Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee;

Mar not the thing that cannot be amended;

End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended;

He is no woodman that doth bend his bow

To strike a poor unseasonable doe.  581

‘My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me;

Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me;

Myself a weakling, do not, then, ensnare me;  584

Thou look’dst not like deceit, do not deceive me.

My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee;

If ever man were mov’d with woman’s moans,

Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans.  588

‘All which together, like a troubled ocean,

Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threatening heart,

To soften it with their continual motion;

For stones dissolv’d to water do convert.  592

O! if no harder than a stone thou art,

melt at my tears, and be compassionate;

Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

‘In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee;  596

Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?

To all the host of heaven I complain me,

Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely name.

Thou art not what thou seem’st; and if the same,  600

Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king;

For kings like gods should govern every thing.

‘How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,

When thus thy vices bud before thy spring!  604

If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage,

What dar’st thou not when once thou art a king?

O! be remembered no outrageous thing

From vassal actors can be wip’d away;  608

Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.

‘This deed will make thee only lov’d for fear;

But happy monarchs still are fear’d for love:

With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,

When they in thee the like offences prove:  613

If but for fear of this, thy will remove;

For princes are the glass, the school, the book,

Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look.  616

‘And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn?

Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?

Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern

Authority for sin, warrant for blame,  620

To privilege dishonour in thy name?

Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud,

And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd.

‘Hast thou command? by him that gave it thee,  624

From a pure heart command thy rebel will:

Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,

For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.

Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil,  628

When, pattern’d by thy fault, foul sin may say,

He learn’d to sin, and thou didst teach the way?

‘Think but how vile a spectacle it were,

To view thy present trespass in another.  632

Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear;

Their own transgressions partially they smother:

This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.

O! how are they wrapp’d in with infamies  636

That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes.

‘To thee, to thee, my heav’d-up hands appeal,

Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier:

I sue for exil’d majesty’s repeal;  640

Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire:

His true respect will prison false desire,

And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,

That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.’

‘Have done,’ quoth he; ‘my uncontrolled tide

Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.

Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide,

And with the wind in greater fury fret:  648

The petty streams that pay a daily debt

To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ haste

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.’

‘Thou art,’ quoth she, ‘a sea, a sovereign king;  652

And lo! there falls into thy boundless flood

Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,

Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.

If all these petty ills shall change thy good,  656

Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hears’d,

And not the puddle in thy sea dispers’d.

‘So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave;

Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;  660

Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave;

Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride:

The lesser thing should not the greater hide;

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot,  664

But low shrubs wither at the eedar’s root.

‘So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state’—

‘No more,’ quoth he; ‘by heaven, I will not hear thee:

Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,  668

Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear thee;

That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,

To be thy partner in this shameful doom.’  672

This said, he sets his foot upon the light,

For light and lust are deadly enemies:

Shame folded up in blind concealing night,

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.

The wolf hath seiz’d his prey, the poor lamb cries;  677

Till with her own white fleece her voice controll’d

Entombs her outery in her lips’ sweet fold:

For with the nightly linen that she wears  680

He pens her piteous clamours in her head,

Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.

O! that prone lust should stain so pure a bed,

The spots whereof could weeping purify,  685

Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,

And he hath won what he would lose again;

This forced league doth force a further strife;

This momentary joy breeds months of pain;

This hot desire converts to cold disdain:

Pure Chastity is rifled of her store,  692

And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before.

Look! as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,

Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,

Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk  696

The prey wherein by nature they delight;

So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night:

His taste delicious, in digestion souring,

Devours his will, that liv’d by foul devouring.

O! deeper sin than bottomless conceit  701

Can comprehend in still imagination;

Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt,

Ere he can see his own abomination.  704

While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation

Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,

Till like a jade Self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discolour’d cheek,

With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,  709

Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek,

Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case:

The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with Grace,  712

For there it revels; and when that decays,

The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,

Who this accomplishment so hotly chas’d;  716

For now against himself he sounds this doom,

That through the length of times he stands disgrac’d;

Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defac’d;

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,

To ask the spotted princess how she fares.  721

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection

Have batter’d down her consecrated wall,

And by their mortal fault brought in subjection

Her immortality, and made her thrall  725

To living death, and pain perpetual:

Which in her prescience she controlled still,

But her foresight could not forestall their will.  728

Even in this thought through the dark night he stealeth,

A captive victor that hath lost in gain;

Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,

The scar that will despite of cure remain;  732

Leaving his spoil perplex’d in greater pain.

She bears the load of lust he left behind,

And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence,  736

She like a wearied lamb lies panting there;

He scowls and hates himself for his offence,

She desperate with her nails her flesh doth tear;

He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear,  740

She stays, exclaiming on the direful night;

He runs, and chides his vanish’d, loath’d delight.

He thence departs a heavy convertite,

She there remains a hopeless castaway;  744

He in his speed looks for the morning light,

She prays she never may behold the day;

‘For day,’ quoth she, ‘night’s ’scapes doth open lay,

And my true eyes have never practis’d how

To cloak offences with a cunning brow.  749

‘They think not but that every eye can see

The same disgrace which they themselves behold;

And therefore would they still in darkness be,

To have their unseen sin remain untold;  753

For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,

And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,

Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.’

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,  757

And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,

And bids it leap from thence where it may find

Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.  761

Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite

Against the unseen secrecy of night:

‘O comfort-killing Night, image of hell!  764

Dim register and notary of shame!

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell!

Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!

Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for defame!

Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator

With close-tongu’d treason and the ravisher!

‘O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night!

Since thou art guilty of my curseless crime,  772

Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,

Make war against proportion’d course of time;

Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb

His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,  776

Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

‘With rotten damps ravish the morning air;

Let their exhal’d unwholesome breaths make sick

The life of purity, the supreme fair,  780

Ere he arrive his weary noontide prick;

And let thy misty vapours march so thick,

That in their smoky ranks his smother’d light

May set at noon and make perpetual night.

‘Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night’s child,  785

The silver-shining queen he would distain;

Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defil’d,

Through Night’s black bosom should not peep again:  788

So should I have co-partners in my pain;

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,

As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage.

‘Where now I have no one to blush with me,

To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,  793

To mask their brows and hide their infamy;

But I alone alone must sit and pine,

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,  796

Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,

Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

‘O Night! thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke,

Let not the jealous Day behold that face  800

Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak

Immodestly lies martyr’d with disgrace:

Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,

That all the faults which in thy reign are made  804

May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.

‘Make me not object to the tell-tale Day!

The light will show, character’d in my brow,

The story of sweet chastity’s decay,  808

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow:

Yea, the illiterate, that know not how

To ’cipher what is writ in learned books,

Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.  812

‘The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,

And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s name;

The orator, to deck his oratory,

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame;

Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,  817

Will tie the hearers to attend each line,

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.

‘Let my good name, that senseless reputation,

For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted:  821

If that be made a theme for disputation,

The branches of another root are rotted,

And undeserv’d reproach to him allotted  824

That is as clear from this attaint of mine,

As I ere this was pure to Collatine.

‘O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!

O unfelt sore! crest-wounding, private scar!  828

Reproach is stamp’d in Collatinus’ face,

And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar,

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.

Alas! how many bear such shameful blows,

Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows.  833

‘If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

From me by strong assault it is bereft.

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,  836

Have no perfection of my summer left,

But robb’d and ransack’d by injurious theft:

In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,

And suck’d the honey which thy chaste bee kept.  840

‘Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack;

Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;

Coming from thee, I could not put him back,

For it had been dishonour to disdain him:  844

Besides, of weariness he did complain him,

And talk’d of virtue: O! unlook’d-for evil,

When virtue is profan’d in such a devil.

‘Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?

Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests?

Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?

Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?

Or kings be breakers of their own behests?  852

But no perfection is so absolute,

That some impurity doth not pollute.

‘The aged man that coffers-up his gold

Is plagu’d with cramps and gouts and painful fits;  856

And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,

But like still pining Tantalus he sits,

And useless barns the harvest of his wits;

Having no other pleasure of his gain  860

But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

‘So then he hath it when he cannot use it,

And leaves it to be master’d by his young;

Who in their pride do presently abuse it:  864

Their father was too weak, and they too strong,

To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long.

The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours

Even in the moment that we call them ours.

‘Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;  869

Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers;

The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing;

What virtue breeds iniquity devours:  872

We have no good that we can say is ours,

But ill-annexed Opportunity

Or kills his life, or else his quality.

‘O Opportunity! thy guilt is great,  876

’Tis thou that execut’st the traitor’s treason;

Thou sett’st the wolf where he the lamb may get;

Whoever plots the sin, thou point’st the season;

’Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason;  880

And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,

Sits Sin to seize the souls that wander by him.

‘Thou mak’st the vestal violate her oath;

Thou blow’st the fire when temperance is thaw’d;  884

Thou smother’st honesty, thou murder’st troth;

Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud:

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!  889

‘Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,

Thy private feasting to a public fast,

Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,  892

Thy sugar’d tongue to bitter wormwood taste:

Thy violent vanities can never last.

How comes it, then, vile Opportunity,

Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

‘When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend,  897

And bring him where his suit may be obtain’d?

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain’d?  900

Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain’d?

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;

But they ne’er meet with Opportunity.

‘The patient dies while the physician sleeps;  904

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;

Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;

Advice is sporting while infection breeds:

Thou grant’st no time for charitable deeds:  908

Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s rages,

Thy beinous hours wait on them as their pages.

‘When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,

A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid:  912

They buy thy help; but Sin ne’er gives a fee,

He gratis comes; and thou art well appaid

As well to hear as grant what he hath said.

My Collatine would else have come to me  916

When Tarquin did, but he was stay’d by thee.

‘Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,

Guilty of perjury and subornation,

Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift,  920

Guilty of incest, that abomination;

An accessary by thine inclination

To all sins past, and all that are to come,

From the creation to the general doom.  924

‘Mis-shapen time, copesmate of ugly Night,

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare;  928

Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are;

O! hear me, then, injurious, shifting Time,

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.

‘Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,  932

Betray’d the hours thou gav’st me to repose?

Cancell’d my fortunes, and enchained me

To endless date of never-ending woes?

Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes;  936

To eat up errors by opinion bred,

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

‘Time’s glory is to calm contending kings,

To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,

To stamp the seal of time in aged things,  941

To wake the morn and sentinel the night,

To wrong the wronger till he render right,

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,

And smear with dust their glittering golden towers;  945

‘To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,

To feed oblivion with decay of things,

To blot old books and alter their contents,  948

To pluck the quills from ancient ravens’ wings,

To dry the old oak’s sap and cherish springs,

To spoil antiquities of hammer’d steel,

And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s wheel;  952

‘To show the beldam daughters of her daughter,

To make the child a man, the man a child,

To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,

To tame the unicorn and lion wild,  956

To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil’d,

To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,

And waste huge stones with little water-drops.

‘Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,

Unless thou couldst return to make amends?

One poor retiring minute in an age

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,

Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends:  964

O! this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back,

I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack.

‘Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,

With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight:  968

Devise extremes beyond extremity,

To make him curse this cursed crimeful night:

Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright,

And the dire thought of his committed evil

Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.

‘Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances,

Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans;

Let there bechance him pitiful mischances  976

To make him moan, but pity not his moans;

Stone him with harden’d hearts, harder than stones;

And let mild women to him lose their mildness,

Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

‘Let him have time to tear his curled hair,  981

Let him have time against himself to rave,

Let him have time of Time’s help to despair,

Let him have time to live a loathed slave,  984

Let him have time a beggar’s orts to crave,

And time to see one that by alms doth live

Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.

‘Let him have time to see his friends his foes,

And merry fools to mock at him resort;  989

Let him have time to mark how slow time goes

In time of sorrow, and how swift and short

His time of folly and his time of sport;  992

And ever let his unrecalling crime

Have time to wail the abusing of his time.

‘O Time! thou tutor both to good and bad,

Teach me to curse him that thou taught’st this ill;  996

At his own shadow let the thief run mad,

Himself himself seek every hour to kill:

Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill;  999

For who so base would such an office have

As slanderous deathsman to so base a slave?

‘The baser is he, coming from a king,

To shame his hope with deeds degenerate:

The mightier man, the mightier is the thing  1004

That makes him honour’d, or begets him hate;

For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.

The moon being clouded presently is miss’d,

But little stars may hide them when they list.

‘The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,  1009

And unperceiv’d fly with the filth away;

But if the like the snow-white swan desire,

The stain upon his silver down will stay.  1012

Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day.

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly,

But eagles gaz’d upon with every eye.

‘Out, idle words! servants to shallow fools,  1016

Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!

Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;

Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;

To trembling clients be you mediators:  1020

For me, I force not argument a straw,

Since that my case is past the help of law.

‘In vain I rail at Opportunity,

At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night;

In vain I cavil with my infamy,  1025

In vain I spurn at my confirm’d despite;

This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.

The remedy indeed to do me good,  1028

Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood.

‘Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this decree?

Honour thyself to rid me of this shame;

For if I die, my honour lives in thee,  1032

But if I live, thou liv’st in my defame;

Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame,

And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe,

Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.’  1036

This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth,

To find some desperate instrument of death;

But this no slaughter-house no tool imparteth

To make more vent for passage of her breath;

Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth

As smoke from Ætna, that in air consumes,

Or that which from dischared cannon fumes.

‘In vain,’ quoth she, ‘I live, and seek in vain

Some happy mean to end a hapless life:  1045

I fear’d by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain,

Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:

But when I fear’d I was a loyal wife:  1048

So am I now: O no! that cannot be;

Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.

‘O! that is gone for which I sought to live,

And therefore now I need not fear to die.  1052

To clear this spot by death, at least I give

A badge of fame to slander’s livery;

A dying life to living infamy.

Poor helpless help, the treasure stol’n away,

To burn the guiltless casket where it lay?  1057

‘Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know

The stained taste of violated troth;

I will not wrong thy true affection so,  1060

To flatter thee with an infringed oath;

This bastard graff shall never come to growth;

He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute

That thou art doting father of his fruit.  1064

‘Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,

Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;

But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought

Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate.  1068

For me, I am the mistress of my fate,

And with my trespass never will dispense,

Till life to death acquit my forc’d offence.

‘I will not poison thee with my attaint,  1072

Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin’d excuses;

My sable ground of sin I will not paint,

To hide the truth of this false night’s abuses;

My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices,  1076

As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,

Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.’

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended  1079

The well-tun’d warble of her nightly sorrow,

And solemn night with slow sad gait descended

To ugly hell; when, lo! the blushing morrow

Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow:

But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,

And therefore still in night would cloister’d be.  1085

Revealing day through every cranny spies,

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping;

To whom she sobbing speaks: ‘O eye of eyes!

Why pry’st thou through my window? leave thy peeping;  1089

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping:

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,

For day hath nought to do what’s done by night.’  1092

Thus cavils she with everything she sees:

True grief is fond and testy as a child,

Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees:

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild;

Continuance tames the one; the other wild,  1097

Like an unpractis’d swimmer plunging still,

With too much labour drowns for want of skill.

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,  1100

Holds disputation with each thing she views,

And to herself all sorrow doth compare;

No object but her passion’s strength renews,

And as one shifts, another straight ensues:  1104

Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words;

Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords.

The little birds that tune their morning’s joy

Make her moans mad with their sweet melody:

For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;

Sad souls are slain in merry company;

Grief best is pleas’d with grief’s society:

True sorrow then is feelingly suffic’d  1112

When with like semblance it is sympathiz’d.

’Tis double death to drown in ken of shore;

He ten times pines that pines beholding food;

To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;  1116

Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;

Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,

Who, being stopp’d, the bounding banks o’erflows;

Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.

‘You mocking birds,’ quoth she, ‘your tunes entomb  1121

Within your hollow-swelling feather’d breasts,

And in my hearing be you mute and dumb:

My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;

A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests:  1125

Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;

Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.

‘Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment,

Make thy sad grove in my dishevell’d hair:  1129

As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,

So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,

And with deep groans the diapason bear;  1132

For burthen-wise I’ll hum on Tarquin still,

While thou on Tereus descant’st better skill.

‘And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part

To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,

To imitate thee well, against my heart  1137

Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye,

Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.

These means, as frets upon an instrument,

Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.  1141

‘And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day,

As shaming any eye should thee behold,

Some dark deep desert, seated from the way,

That knows nor parching heat nor freezing cold,  1145

We will find out; and there we will unfold

To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds:

Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.’  1148

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,

Wildly determining which way to fly,

Or one encompass’d with a winding maze,

That cannot tread the way out readily;  1152

So with herself is she in mutiny,

To live or die which of the twain were better,

When life is sham’d, and death reproach’s debtor.  1155

‘To kill myself,’ quoth she, ‘alack! what were it

But with my body my poor soul’s pollution?

They that lose half with greater patience bear it

Than they whose whole is swallow’d in confusion.

That mother tries a merciless conclusion,  1160

Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,

Will slay the other and be nurse to none.

‘My body or my soul, which was the dearer,

When the one pure, the other made divine?  1164

Whose love of either to myself was nearer,

When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?

Ay me! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine,

His leaves will wither and his sap decay;  1168

So must my soul, her bark being peel’d away.

‘Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted,

Her mansion batter’d by the enemy;

Her sacred temple spotted, spoil’d, corrupted,

Grossly engirt with daring infamy:  1173

Then let it not be call’d impiety,

If in this blemish’d fort I make some hole

Through which I may convey this troubled soul.  1176

‘Yet die I will not till my Collatine

Have heard the cause of my untimely death:

That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,

Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.  1180

My stained blood to Tarquin I’ll bequeath,

Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent,

And as his due writ in my testament.

‘Mine honour I’ll bequeath unto the knife  1184

That wounds my body so dishonoured.

’Tis honour to deprive dishonour’d life;

The one will live, the other being dead:

So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred;  1188

For in my death I murder shameful scorn:

My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born.

‘Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,

What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?  1192

My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,

By whose example thou reveng’d mayst be.

How Tarquin must be us’d, read it in me:

Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,

And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.

‘This brief abridgment of my will I make:

My soul and body to the skies and ground;

My resolution, husband, do thou take;  1200

Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound;

My shame be his that did my fame confound;

And all my fame that lives disbursed be

To those that live, and think no shame of me.

‘Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will;  1205

How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;

My life’s foul deed, my life’s fair end shall free it.

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, “So be it:”  1209

Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee:

Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.’

This plot of death when sadly she had laid,  1212

And wip’d the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,

With untun’d tongue she hoarsely call’d her maid,

Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;

For fleet-wing’d duty with thought’s feathers flies.  1216

Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so

As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,

With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty,

And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow,  1221

For why her face wore sorrow’s livery;

But durst not ask of her audaciously

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,

Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash’d with woe.  1225

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,

Each flower moisten’d like a melting eye;

Even so the maid with swelling drops ’gan wet

Her circled eyne, enforc’d by sympathy  1229

Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky,

Who in a salt-wav’d ocean quench their light,

Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.  1232

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,

Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling;

One justly weeps, the other takes in hand

No cause but company of her drops spilling;

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,  1237

Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts,

And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts:

For men have marble, women waxen minds,

And therefore are they form’d as marble will;

The weak oppress’d, the impression of strange kinds

Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill:

Then call them not the authors of their ill,  1244

No more than wax shall be accounted evil

Wherein is stamp’d the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,

Lays open all the little worms that creep;  1248

In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain

Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep:

Through crystal walls each little mote will peep:

Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,  1252

Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books.

No man inveigh against the wither’d flower,

But chide rough winter that tho flower hath kill’d:

Not that devour’d, but that which doth devour,

Is worthy blame. O! let it not be hild  1257

Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfill’d

With men’s abuses: those proud lords, to blame,

Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.  1260

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,

Assail’d by night with circumstances strong

Of present death, and shame that might ensue

By that her death, to do her husband wrong:

Such danger to resistance did belong,  1265

That dying fear through all her body spread;

And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak

To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:

‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break

Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,

Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:  1273

If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

‘But tell me, girl, when went’—and there she stay’d

Till after a deep groan—‘Tarquin from hence?’—  1276

‘Madam, ere I was up,’ replied the maid,

‘The more to blame my sluggard negligence:

Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense;

Myself was stirring ere the break of day,  1280

And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

‘But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,

She would request to know your heaviness.’

‘O! peace,’ quoth Lucrece; ‘if it should be told,  1284

The repetition cannot make it less;

For more it is than I can well express:

And that deep torture may be call’d a hell,

When more is felt than one hath power to tell.  1288

‘Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen:

Yet save that labour, for I have them here.

What should I say? One of my husband’s men

Bid thou be ready by and by, to bear  1292

A letter to my lord, my love, my dear:

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;

The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.’  1295

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,

First hovering o’er the paper with her quill:

Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;

What wit sets down is blotted straight with will;

This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:  1300

Much like a press of people at a door,

Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: ‘Thou worthy lord

Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,  1304

Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t’ afford,

If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see,

Some present speed to come and visit me.

So I commend me from our house in grief:

My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.’  1309

Here folds she up the tenour of her woe,

Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

By this short schedule Collatine may know  1312

Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality:

She dares not thereof make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse.  1316

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her;

When sighs, and groans, and tears may grace the fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her  1320

From that suspicion which the world might bear her.

To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter

With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;  1324

For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold,

When every part a part of woe doth bear:

’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear;  1328

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ

‘At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste.’

The post attends, and she delivers it,  1333

Charging the sour-fac’d groom to hie as fast

As lagging fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:  1336

Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villein curtsies to her low;

And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye

Receives the scroll without or yea or no,  1340

And forth with bashful innocence doth hie:

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie

Imagine every eye beholds their blame;

For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame:  1344

When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.

Such harmless creatures have a true respect

To talk in deeds, while others saucily  1348

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely:

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age

Pawn’d honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled their mistrust,  1352

That two red fires in both their faces blaz’d;

She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust,

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz’d;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz’d:

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,  1357

The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.  1360

The weary time she cannot entertain,

For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan:

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay,

Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.  1365

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece

Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy;

Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,

For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,  1369

Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud,

As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets bow’d.

A thousand lamentable objects there,  1373

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life;

Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear,

Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife:

The red blood reek’d, to show the painter’s strife;  1377

And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioner,  1380

Begrim’d with sweat, and smeared all with dust;

And from the towers of Troy there would appear

The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:  1384

Such sweet observance in this work was had,

That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty

You might behold, triumphing in their faces;

In youth quick bearing and dexterity;  1389

And here and there the painter interlaces

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces;

Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,  1392

That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O! what art

Of physiognomy might one behold;

The face of either cipher’d either’s heart;  1396

Their face their manners most expressly told:

In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d;

But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent

Show’d deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,  1401

As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight;

Making such sober action with his hand,

That it beguil’d attention, charm’d the sight.

In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white,

Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly

Thin winding breath, which purl’d up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,  1408

Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice;

All jointly listening, but with several graces,

As if some mermaid did their ears entice,

Some high, some low, the painter was so nice;  1412

The scalps of many, almost hid behind,

To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind.

Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head,

His nose being shadow’d by his neighbour’s ear;

Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n and red;  1417

Another smother’d, seems to pelt and swear;

And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,

As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words,  1420

It seem’d they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there;

Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,

That for Achilles’ image stood his spear,  1424

Grip’d in an armed hand; himself behind,

Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:

A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,

Stood for the whole to be imagined.  1428

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy,

When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to field,

Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy

To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;  1432

And to their hope they such odd action yield,

That through their light joy seemed to appear,—

Like bright things stain’d—a kind of heavy fear.

And, from the strand of Dardan, where they fought,  1436

To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran,

Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

With swelling ridges; and their ranks began

To break upon the galled shore, and than  1440

Retire again, till meeting greater ranks

They join and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,

To find a face where all distress is stell’d.  1444

Many she sees where cares have carved some,

But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d,

Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes,

Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies.  1449

In her the painter had anatomiz’d

Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign:

Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis’d;  1452

Of what she was no semblance did remain;

Her blue blood chang’d to black in every vein,

Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,

Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead.  1456

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,

And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes,

Who nothing wants to answer her but cries,

And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:  1460

The painter was no god to lend her those;

And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,

To give her so much grief and not a tongue.

‘Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘without a sound,

I’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,

And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound,

And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,

And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,  1468

And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes

Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

‘Show me the strumpet that began this stir,

That with my nails her beauty I may tear.  1472

Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur

This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear:

Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here;

And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,

The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die.

‘Why should the private pleasure of some one

Become the public plague of many moe?

Let sin, alone committed, light alone  1480

Upon his head that hath transgressed so;

Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe;

For one’s offence why should so many fall,

To plague a private sin in general?  1484

‘Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,

Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds,

Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,

And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,

And one man’s lust these many lives confounds:

Had doting Priam check’d his son’s desire,

Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.’

Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes;

For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,  1493

Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes;

Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:

So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell  1496

To pencil’d pensiveness and colour’d sorrow;

She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,

And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament:

At last she sees a wretched image bound,  1501

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent;

His face, though full of cares, yet show’d content;

Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,

So mild, that Patience seem’d to scorn his woes.

In him the painter labour’d with his skill  1506

To hide deceit, and give the harmless show

An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,

A brow unbent that seem’d to welcome woe;

Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so

That blushing red no guilty instance gave,

Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

But, like a constant and confirmed devil,  1513

He entertain’d a show so seeming-just,

And therein so ensconc’d his secret evil,

That jealousy itself could not mistrust  1516

False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust

Into so bright a day such black-fac’d storms,

Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.  1519

The well-skill’d workman this mild image drew

For perjur’d Sinon, whose enchanting story

The credulous old Priam after slew;

Whose words, like wildfire, burnt the shining glory

Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,  1524

And little stars shot from their fixed places,

When their glass fell wherein they view’d their faces.

This picture she advisedly perus’d,

And child the painter for his wondrous skill,  1528

Saying, some shape in Sinon’s was abus’d;

So fair a form lodg’d not a mind so ill:

And still on him she gaz’d, and gazing still,

Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,

That she concludes the picture was belied.

‘It cannot be,’ quoth she, ‘that so much guile,’—

She would have said,—‘can lurk in such a look;’

But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the while,  1536

And from her tongue ‘can lurk’ from ‘cannot’ took:

‘It cannot be,’ she in that sense forsook,

And turn’d it thus, ‘It cannot be, I find,

But such a face should bear a wicked mind:

‘For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,  1541

So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,

As if with grief or travail he had fainted,

To me came Tarquin armed; so beguil’d  1544

With outward honesty, but yet defil’d

With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,

So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.

‘Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,

To see those borrow’d tears that Sinon sheds!

Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise?

For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds:

His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds;

Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,  1553

Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.

‘Such devils steal effects from lightless hell;

For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,  1556

And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell;

These contraries such unity do hold,

Only to flatter fools and make them bold:

So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth flatter,  1560

That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.’

Here, all enrag’d, such passion her assails,

That patience is quite beaten from her breast.

She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,

Comparing him to that unhappy guest  1565

Whose deed hath made herself herself detest:

At last she smilingly with this gives o’er;

‘Fool, fool!’ quoth she, ‘his wounds will not be sore.’  1568

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,

And time doth weary time with her complaining.

She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow,

And both she thinks too long with her remaining:  1572

Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining:

Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps;

And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.

Which all this time hath overslipp’d her thought,  1576

That she with painted images hath spent;

Being from the feeling of her own grief brought

By deep surmise of others’ detriment;

Losing her woes in shows of discontent.  1580

It easeth some, though none it ever cur’d,

To think their dolour others have endur’d.

But now the mindful messenger, come back,

Brings home his lord and other company;  1584

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black;

And round about her tear-distained eye

Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky:

These water-galls in her dim element  1588

Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,

Amazedly in her sad face he stares:

Her eyes, though sod in tears, look’d red and raw,  1592

Her lively colour kill’d with deadly cares.

He hath no power to ask her how she fares:

Both stood like old acquaintance in a trance,

Met far from home, wondering each other’s chance.  1596

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,

And thus begins: ‘What uncouth ill event

Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand?

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?  1600

Why art thou thus attir’d in discontent?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.’

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,

Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:

At length address’d to answer his desire,

She modestly prepares to let them know

Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe;  1608

While Collatine and his consorted lords

With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her watery nest

Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.  1612

‘Few words,’ quoth she, ‘shall fit the trespass best,

Where no excuse can give the fault amending:

In me moe woe than words are now depending;

And my laments would be drawn out too long,

To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.

‘Then be this all the task it hath to say:

Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed

A stranger came, and on that pillow lay  1620

Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head;

And what wrong else may be imagined

By foul enforcement might be done to me,

From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.  1624

‘For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,

With shining falchion in my chamber came

A creeping creature with a flaming light,

And softly cried, “Awake, thou Roman dame,

And entertain my love; else lasting shame  1629

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,

If thou my love’s desire do contradict.

‘ “For some hard-favour’d groom of thine,” quoth he,  1632

“Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,

I’ll murder straight, and then I’ll slaughter thee,

And swear I found you where you did fulfil

The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill  1636

The lechers in their deed: this act will be

My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.”

‘With this I did begin to start and cry,

And then against my heart he set his sword,

Swearing, unless I took all patiently,  1641

I should not live to speak another word;

So should my shame still rest upon record,

And never be forgot in mighty Rome  1644

The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

‘Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,

And far the weaker with so strong a fear:

My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak;

No rightful plea might plead for justice there:

His scarlet lust came evidence to swear

That my poor beauty had purloin’d his eyes;

And when the judge is robb’d the prisoner dies.  1652

‘O! teach me how to make mine own excuse,

Or, at the least, this refuge let me find;

Though my gross blood be stain’d with this abuse,

Immaculate and spotless is my mind;  1656

That was not forc’d; that never was inclin’d

To accessary yieldings, but still pure

Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.’

Lo! here the helpless merchant of this loss,  1660

With head declin’d, and voice damm’d up with woe,

With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across,

From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow

The grief away that stops his answer so:  1664

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain;

What he breathes out his breath drinks up again.

As through an arch the violent roaring tide

Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,

Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride  1669

Back to the strait that forc’d him on so fast;

In rage sent out, recall’d in rage, being past:

Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw,

To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.  1673

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,

And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh:

‘Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth

Another power; no flood by raining slaketh.

My woe too sensible thy passion maketh  1678

More feeling-painful: let it then suffice

To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes.

‘And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,

For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me:

Be suddenly revenged on my foe,

Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost defend me  1684

From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me

Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die;

For sparing justice feeds iniquity.

‘Butere I name him, you, fair lords,’ quoth she,—

Speaking to those that came with Collatine,—

‘Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,

With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine;

For ’tis a meritorious fair design  1692

To chase injustice with revengeful arms:

Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies’ harms.

At this request, with noble disposition

Each present lord began to promise aid,  1696

As bound in knighthood to her imposition,

Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray’d:

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,

The protestation stops. ‘O! speak,’ quoth she,

‘How may this forced stain be wip’d from me?  1701

‘What is the quality of mine offence,

Being constrain’d with dreadful circumstance?

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,

My low-declined honour to advance?  1705

May any terms acquit me from this chance?

The poison’d fountain clears itself again;

And why not I from this compelled stain?’

With this, they all at once began to say,  1709

Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears;

While with a joyless smile she turns away

The face, that map which deep impression bears

Of hard misfortune, carv’d in it with tears.  1713

‘No, no, quoth she, ‘no dame, hereafter living,

By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.’

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,

She throws forth Tarquin’s name, ‘He, he,’ she says,  1717

But more than ‘he’ her poor tongue could not speak;

Till after many accents and delays,

Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,

She utters this, ‘He, he, fair lords, ’tis he,

That guides this hand to give this wound to me.’

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast

A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheath’d:  1724

That blow did bail it from the deep unrest

Of that polluted prison where it breath’d;

Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath’d

Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly  1728

Life’s lasting date from cancell’d destiny.

Stone-still, astonish’d with this deadly deed,

Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;

Till Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed,  1732

Himself on her self-slaughter’d body threw;

And from the purple fountain Brutus drew

The murderous knife, and as it left the place,

Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide

In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood

Circles her body in on every side,

Who, like a late-sack’d island, vastly stood,  1740

Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.

Some of her blood still pure and red remain’d,

And some look’d black, and that false Tarquin stain’d.

About the mourning and congealed face,  1744

Of that black blood a watery rigol goes,

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place:

And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes,

Corrupted blood some watery token shows;

And blood untainted still doth red abide,

Blushing at that which is so putrified.

‘Daughter, dear daughter!’ old Lucretius cries,

That life was mine which thou hast here depriv’d  1752

If in the child the father’s image lies,

Where shall I live now Lucrece is unliv’d?

Thou wast not to this end from me deriv’d.

If children predecease progenitors,  1756

We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

‘Poor broken glass, I often did behold

In thy sweet semblance my old age new born;

But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,

Shows me a bare-bon’d death by time outworn.

O! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,

And shiver’d all the beauty of my glass,

That I no more can see what once I was.  1764

‘O Time! cease thou thy course, and last no longer,

If they surcease to be that should survive.

Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,

And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?  1768

The old bees die, the young possess their hive:

Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see

Thy father die, and not thy father thee!’

By this, starts Collatine as from a dream,  1772

And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;

And then in key-cold Lucrece’ bleeding stream

He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,

And counterfeits to die with her a space;  1776

Till manly shame bids him possess his breath

And live to be revenged on her death.

The deep vexation of his inward soul

Hath serv’d a dumb arrest upon his tongue;

Who, mad that sorrow should his use control

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,

Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng

Weak words so thick, come in his poor heart’s aid,  1784

That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime ‘Tarquin’ was pronounced plain,

But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.

This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,  1788

Held back his sorrow’s tide to make it more;

At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er:

Then son and father weep with equal strife

Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.  1792

The one doth call her his, the other his,

Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.

The father says, ‘She’s mine.’ ‘O! mine she is,’

Replies her husband; ‘do not take away  1796

My sorrow’s interest; let no mourner say

He weeps for her, for she was only mine,

And only must be wail’d by Collatine.’

‘O!’ quoth Lucretius, ‘I did give that life  1800

Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.’

‘Woe, woe,’ quoth Collatine, ‘she was my wife,

I ow’d her, and ’tis mine that she hath kill’d.’

‘My daughter’ and ‘my wife’ with clamours fill’d  1804

The dispers’d air, who, holding Lucrece’ life,

Answer’d their cries, ‘my daughter’ and ‘my wife.’

Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ side,

Seeing such emulation in their woe,  1808

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,

Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show.

He with the Romans was esteemed so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,  1812

For sportive words and uttering foolish things:

But now he throws that shallow habit by,

Wherein deep policy did him disguise;

And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly,  1816

To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes.

‘Thou wronged lord of Rome,’ quoth he, ‘arise:

Let my unsounded self, suppos’d a fool,

Now set thy long-experienc’d wit to school.

‘Why, Collatine, is woe the oure for woe?  1821

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?

Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds:  1825

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

‘Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart

In such relenting dew of lamentations;  1829

But kneel with me and help to bear thy part,

To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,

That they will suffer these abominations,  1832

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac’d,

By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas’d.

‘Now, by the Capitol that we adore,

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain’d,

By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store,  1837

By all our country rights in Rome maintain’d,

And by chaste Lucrece’ soul, that late complain’d

Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,  1840

We will revenge the death of this true wife.’

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,

And kiss’d the fatal knife to end his vow;

And to his protestation urg’d the rest,  1844

Who, wondering at him, did his words allow:

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow;

And that deep vow, which Brutus made before,

He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

When they had sworn to this advised doom,

They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;

To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,

And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence:  1852

Which being done with speedy diligence,

The Romans plausibly did give consent

To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment.

Ann Hathawy’s Cottage by W.W. Quatremain.

SONNETS

to the onlie · begetter · of · these · insuing · sonnets, Mr. w. h., all happinesse and that · eternitie promised · by · our ever-living poet · wisheth · the well-wishing · adventurer in setting · forth.

T. T.

I.

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:  4

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,  10

Within thine own bud buriest thy content

And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,

Thy youth’s proud livery, so gaz’d on now,

Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:

Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,  6

To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,

If thou couldst answer, ‘This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’

Proving his beauty by succession thine!  12

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

Now is the time that face should form another;

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother,

For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?  6

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb

Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.  12

But if thou live, remember’d not to be,

Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?

Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,

And being frank, she lends to those are free:

Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

The bounteous largess given thee to give?  6

Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?

For having traffic with thyself alone,

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:

Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,

What acceptable audit canst thou leave?  12

Thy unus’d beauty must be tomb’d with thee,

Which used, lives th’ executor to be.

V.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Will play the tyrants to the very same

And that unfair which fairly doth excel;

For never-resting time leads summer on  5

To hideous winter, and confounds him there;

Sap check’d with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,

Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where:

Then, were not summer’s distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:  12

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,

Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI.

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.

That use is not forbidden usury,  5

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

That’s for thyself to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee;

Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?  12

Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair

To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,  6

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage;

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,

The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are

From his low tract, and look another way:  12

So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,

Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:

Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,

Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

By unions married, do offend thine ear,  6

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;

Resembling sire and child and happy mother,

Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:  12

Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,

Sing this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’

IX.

Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye

That thou consum’st thyself in single life?

Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;

The world will be thy widow, and still weep

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,  6

When every private widow well may keep

By children’s eyes her husband’s shape in mind.

Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,

And kept unus’d, the user so destroys it.  12

No love toward others in that bosom sits

That on himself such murderous shame commits.

X.

For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,

Who for thyself art so unprovident.

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many,

But that thou none lov’st is most evident;

For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate

That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire,  6

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate

Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:

Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love?

Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:  12

Make thee another self, for love of me,

That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st

In one of thine, from that which thou departest;

And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st

Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase;

Without this, folly, age and cold decay:  6

If all were minded so, the times should cease

And threescore yearr would make the world away.

Let these whom Nature hath not made for store,

Harsh, featureless and rude, barrenly perish:

Look, whom she best endow’d she gave the more;

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:  12

She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby

Thou shouldst print more, nor let that copy die.

XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls, all silver’d o’er with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,  6

And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;  12

And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

XIII.

O! that you were yourself; but, love, you are

No longer yours than you yourself here live:

Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your sweet semblance to some other give:

So should that beauty which you hold in lease

Find no determination; then you were  6

Yourself again, after yourself’s decease,

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold

Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?  12

O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know

You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;

And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,  5

Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,

Or say with princes if it shall go well,

By oft predict that I in heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And, constant stars, in them I read such art

As ‘Truth and beauty shall together thrive,  11

If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;’

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

‘Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.’

XV.

When I consider every thing that grows

Holds in perfection but a little moment,

That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,  5

Cheered and check’d e’en by the self-same sky,

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

And wear their brave state out of memory;

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,  11

To change your day of youth to sullied night;

And, all in war with Time for love of you,

As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rime?

Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,  6

With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers

Much liker than your painted counterfeit:

So should the lines of life that life repair,

Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.  12

To give away yourself keeps yourself still;

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes  5

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies;

Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’

So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,

Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:  12

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice,—in it and in my rime.

XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;  6

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;  12

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,

And burn the long-liv’d phœnix in her blood;

Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,

And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,  6

To the wide world and all her fading sweets;

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

O! carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

Him in thy course untainted do allow

For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.  12

Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XX.

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted

Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;

A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  6

A man in hue all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated,

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.  12

But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,

Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.

XXI.

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,

Making a couplement of proud compare,

With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,  6

With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare

That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.

O! let me, true in love, but truly write,

And then believe me, my love is as fair

As any mother’s child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:  12

Let them say more that like of hear-say well;

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

So long as youth and thou are of one date;

But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,  6

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

How can I then, be elder than thou art?

O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

As I, not for myself, but for thee will;

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.  12

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;

Thou gav’st me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,  6

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O’ercharg’d with burden of mine own love’s might.

O! let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.  12

O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d

Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,

And perspective it is best painter’s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictur’d lies,  6

Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;  12

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.

Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,  6

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foil’d,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d:  12

Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,

Where I may not remove nor be remov’d.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written ambassage,

To witness duty, not to show my wit:

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,  6

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it;

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

Points on me graciously with fair aspect,

And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving,

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:  12

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head

To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d:

For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,  6

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see:

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.  12

Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,

That am debarr’d the benefit of rest?

When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night,

But day by night, and night by day oppress’d,

And each, though enemies to either’s reign,

Do in consent shake hands to torture me,  6

The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still further off from thee.

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:

So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night;

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even.  12

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

And night doth nightly make grief’s strength seem stronger.

XXIX.

When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,  6

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee,—and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;  12

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,  5

For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,

And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.  12

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

XXXI.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;

And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear  5

Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,

As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things remov’d that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Who all their parts of me to thee did give,

That due of many now is thine alone:  12

Their images I lov’d I view in thee,

And thou—all they—hast all the all of me.

XXXII.

If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bettering of the time,

And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,  6

Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:  12

But since he died, and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.’

XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face,  6

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

Even so my sun one early morn did shine,

With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;

But, out! alack! he was but one hour mine,  11

The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

XXXIV.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,  6

For no man well of such a salve can speak

That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:

The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.  12

Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV.

No more be griev’d at that which thou hast done:

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,

Authorising thy trespass with compare,  6

Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,—

Thy adverse party is thy advocate,—

And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence:

Such civil war is in my love and hate,  12

That I an accessary needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

XXXVI.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,

Although our undivided loves are one:

So shall those blots that do with me remain,

Without thy help, by me be borne alone.

In our two loves there is but one respect,

Though in our lives a separable spite,  6

Which, though it alter not love’s sole effect,

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee,

Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,

Nor thou with public kindness honour me,  11

Unless thou take that honour from thy name:

But do not so; I love thee in such sort

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVII.

As a decrepit father takes delight

To see his active child do deeds of youth,

So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite,

Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,

Or any of these all, or all, or more,  6

Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,

I make my love engrafted to this store:

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis’d,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give

That I in thy abundance am suffic’d

And by a part of all thy glory live.  12

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:

This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

XXXVIII.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy persual stand against thy sight;  6

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rimers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.  12

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX.

O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,

When thou art all the better part of me?

What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?

And what is ’t but mine own when I praise thee?

Even for this let us divided live,

And our dear love lose name of single one,  6

That by this separation I may give

That due to thee, which thou deserv’st alone.

O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,

Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave

To entertain the time with thoughts of love,

Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,  12

And that thou teachest how to make one twain,

By praising him here who doth hence remain.

XL.

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;

What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;

All mine was thine before thou hadst this more

Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;  6

But yet be blam’d, if thou thyself deceivest

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

Although thou steal thee all my poverty;

And yet, love knows it is a greater grief  11

To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

XLI.

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,

When I am sometimes absent from thy heart,

Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,

For still temptation follows where thou art.

Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,

Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail’d;  6

And when a woman woos, what woman’s son

Will sourly leave her till she have prevail’d?

Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,

And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,

Who lead thee in their riot even there

Where thou art forc’d to break a twofold truth;—  12

Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,

Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

XLII.

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,

And yet it may be said I lov’d her dearly;

That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,

A loss in love that touches me more nearly.

Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:

Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her;  6

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,

Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.

If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain,

And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;

Both find each other, and I lose both twain,

And both for my sake lay on me this cross:  12

But here’s the joy; my friend and I are one;

Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

XLIII.

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,

For all the day they view things unrespected;

But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,

And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.

Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,

How would thy shadow’s form form happy show  6

To the clear day with thy much clearer light,

When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made

By looking on thee in the living day,

When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade

Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!  12

All days are nights to see till I see thee,

And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

XLIV.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,

Injurious distance should not stop my way;

For then, despite of space, I would be brought,

From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.

No matter then although my foot did stand

Upon the furthest earth remov’d from thee;  6

For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,

As soon as think the place where he would be.

But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,

To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,

But that, so much of earth and water wrought,

I must attend time’s leisure with my moan;  12

Receiving nought by elements so slow

But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

XLV.

The other two, slight air and purging fire,

Are both with thee, wherever I abide;

The first my thought, the other my desire,

These present-absent with swift motion slide.

For when these quicker elements are gone

In tender embassy of love to thee,  6

My life, being made of four, with two alone

Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;

Until life’s composition be recur’d

By those sweet messengers return’d from thee,

Who even but now come back again, assur’d

Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:  12

This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,

I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

XLVI.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,

How to divide the conquest of thy sight;

Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,

My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.

My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,—

A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes,—  6

But the defendant doth that plea deny,

And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To ’cide this title is impannelled

A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;

And by their verdict is determined

The clear eye’s moiety and the dear heart’s part:  12

As thus; mine eye’s due is thine outward part,

And my heart’s right thine inward love of heart.

XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,

And each doth good turns now unto the other:

When that mine eye is famish’d for a look,

Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,

With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast,

And to the painted banquet bids my heart;  6

Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest,

And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:

So, either by thy picture or my love,

Thyself away art present still with me;

For thou not further than my thoughts canst move,  11

And I am still with them and they with thee;

Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight

Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight.

XLVIII.

How careful was I when I took my way,

Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,

That to my use it might unused stay

From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!

But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,

Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,  6

Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest,

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,

Within the gentle closure of my breast,

From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;  12

And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear,

For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX.

Against that time, if ever that time come,

When I shall see thee frown on my defects,

When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,

Call’d to that audit by advis’d respects;

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,  5

And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,

When love, converted from the thing it was,

Shall reasons find of settled gravity;

Against that time do I ensconce me here

Within the knowledge of mine own desert,

And this my hand against myself uprear,

To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:  12

To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,

Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,

When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,

Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,

‘Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend!’

The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,

Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,  6

As if by some instinct the wretch did know

His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee:

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,

Which heavily he answers with a groan

More sharp to me than spurring to his side;  12

For that same groan doth put this in my mind:

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

LI.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:

From where thou art why should I haste me thence?

Till I return, of posting is no need.

O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,

When swift extremity can seem but slow?  6

Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,

In winged speed no motion shall I know:

Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;

Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made,

Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race;  11

But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,—

‘Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,

Towards thee I’ll run and give him leave to go.’

LII.

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,

The which he will not every hour survey,

For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,

Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,  6

Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,

Or captain jewels in the carconet.

So is the time that keeps you as my chest,

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,

To make some special instant special blest

By new unfolding his imprison’d pride.  12

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,

Being had, to triumph; being lack’d, to hope.

LIII.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since every one hath, every one, one shade,

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

Is poorly imitated after you;  6

On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,

And you in Grecian tires are painted new:

Speak of the spring and foison of the year,

The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

The other as your bounty doth appear;

And you in every blessed shape we know.  12

In all external grace you have some part,

But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV.

O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

As the perfumed tincture of the roses,  6

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly

When summer’s breath their masked buds discloses:

But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade;

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;  11

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime;

But you shall shine more bright in these contents

Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.

When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,  6

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn

The living record of your memory.

’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room

Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom.  12

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,

Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d,

To-morrow sharpen’d in his former might:

So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill

Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,  6

To-morrow see again, and do not kill

The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.

Let this sad interim like the ocean be

Which parts the shore, where two contracted new

Come daily to the banks, that, when they see

Return of love, more bless’d may be the view;  12

Or call it winter, which, being full of care,

Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more rare.

LVII.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour  5

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,  10

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,

Save, where you are how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love that in your will,

Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That god forbid that made me first your slave,

I should in thought control your times of pleasure,

Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,

Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!

O! let me suffer, being at your beck,

The imprison’d absence of your liberty;  6

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,

Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list, your charter is so strong

That you yourself may privilege your time

To what you will; to you it doth belong

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.  12

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,

Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that which is

Hath been before, how are our brains beguil’d,

Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss

The second burden of a former child!

O! that record could with a backward look,

Even of five hundred courses of the sun,  6

Show me your image in some antique book,

Since mind at first in character was done!

That I might see what the old world could say

To this composed wonder of your frame;

Whe’r we are mended, or whe’r better they,

Or whether revolution be the same.  12

O! sure I am, the wits of former days

To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,  6

Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,  11

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXI.

Is it thy will thy image should keep open

My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

While shadows; like to thee, do mock my sight?

Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee

So far from home, into my deeds to pry,  6

To find out shames and idle hours in me,

The scope and tenour of thy jealousy?

O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:

It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;

Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,

To play the watchman ever for thy sake:  12

For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,

From me far off, with others all too near.

LXII.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

And all my soul and all my every part;

And for this sin there is no remedy,

It is so grounded inward in my heart.

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,

No shape so true, no truth of such account;  6

And for myself mine own worth do define,

As I all other in all worths surmount.

But when my glass shows me myself indeed,

Beated and chopp’d with tann’d antiquity,

Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;

Self so self-loving were iniquity.  12

’Tis thee, myself,—that for myself I praise,

Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,

With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn;

When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn

Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night;

And all those beauties whereof now he’s king  6

Are vanishing or vanish’d out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of his spring;

For such a time do I now fortify

Against confounding age’s cruel knife,

That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:  12

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’d

The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;

When sometime lofty towers I see downraz’d,

And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,  6

And the firm soil win of the watery main,

Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;

When I have seen such interchange of state,

Or state itself confounded to decay;

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate—

That Time will come and take my love away.  12

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose

But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

LXV.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

But sad mortality o’ersways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

Against the wrackful siege of battering days,  6

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?  12

O! none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI.

Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry

As to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,  6

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:  12

Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII.

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,

And with his presence grace impiety,

That sin by him advantage should achieve,

And lace itself with his society?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,

And steal dead seeing of his living hue?  6

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,

Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins?

For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.  12

O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had

In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,

When beauty liv’d and died as flowers do now,

Before these bastard signs of fair were born,

Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,

The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,  6

To live a second life on second head;

Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:

In him those holy antique hours are seen,

Without all ornament, itself and true,

Making no summer of another’s green,

Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;  12

And him as for a map doth Nature store,

To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX.

Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view

Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;

All tongues—the voice of souls—give thee that due,

Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d;

But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,  6

In other accents do this praise confound

By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind,

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;

Then,—churls,—their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,  11

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:

But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,

The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

LXX.

That thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect,

For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater, being woo’d of time;  6

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.

Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young days,

Either not assail’d, or victor being charg’d;

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

To tie up envy evermore enlarg’d:  12

If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so,  6

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O! if,—I say, you look upon this verse,

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay;  12

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII.

O! lest the world should task you to recite

What merit lived in me, that you should love

After my death,—dear love, forget me quite,

For you in me can nothing worthy prove;

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,

To do more for me than mine own desert,  6

And hang more praise upon deceased I

Than niggard truth would willingly impart:

O! lest your true love may seem false in this,

That you for love speak well of me untrue,

My name be buried where my body is,

And live no more to shame nor me nor you.  12

For I am sham’d by that which I bring forth,

And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;  6

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire  11

Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arrest

Without all bail shall carry me away,

My life hath in this line some interest,

Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

The very part was consecrate to thee:  6

The earth can have but earth, which is his due;

My spirit is thine, the better part of me:

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

The prey of worms, my body being dead;

The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,

Too base of thee to be remembered.  12

The worth of that is that which it contains,

And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground;

And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon  5

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;

Now counting best to be with you alone,

Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure:

Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight,

And by and by clean starved for a look;

Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.  12

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,

So far from variation or quick change?

Why with the time do I not glance aside

To new-found methods and to compounds strange?

Why write I still all one, ever the same,

And keep invention in a noted weed,  6

That every word doth almost tell my name,

Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?

O! know, sweet love, I always write of you,

And you and love are still my argument;

So all my best is dressing old words new,

Spending again what is already spent:  12

For as the sun is daily new and old,

So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,

Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;

The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,

And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.

The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show

Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;  6

Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know

Time’s thievish progress to eternity.

Look! what thy memory cannot contain,

Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find

Those children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain,

To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.  12

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,

Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII.

So oft have I invok’d thee for my Muse

And found such fair assistance in my verse

As every alien pen hath got my use

And under thee their poesy disperse.

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing

And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,  6

Have added feathers to the learned’s wing

And given grace a double majesty.

Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:

In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,

And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;  12

But thou art all my art, and dost advance

As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIX.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;

But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,

And my sick muse doth give another place.

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;  6

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent

He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.

He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,

And found it in thy cheek; he can afford

No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.  12

Then thank him not for that which he doth say,

Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

LXXX.

O! how I faint when I of you do write,

Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

And in the praise thereof spends all his might.

To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!

But since your worth—wide as the ocean is,—

The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,  6

My saucy bark, inferior far to his,

On your broad main doth wilfully appear.

Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,

Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;

Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat,

He of tall building and of goodly pride:  12

Then if he thrive and I be cast away,

The worst was this;—my love was my decay.

LXXXI.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;

From hence your memory death cannot take,

Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:  6

The earth can yield me but a common grave,

When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie.

Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read;

And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,  11

When all the breathers of this world are dead;

You still shall live,—such virtue hath my pen,—

Where breath most breathes,—even in the mouths of men.

LXXXII.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,

And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook

The dedicated words which writers use

Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;  6

And therefore art enforc’d to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.

And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized  11

In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;

And their gross painting might be better used

Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus’d.

LXXXIII.

I never saw that you did painting need,

And therefore to your fair no painting set;

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed

The barren tender of a poet’s debt:

And therefore have I slept in your report,

That you yourself, being extant, well might show  6

How far a modern quill doth come too short,

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.

This silence for my sin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;

For I impair not beauty being mute,  11

When others would give life, and bring a tomb.

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes

Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV.

Who is it that says most? which can say more

Than this rich praise,—that you alone are you?

In whose confine immured is the store

Which should example where your equal grew.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell  5

That to his subject lends not some small glory;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admired every where.  12

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

LXXXV.

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,

Whilst comments of your praise, richly compil’d,

Deserve their character with golden quill,

And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d.

I think good thoughts, while others write good words,

And, like unletter’d clerk, still cry ‘Amen’  6

To every hymn that able spirit affords,

In polish’d form of well-refined pen.

Hearing you prais’d, I say, ‘’Tis so, ’tis true,’

And to the most of praise add something more;

But that is in my thought, whose love to you,

Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.  12

Then others for the breath of words respect,

Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write

Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?  6

No, neither he, nor his compeers by night

Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost

Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,

As victors of my silence cannot boast;

I was not sick of any fear from thence:  12

But when your countenance fill’d up his line,

Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:

The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;

My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?

And for that riches where is my deserving?  6

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

And so my patent back again is swerving.

Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,

Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

Comes home again, on better judgment making.  12

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,

In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light,

And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight,

And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.

With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,

Upon thy part I can set down a story  6

Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted;

That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:

And I by this will be a gainer too;

For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,

The injuries that to myself I do,

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.  12

Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

And I will comment upon that offence:

Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

Against thy reasons making no defence.

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,

To set a form upon desired change,  6

As I’ll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,

I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;

Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue

Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,

Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,

And haply of our old acquaintance tell.  12

For thee, against myself I’ll vow debate,

For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

And do not drop in for an after-loss:

Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scap’d this sorrow,

Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe;  6

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

To linger out a purpos’d overthrow.

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

When other petty griefs have done their spite,

But in the onset come: so shall I taste

At first the very worst of fortune’s might;  12

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

Compar’d with loss of thee will not seem so.

XCI.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force;

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:  6

But these particulars are not my measure;

All these I better in one general best.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,

Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast:  12

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take

All this away, and me most wretched make.

XCII.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

For term of life thou art assured mine;

And life no longer than thy love will stay,

For it depends upon that love of thine.

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

When in the least of them my life hath end.  6

I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend:

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

O! what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die:  12

But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband; so love’s face

May still seem love to me, though alter’d new;

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:

For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.  6

In many’s looks the false heart’s history

Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange,

But heaven in thy creation did decree

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.  12

How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have power to hurt and will do none,

That do not do the thing they most do show,

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,

And husband nature’s riches from expense;  6

They are the lords and owners of their faces,

Others but stewards of their excellence.

The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,

Though to itself it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity:  12

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

XCV.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.

That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

Making lascivious comments on thy sport,  6

Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;

Naming thy name blesses an ill report.

O! what a mansion have those vices got

Which for their habitation chose out thee,

Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot

And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!  12

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and less:

Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.

As on the finger of a throned queen

The basest jewel will be well esteem’d,  6

So are those errors that in thee are seen

To truths translated and for true things deem’d.

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,

If like a lamb he could his looks translate!

How many gasers mightst thou lead away,

If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!  12

But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December’s bareness every where!

And yet this time remov’d was summer’s time;

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,  6

Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:

Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me

But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And, thou away, the very birds are mute:  12

Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue,  6

Could make me any summer’s story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:

Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.  12

Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide:

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,  6

And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,

And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth  12

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

In gentle numbers time so idly spent;  6

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,

If Time have any wrinkle graven there;

If any, be a satire to decay,

And make Time’s spoils despised every where.  12

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;

So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d?

Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,  5

‘Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d;

Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;

But best is best, if never intermix’d?’

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse not silence so; for ’t lies in thee

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb

And to be prais’d of ages yet to be.  12

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how

To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII.

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;

I love not less, though less the show appear:

That love is merchandiz’d whose rich esteeming

The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays;  6

As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,

And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:

Not that the summer is less pleasant now

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,

But that wild music burthens every bough,

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.  12

Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,

Because I would not dull you with my song.

CIII.

Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,

That having such a scope to show her pride,

The argument, all bare, is of more worth

Than when it hath my added praise beside!

O! blame me not, if I no more can write!

Look in your glass, and there appears a face  6

That over-goes my blunt invention quite,

Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

To mar the subject that before was well?

For to no other pass my verses tend

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;  12

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,

Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d

In process of the seasons have I seen,  6

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:  12

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:

Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

CV.

Let not my love be call’d idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idol show,

Since all alike my scngs and praises be

To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence;  6

Therefore my verse, to constancy confin’d,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

‘Fair, kind, and true,’ is all my argument,

‘Fair, kind, and true,’ varying to other words;

And in this change is my invention spent,

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.  12

‘Fair, kind, and true,’ have often liv’d alone,

Which three till now never kept seat in one.

CVI.

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rime,

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,  6

I see their antique pen would have express’d

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

And, for they look’d but with divining eyes,  11

They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

For we, which now behold these present days,

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;  6

Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rime,  11

While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII.

What’s in the brain, that ink may character,

Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit?

What’s new to speak, what new to register,

That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o’er the very same;  6

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love’s fresh case

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page;  12

Finding the first conceit of love there bred,

Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX.

O! never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify.

As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:

That is my home of love: if I have rang’d,

Like him that travels, I return again;  6

Just to the time, not with the time exchang’d,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never believe, though in my nature reign’d

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so preposterously be stain’d,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;  12

For nothing this wide universe I call,

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

CX.

Alas! ’tis true I have gone here and there,

And made myself a motley to the view,

Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old effences of affections new;

Most true it is that I have look’d on truth

Askance and strangely; but, by all above,  6

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays prov’d thee my best of love.

Now all is done, save what shall have no end:

Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confin’d.  12

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI.

O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

That did not better for my life provide

Than public means which public manners breeds.

Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,

And almost thence my nature is subdu’d  6

To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:

Pity me, then, and wish I were renew’d;

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink

Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection;

No bitterness that I will bitter think,

Nor double penance, to correct correction.  12

Pity me, then, dear friend, and I assure ye

Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

CXII.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill

Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow;

For what care I who calls me well or ill,

So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?

You are my all-the-world, and I must strive

To know my shames and praises from your tongue;  6

None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong.

In so profound abysm I throw all care

Of other’s voices, that my adder’s sense

To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:  12

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

That all the world besides methinks are dead.

CXIII.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

And that which governs me to go about

Doth part his function and is partly blind,

Seems seeing, but effectually is out;

For it no form delivers to the heart  5

Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;

For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,

The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,

The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:  12

Incapable of more, replete with you,

My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

CXIV.

Or whether doth my mind being crown’d with you,

Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery?

Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,

And that your love taught it this alchymy,

To make of monsters and things indigest

Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,  6

Creating every bad a perfect best,

As fast as objects to his beams assemble?

O! ’tis the first, ’tis flattery in my seeing,

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,

And to his palate doth prepare the cup:  12

If it be poison’d, ’tis the lesser sin

That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

CXV.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

Yet then my judgment knew no reason why

My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.

But reckoning Time, whose million’d accidents

Creep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,  6

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,

Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;

Alas! why, fearing of Time’s tyranny,

Might I not then say, ‘Now I love you best,’

When I was certain o’er incertainty,

Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?  12

Love is a babe; then might I not say so,

To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  6

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  12

If this be error, and upon me prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d

CXVII.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

That I have frequent been with unknown minds,

And given to time your own dear-purchas’d right;

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds  7

Which should transport me furthest from your sight.

Book both my wilfulness and errors down,

And on just proof surmise accumulate;

Bring me within the level of your frown,

But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate;  12

Since my appeal says I did strive to prove

The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIII.

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

With eager compounds we our palate urge;

As, to prevent our maladies unseen,

We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;

Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;  6

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

To be diseas’d, ere that there was true needing.

Thus policy in love, to anticipate

The ills that were not, grew to faults assur’d,

And brought to medicine a healthful state,  11

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur’d;

But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,

Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!  6

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,

In the distraction of this madding fever!

O benefit of ill! now I find true

That better is by evil still made better;

And ruin’d love, when it is built anew,  11

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuk’d to my content,

And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CXX.

That you were once unkind befriends me now,

And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,

Needs must I under my transgression bow,

Unless my nerves were brass or hammer’d steel.

For if you were by my unkindness shaken,

As I by yours, you’ve pass’d a hell of time;  6

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

To weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime.

O! that our night of woe might have remember’d

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,

And soon to you, as you to me, then tender’d  11

The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!

But that your trespass now becomes a fee;

Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

CXXI.

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,

When not to be receives reproach of being;

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’d

Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:

For why should others’ false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood?  6

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own:

I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;  12

Unless this general evil they maintain,

All men are bad and in their badness reign.

CXXII.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Full character’d with lasting memory,

Which shall above that idle rank remain,

Beyond all date, even to eternity:

Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart

Have faculty by nature to subsist;  6

Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d.

That poor retention could not so much hold,

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

To trust those tables that receive thee more:  12

To keep an adjunct to remember thee

Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

Thy pyramids built up with newer might

To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

They are but dressings of a former sight.

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire

What thou dost foist upon us that is old;  6

And rather make them born to our desire

Than think that we before have heard them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wondering at the present nor the past,

For thy records and what we see doth lie,

Made more or less by thy continual hasie.  12

This I do vow, and this shall ever be;

I will be true, despite thy soythe and thee.

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,

It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d,

As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate,

Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather’d.

No, it was builded far from accident;

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled discontent,

Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:

It fears not policy, that heretic,

Which works on leases of short number’d hours,

But all alone stands hugely politic,

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.  12

To this I witness call the fools of time,

Which die for goodness, who have liv’d for crime.

CXXV.

Were ’t aught to me I bore the canopy,

With my extern the outward honouring,

Or laid great bases for eternity,

Which prove more short than waste or ruining?

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour

Lose all and more by paying too much rent,  6

For compound sweet foregoing simple savour

Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?

No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,

And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

Which is not mix’d with seconds, knows no art,

But mutual render, only me for thee.  12

Hence, thou suborn’d informer! a true soul

When most impeach’d stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his sickle hour;

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st

Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow’st;

If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,  6

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:

Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be,

And her quietus is to render thee.  12

CXXVII.

In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;

But now is black beauty’s successive heir,

And beauty slander’d with a bastard’s shame:

For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,

Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrow’d face,  6

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profan’d if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress’ brows are raven black,

Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Sland’ring creation with a false esteem:  12

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should lookso.

CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,  6

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickl’d, they would change their state

And situation with these dancing chips,  10

O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight;

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,  6

Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad:

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof,—and prov’d, a very woe;

Before, a joy propos’d; behind, a dream.  12

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  6

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,—

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  12

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:  6

To say they err I dare not be so bold,

Although I swear it to myself alone.

And to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

One on another’s neck, do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.  12

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

Have put on black and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,  6

Nor that full star that ushers in the even,

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

O! let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.  12

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Is ’t not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engross’d:  6

Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;

A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross’d.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,

But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:  12

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV.

So, now I have confess’d that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgag’d to thy will,

Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine

Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

For thou art covetous and he is kind;  6

He learn’d but surety-like to write for me,

Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer, that putt’st forth all to use,

And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

So him I lose through my unkind abuse.  12

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:

He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;

More than enough am I that vex thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?  6

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

And in abundance addeth to his store;

So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will  11

One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind ‘No’ fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

CXXXVI.

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.  6

In things of great receipt with ease we prove

Among a number one is reckon’d none:

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy stores’ account I one must be;

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:  12

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lov’st me,—for my name is Will.

CXXXVII.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,

That they behold, and see not what they see?

They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride,  6

Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,

Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

Why should my heart think that a several plot

Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?

Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

To put fair truth upon so foul a face?  12

In things right true my heart and eyes have err’d,

And to this false plague are they now transferr’d.

CXXXVIII.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor’d youth,

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,  6

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth supprest.

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love loves not to have years told:  12

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

CXXXIX.

O! call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:

Use power with power, and slay me not by art.

Tell me thou lovest elsewhere; but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:  6

What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy might

Is more than my o’erpress’d defence can bide?

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been my enemies;

And therefore from my face she turns my foes,  11

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;—  6

As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

No news but health from their physicians know;—

For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee:

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.  12

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of view, is pleas’d to dote.

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone.  6

Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:  12

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profan’d their scarlet ornaments  6

And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.  12

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII.

Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her feather’d creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe, and makes all quick dispatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent  6

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prising her poor infant’s discontent:

So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;  12

So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,

If thou turn back and my loud-crying still.

CXLIV.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,  6

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend

Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell:  12

Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,

Breath’d forth the sound that said ‘I hate,’

To me that languish’d for her sake:

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet  6

Was us’d in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus anew to greet;

‘I hate,’ she alter’d with an end,

That follow’d it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away.  12

‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,

And sav’d my life, saying—‘Not you.’

CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Fool’d by these rebel powers that thee array,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?  6

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:  12

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease;

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,  6

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

At random from the truth vainly express’d;  12

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII.

O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,

Which have no correspondence with true sight;

Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

That censures falsely what they see aright?

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

What means the world to say it is not so?  6

If it be not, then love doth well denote

Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no.

How can it? O! how can Love’s eye be true,

That is so vex’d with watching and with tears?

No marvel then, though I mistake my view;

The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.  12

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind,

Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,

When I against myself with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?

On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?  6

Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend

Revenge upon myself with present moan?

What merit do I in myself respect,

That is so proud thy service to despire,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?  12

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;

Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

CL.

O! from what power hast thou this powerful might,

With insufficiency my heart to sway?

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

That in the very refuse of thy deeds  6

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?

Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,

The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

O! though I love what others do abhor,

With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:  12

If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me,

More worthy I to be belov’d of thee.

CLI.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;

Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:

For, thou betraying me, I do betray

My nobler part to my gross body’s treason;  6

My soul doth tell my body that he may

Triumph in love; flesh stays no further reason,

But rising at thy name doth point out thee

As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.  12

No want of conscience hold it that I call

Her ‘love’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII.

In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;

In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing.

But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,

When I break twenty? I am perjur’d most;  6

For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,

And all my honest faith in thee is lost:

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;  10

And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,

Or made them swear against the thing they are;

For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur’d I,

To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII.

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:

A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love

A dateless lively heat, still to endure,  6

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,  12

But found no cure: the bath for my help lies

Where Cupid got new fire, my mistress’ eyes.

CLIV.

The little Love-god lying once asleep

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep

Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand

The fairest votary took up that fire  5

Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d;

And so the general of hot desire

Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d.

This brand she quenched in a cool well by,

Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,

Growing a bath and healthful remedy

For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall,  12

Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,

Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.

A LOVER’S COMPLAINT

From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale;  4

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,  8

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of a beauty spent and done:

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,  12

Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven’s fell rage,

Some beauty peep’d through lattice of sear’d age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,

Which on it had conceited characters,  16

Laundering the silken figures in the brine

That season’d woe had pelleted in tears,

And often reading what content it bears;

As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe  20

In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride,

As they did battery to the spheres intend;

Sometime diverted, their poor balls are tied  24

To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend

Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

To every place at once, and nowhere fix’d,

The mind and sight distractedly commix’d.  28

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,

Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride;

For some, untuck’d, descended her sheav’d hat,

Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;  32

Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,

And true to bondage would not break from thence

Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew  36

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet,  40

Or monarch’s hands that let not bounty fall

Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,

Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore, and gave the flood;  44

Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone,

Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;

Found yet more letters sadly penn’d in blood,

With sleided silk feat and affectedly  48

Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy.

These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes,

And often kiss’d, and often ’gan to tear;

Cried ‘O false blood! thou register of lies,  52

What unapproved witness dost thou bear;

Ink would have seem’d more black and damned here.’

This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,

Big discontent so breaking their contents.  56

A reverend man that graz’d his cattle nigh—

Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew

Of court, of city, and had let go by

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew—  60

Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;

And, privileg’d by age, desires to know

In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,  64

And comely-distant sits he by her side;

When he again desires her, being sat,

Her grievance with his hearing to divide:

If that from him there may be aught applied  68

Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,

’Tis promis’d in the charity of age.

‘Father,’ she says, ‘though in me you behold

The injury of many a blasting hour,  72

Let it not tell your judgment I am old;

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:

I might as yet have been a spreading flower,

Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied  76

Love to myself and to no love beside.

‘But woe is me! too early I attended

A youthful suit, it was to gain my grace,

Of one by nature’s outwards so commended,  80

That maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face.

Love lack’d a dwelling, and made him her place;

And when in his fair parts she did abide,

She was new lodg’d and newly deified.  84

‘His browny locks did hang in crooked curls,

And every light occasion of the wind

Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.

What’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find:  88

Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,

For on his visage was in little drawn

What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

‘Small show of man was yet upon his chin;  92

His phœnix down began but to appear

Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin

Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seem’d to wear;

Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear,  96

And nice affections wavering stood in doubt

If best were as it was, or best without.

‘His qualities were beauteous as his form,

For maiden-tongu’d he was, and thereof free;  100

Yet, if men mov’d him, was he such a storm

As oft ’twixt May and April is to see,

When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.

His rudeness so with his authoriz’d youth  104

Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

‘Well could he ride, and often men would say

“That horse his mettle from his rider takes:

Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,  108

What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!”

And controversy hence a question takes,

Whether the horse by him became his deed,

Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.  112

‘But quickly on this side the verdict went:

His real habitude gave life and grace

To appertainings and to ornament,

Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case:  116

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,

Came for additions; yet their purpos’d trim

Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him.

‘So on the tip of his subduing tongue  120

All kind of arguments and question deep,

All replication prompt, and reason strong,

For his advantage still did wake and sleep:

To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,

He had the dialect and different skill,  125

Catching all passions in his craft of will:

‘That he did in the general bosom reign

Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,  128

To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain

In personal duty, following where he haunted:

Consents bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted;

And dialogu’d for him what he would say,  132

Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey.

‘Many there were that did his picture get,

To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;

Like fools that in the imagination set  136

The goodly objects which abroad they find

Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d;

And labouring in more pleasures to bestow them

Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.  140

‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand,

Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart.

My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,

And was my own fee-simple, not in part,  144

What with his art in youth, and youth in art,

Threw my affections in his charmed power,

Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower.

‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did,  148

Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;

Finding myself in honour so forbid,

With safest distance I mine honour shielded.

Experience for me many bulwarks builded  152

Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil

Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

‘But, ah! who ever shunn’d by precedent

The destin’d ill she must herself assay?  156

Or forc’d examples, ’gainst her own content,

To put the by-pass’d perils in her way?

Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;

For when we rage, advice is often seen  160

By blunting us to make our wits more keen.

‘Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,

That we must curb it upon others’ proof;

To be forbid the sweets that seem so good,  164

For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.

O appetite! from judgment stand aloof;

The one a palate hath that needs will taste,  167

Though Reason weep, and cry “It is thy last.”

‘For further I could say “This man’s untrue,”

And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;

Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew,

Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;  172

Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;

Thought characters and words merely but art,

And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

‘And long upon these terms I held my city,  176

Till thus he ’gan besiege me: “Gentle maid,

Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,

And be not of my holy vows afraid:

That’s to ye sworn to none was ever said;  180

For feasts of love I have been call’d unto,

Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo.

‘ “All my offences that abroad you see

Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;  184

Love made them not: with acture they may be,

Where neither party is nor true nor kind:

They sought their shame that so their shame did find,

And so much less of shame in me remains,  188

By how much of me their reproach contains.

‘ “Among the many that mine eyes have seen,

Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm’d,

Or my affection put to the smallest teen,  192

Or any of my leisures ever charm’d:

Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harm’d;

Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,

And reign’d, commanding in his monarchy.  196

‘ “Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,

Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood;

Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me

Of grief and blushes, aptly understood  200

In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood;

Effects of terror and dear modesty,

Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

‘ “And, lo! behold these talents of their hair,

With twisted metal amorously impleach’d,  205

I have receiv’d from many a several fair,

Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d,

With the annexions of fair gems enrich’d,  208

And deep-brain’d sonnets, that did amplify

Each stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality.

‘ “The diamond; why, ’twas beautiful and hard,

Whereto his invis’d properties did tend;  212

The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard

Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;

The heaven-hu’d sapphire and the opal blend

With objects manifold: each several stone,  216

With wit well blazon’d, smil’d or made some moan.

‘ “Lo! all these trophies of affections hot,

Of pensiv’d and subdu’d desires the tender,  219

Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not,

But yield them up where I myself must render,

That is, to you, my origin and ender;

For these, of force, must your oblations be,

Since I their altar, you enpatron me.  224

‘ “O! then, advance of yours that phraseless hand,

Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;

Take all these similes to your own command,

Hallow’d with sighs that burning lungs did raise;  228

What me your minister, for you obeys,

Works under you; and to your audit comes

Their distract parcels in combined sums.

‘ “Lo! this device was sent me from a nun,  232

Or sister sanctified, of holiest note;

Which late her noble suit in court did shun,

Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;

For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,  236

But kept cold distance, and did thence remove,

To spend her living in eternal love.

‘ “But, O my sweet! what labour is ’t to leave

The thing we have not, mastering what not strives,  240

Paling the place which did no form receive,

Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?

She that her fame so to herself contrives,

The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight,  244

And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

‘ “O! pardon me, in that my boast is true;

The accident which brought me to her eye

Upon the moment did her force subdue,  248

And now she would the caged cloister fly;

Religious love put out Religion’s eye:

Not to be tempted, would she be immur’d,

And now, to tempt, all liberty procur’d.  252

‘ “How mighty then you are, O! hear me tell:

The broken bosoms that to me belong

Have emptied all their fountains in my well,

And mine I pour your ocean all among:  256

I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong,

Must for your victory us all congest,

As compound love to physic your cold breast.

‘ “My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,

Who, disciplin’d, ay, dieted in grace,  261

Believ’d her eyes when they to assail begun,

All vows and consecrations giving place.

O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,

In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,

For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

‘ “When thou impressest, what are precepts worth

Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,  268

How coldly those impediments stand forth

Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!

Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense, ’gainst shame,

And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,

The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.  273

‘ “Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,

Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine;

And supplicant their sighs to you extend,  276

To leave the battery that you make ’gainst mine,

Lending soft audience to my sweet design,

And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath

That shall prefer and undertake my troth.”  280

‘This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,

Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face;

Each cheek a river running from a fount  283

With brinish current downward flow’d apace.

O! how the channel to the stream gave grace;

Who glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses

That flame through water which their hue encloses.

‘O father! what a hell of witchcraft lies  288

In the small orb of one particular tear,

But with the inundation of the eyes

What rocky heart to water will not wear?

What breast so cold that is not warmed here?

O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,  293

Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

‘For, lo! his passion, but an art of craft,

Even there resolv’d my reason into tears;  296

There my white stole of chastity I daff’d,

Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;

Appear to him, as he to me appears,

All melting; though our drops this difference bore,  300

His poison’d me, and mine did him restore.

‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter,

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,

Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,  304

Or swounding paleness; and he takes and leaves,

In either’s aptness, as it best deceives,

To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,

Or to turn white and swound at tragic shows:

‘That not a heart which in his level came  309

Could ’scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,

Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;

And, veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim:  312

Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;

When he most burn’d in heart-wish’d luxury,

He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity.

‘Thus merely with the garment of a Grace  316

The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d;

That the unexperient gave the tempter place,

Which like a cherubin above them hover’d.

Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d?  320

Ay me! I fell; and yet do question make

What I should do again for such a sake.

‘O! that infected moisture of his eye,

O! that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d,

O! that forc’d thunder from his heart did fly,

O! that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d,

O! all that borrow’d motion seeming ow’d,

Would yet again betray the fore-betray’d,  328

And new pervert a reconciled maid.’

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

I.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor’d youth,

Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although I know my years be past the best,  6

I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,

Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest.

But wherefore says my love that she is young?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O! love’s best habit is a soothing tongue,

And age, in love, loves not to have years told.  12

Therefore I’ll lie with love, and love with me,

Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be.

II.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still;

The better angel is a man, right fair,

The worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,  6

And would corrupt a saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her fair pride:

And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend

Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

For being both to me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell.  12

The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

III.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,

Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:  6

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me.

My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;

Then thou, fair sun, that on this earth dost shine,

Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then it is no fault of mine.  12

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise

To break an oath, to win a paradise?

IV.

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook

With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,

Did court the lad with many a lovely look,

Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.

She told him stories to delight his ear;

She show’d him favours to allure his eye;  6

To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there,—

Touches so soft still conquer chastity.

But whether unripe years did want conceit,

Or he refus’d to take her figur’d proffer,

The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,

But smile and jest at every gentle offer:  12

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:

He rose and ran away; ah! fool too froward.

V.

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

O! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d:

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove;

Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow’d.

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,

Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.  6

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:

Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire,  12

Celestial as thou art, O! do not love that wrong,

To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,

And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,

When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,

A longing tarriance for Adonis made

Under an osier growing by a brook,

A brook where Adon us’d to cool his spleen:  6

Hot was the day; she hotter that did look

For his approach, that often there had been.

Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,

And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim:

The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye,

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him:  12

He, spying her, bounc’d in, whereas he stood:

‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood!’

VII.

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;

Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;

Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;

Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,

None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.  6

Her lips to mine how often hath she join’d,

Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!

How many tales to please me hath she coin’d,

Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!

Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,

Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.  12

She burn’d with love, as straw with fire flameth;

She burn’d out love, as soon as straw outburneth;

She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing;

She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.

Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?  17

Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

VIII.

If music and sweet poetry agree,

As they must needs, the sister and the brother,

Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me,

Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other.

Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch

Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;  6

Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such

As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.

Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound

That Phœbus’ lute, the queen of music, makes;

And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d

Whenas himself to singing he betakes.  12

One god is god of both, as poets feign;

One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

IX.

Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,

* * * * * * *

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,

For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild;

Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:

Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;  6

She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will,

Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds:

‘Once,’ quoth she, ‘did I see a fair sweet youth

Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,

Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!  11

See, in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘here was the sore.

She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one,

And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

X.

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded,

Pluck’d in the bud, and vaded in the spring!

Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded;

Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting!

Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,

And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.  6

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;

For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will:

And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave;

For why I craved nothing of thee still:

O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,

Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.  12

XI.

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her

Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:

She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.

‘Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘the war-like god embrac’d me,’

And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms;  6

‘Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘the war-like god unlac’d me,’

As if the boy should use like loving charms.

‘Even thus,’ quoth she, ‘he seized on my lips,’

And with her lips on his did act the seizure;

And as she fetched breath, away he skips,

And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.  12

Ah! that I had my lady at this bay,

To kiss and clip me till I ran away.

XII.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:

Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care;

Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;

Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.

Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short;

Youth is nimble, age is lame;  6

Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;

Youth is wild, and age is tame.

Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee;

O! my love, my love is young:

Age, I do defy thee: O! sweet shepherd, hie thee,

For methinks thou stay’st too long.  12

XIII.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;

A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;

A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud;

A brittle glass that’s broken presently:

A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,

Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.  6

And as goods lost are seld or never found,

As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,

As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground,

As broken glass no cement can redress,

So beauty blemish’d once ’s for ever lost,

In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.  12

XIV.

Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share:

She bade good night that kept my rest away;

And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care,

To descant on the doubts of my decay.

‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again to-morrow:’

Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.  6

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,

In scorn of friendship, nill I construe whether:

’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,

’T may be, again to make me wander thither:

‘Wander,’ a word for shadows like myself,  11

As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east;

My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise

Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.

Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,

While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,

And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;  18

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,

And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:

The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty;

Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;

Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow;

For why, she sigh’d and bade me come to-morrow.  24

Were I with her, the night would post too soon;

But now are minutes added to the hours;

To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;

Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!

Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:

Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.  30

SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC

I.

It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three,

That liked of her master as well as well might be,

Till looking on an Englishman, the fair’st that eye could see,

Her fancy fell a-turning.  4

Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight,

To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight:

To put in practice either, alas! it was a spite

Unto the silly damsel.  8

But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain

That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain,

For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain:

Alas! she could not help it.  12

Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,

Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away;

Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;

For now my song is ended.  16

II.

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month was ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair,

Playing in the wanton air:  4

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, ’gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.  8

‘Air,’ quoth he, ‘thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alas! my hand hath sworn

Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:  12

Vow, alack! for youth unmeet:

Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.

Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiop were;  16

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.’

III.

My flocks feed not,

My ewes breed not,

My rams speed not,

All is amiss:  4

Love’s denying,

Faith’s defying,

Heart’s renying,

Causer of this.  8

All my merry jigs are quite forgot,

All my lady’s love is lost, God wot:

Where her faith was firmly fix’d in love,

There a nay is plac’d without remove.  12

One silly cross

Wrought all my loss;

O! frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame;

For now I see  16

Inconstancy

More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I,

All fears scorn I,  20

Love hath forlorn me,

Living in thrall:

Heart is bleeding,

All help-needing,  24

O! cruel speeding,

Fraughted with gall.

My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,

My wether’s bell rings doleful knell;  28

My curtal dog, that wont to have play’d,

Plays not at all, but seems afraid;

My sighs so deep

Procure to weep,  32

In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.

How sighs resound

Through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight!  36

Clear well spring not,

Sweet birds sing not,

Green plants bring not

Forth their dye;  40

Herds stand weeping,

Flocks all sleeping,

Nymphs back peeping

Fearfully:  44

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,

All our merry meetings on the plains,

All our evening sport from us is fled,

All our love is lost, for Love is dead.  48

Farewell, sweet lass,

Thy like ne’er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan:

Poor Corydon  52

Must live alone;

Other help for him I see that there is none.

IV.

Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,

And stall’d the deer that thou should’st strike,

Let reason rule things worthy blame,

As well as fancy, partial wight:  4

Take counsel of some wiser head,

Neither too young nor yet unwed.

And when thou com’st thy tale to tell,

Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,  8

Lest she some subtle practice smell;

A cripple soon can find a halt:

But plainly say thou lov’st her well,

And set thy person forth to sell.  12

What though her frowning brows be bent,

Her cloudy looks will clear ere night;

And then too late she will repent

That thus dissembled her delight;  16

And twice desire, ere it be day,

That which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength,

And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,  20

Her feeble force will yield at length,

When craft hath taught her thus to say,

‘Had women been so strong as men,

In faith, you had not had it then.’  24

And to her will frame all thy ways;

Spare not to spend, and chiefly there

Where thy desert may merit praise,

By ringing in thy lady’s ear:  28

The strongest castle, tower, and town,

The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,

And in thy suit be humble true;  32

Unless thy lady prove unjust,

Seek never thou to choose anew.

When time shall serve, be thou not slack

To proffer, though she put thee back.  36

The wiles and guiles that women work,

Dissembled with an outward show,

The tricks and toys that in them lurk,

The cock that treads them shall not know.  40

Have you not heard it said full oft,

A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?

Think, women love to match with men

And not to live so like a saint:  44

Here is no heaven; they holy then

Begin when age doth them attaint.

Were kisses all the joys in bed,

One woman would another wed.  48

But, soft! enough! too much, I fear;

For if my mistress hear my song,

She will not stick to ring my ear,

To teach my tongue to be so long:  52

Yet will she blush, here be it said,

To hear her secrets so bewray’d.

V.

Live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dales and fields,

And all the craggy mountains yields.  4

There will we sit upon the rocks,

And see the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers, by whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.  8

There will I make thee a bed of roses,

With a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.  12

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Then live with me and be my love.  16

love’s answer.

If that the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move,

To live with thee and be thy love.  20

VI.

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,  4

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring;

Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone:  8

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,

That to hear it was great pity:  12

‘Fie, fie, fie!’ now would she cry;

‘Tereu, Tereu!’ by and by;

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain;  16

For her griefs, so lively shown,

Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,

None takes pity on thy pain:  20

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,

Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:

King Pandion he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead,  24

All thy fellow birds do sing

Careless of thy sorrowing.

Even so, poor bird, like thee,

None alive will pity me.  28

Whilst as fickle Fortune smil’d,

Thou and I were both beguil’d.

Every one that flatters thee

Is no friend in misery.  32

Words are easy, like the wind;

Faithful friends are hard to find:

Every man will be thy friend

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;  36

But if store of crowns be scant,

No man will supply thy want.

If that one be prodigal,

Bountiful they will him call,  40

And with such-like flattering,

‘Pity but he were a king.’

If he be addict to vice,

Quickly him they will entice;  44

If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandement:

But if Fortune once do frown,

Then farewell his great renown;  48

They that fawn’d on him before

Use his company no more.

He that is thy friend indeed,

He will help thee in thy need:  52

If thou sorrow, he will weep;

If thou wake, he cannot sleep:

Thus of every grief in heart

He with thee does bear a part.  56

These are certain signs to know

Faithful friend from flattering foe.

THE PHŒNIX AND THE TURTLE

Let the bird of loudest lay,

On the sole Arabian tree,

Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.  4

But thou shrieking harbinger,

Foul precurrer of the fiend,

Augur of the fever’s end,

To this troop come thou not near.  8

From this session interdict

Every fowl of tyrant wing,

Save the eagle, feather’d king:

Keep the obsequy so strict.  12

Let the priest in surplice white

That defunctive music can,

Be the death-divining swan,

Lest the requiem lack his right.  16

And thou treble-dated crow,

That thy sable gender mak’st

With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,

’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.  20

Here the anthem doth commence:

Love and constancy is dead;

Phœnix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence.  24

So they lov’d, as love in twain

Had the essence but in one;

Two distincts, division none:

Number there in love was slain.  28

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;

Distance, and no space was seen

’Twixt the turtle and his queen:

But in them it were a wonder.  32

So between them love did shine,

That the turtle saw his right

Flaming in the phœnix’ sight;

Either was the other’s mine.  36

Property was thus appall’d,

That the self was not the same;

Single nature’s double name

Neither two nor one was call’d.  40

Reason, in itself confounded,

Saw division grow together;

To themselves yet either neither,

Simple were so well compounded,  44

That it cried, ‘How true a twain

Seemeth this concordant one!

Love hath reason, reason none,

If what parts can so remain.’  48

Whereupon it made this threne

To the phœnix and the dove,

Co-supremes and stars of love,

As chorus to their tragic scene.  52

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity

Grace in all simplicity,

Here enclos’d in cinders lie.  55

Death is now the phœnix’ nest;

And the turtle’s loyal breast

To eternity doth rest,  58

Leaving no posterity:

’Twas not their infirmity,

It was married chastity.  61

Truth may seem, but cannot be;

Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;

Truth and beauty buried be.  64

To this urn let those repair

That are either true or fair;

For these dead birds sigh a prayer.  67

GLOSSARY.

Abath, v. t. to deduct, except, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 545; to blunt, take the edge off, Rich. III. v. 4. 48; to deprive, K. Lear, ii. 4. 161.

Abhor, v. t. to reject, Hen. VIII. ii. 4 79.

Abjects, sub. servile persons, Rich. III. i. 1. 106.

Able, v. t. to warrant, K. Lear, iv. 6. 173.

Abode, v. t. to forebode, 3 Hen. VI. v. 6. 45.

Abodements, sub. evil omens, 3 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 13.

Abram, adj. auburn, Coriol. ii. 3. 21.

Abridgment, sub. a short entertainment, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 39; Ham. ii. 2. 448.

Absey-book, sub. a primer, K. John, i. 1. 196.

Absolute, adj. resolved, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 5; perfect, Hen. V. iii. 7. 27; Ham. v. 2. 112; positive, Coriol. iii. 2. 39.

Aby, v. t. to pay for, atone for, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 175.

Accite, v. t. to cite, summon, 2 Hen. IV. v. 2. 141; Tit. Andr. i. 1. 27; to excite, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 67.

Acknown, be not, do not pretend to be cognizant of, Oth. iii. 3. 320.

Aconitum, sub. the plant aconite, or wolf’s bane, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 48.

Acture, sub. performance, Lov. Comp. 185.

Addiction, sub. inclination, Hen. V. i. 1. 54; Oth. ii. 2. 6.

Addition, sub. title, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 316; Macb. i. 3. 106.

Addressed, adj. ready, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 106; Jul. Cæs. iii. 1. 29.

Adoptious, adj. given by adoption, not real, All’s Well, i. 1. 190.

Aery: see Aiery.

Afar off, adv. indirectly, remotely, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 215; Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 103.

Affect, sub. inclination, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 150; Oth. i. 3. 265; v. t. to love, Two Gent. of Ver. iii. 1. 82.

Affection, sub. affectation, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 4.

Affectioned, adj. full of affectation, Twelfth Night, ii. 3, 162.

Afferred, pt. p. confirmed, a law term, Macb. iv. 3. 34.

Affront, v. t. to confront, to face, Wint. Tale, v. 1. 75; Cymb. iv. 3. 29.

Affy, v. t. to betroth, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 4. 49; 2 Hen. VI. iv. 1. 80; v.i. to confide, Tit. Andr. i. 1. 47.

After-supper, sub. rere-supper, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 34.

Aglet-Baby, sub. the figure cut on the tag of a lace [Fr. aiguillette], Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 79.

Agnize, v. t. to acknowledge, avow, Oth. i. 3. 232.

Agood, adv. much, a great deal, Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 4. 172.

A-hold, adv. to lay a ship a-hold=to keep her up to wind, Temp. i. 1. 54.

Aiery, Aery, sub. the brood of an eagle, K. John, v. 2. 149; Rich. III. i. 3. 264. 270. ‘An aery of children,’ alluring to a company of young actors, Ham. ii. 2. 362.

Aim, sub. a guess, Jul. Cæs. i. 2. 162.

Aim, to cry, v. i. a phrase borrowed from archery, Merry Wives of W. iii. 2. 47; to give encouragement to, K. John, ii. 1. 196.

Alderliefest, adj. dearest of all, 2 Hen. VI. i. 1. 28.

All amort, adj. quite dejected [Fr. à la mort], Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 36; 1 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 124.

Allay, sub. mitigation, Wint. Tale, iv. 1. 9.

All hid, sub the game of hide and seek, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 3. 78.

Allicholy, adj. Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 2. 28; sub. melancholy, Merry Wives of W. i. 4. 160.

Allow, v. to approve, 2 Hen. IV. i. 3. 5; K. Lear, ii. 4. 194.

All-thing, adv. in every way, Macb iii. 1. 13.

Alms-drink, sub. liquor drunk to case another, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 7. 5

Ames-ace, sub. the lowest throw of dice, All’s Well, ii. 3. 85.

Anchor, sub. an anchorite, a hermit, Ham. iii. 2. 231.

Ancient, sub. an officer next in rank to a lieutenant, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 2. 26. Comp. Ancient Pistol.

Annexion, sub. addition, Lov. Comp. 208.

Answerable, adj. corresponding, Oth. i. 3. 351.

Antick, sub. the buffoon of the old plays, Rich. II. iii. 2 162.

Antre, sub. a cavern [Fr. antre], Oth. i. 3. 140.

Appeach, v. i. to impeach, All’s Well, i. 3. 199; v. t. Rich. II. v. 2. 79.

Appeal, sub. impeachment, Rich. II. i. 1. 4; i. 3. 21.

Apple-john, sub. a shrivelled up winter apple, 1 Hen. IV iii. 3. 5; 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 3.

Appointment, sub. equipment, K. John, ii. 1. 296.

Approof, sub. approval, proof, Meas. for Meas. ii. 4. 175; All’s Well, ii. 5. 3.

Apricock, sub. aprieot, Mid N. Dr. iii. 1. 173; Rich. II. iii. 4. 29.

Apron-man, sub. a mechanic, Coriol. iv. 6. 97.

Arch, sub chief, master, K. Lear, ii. 1. 61.

Argosy, sub. a large merchantman, from Ragusa in Sicily, Mer. of Ven. i. 1. 9; Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 368, 370.

Aroint Thee, int. avaunt, stand off, begone, Macb. i. 3. 6; K. Lear, iii. 4. 127.

Arthur’s show, sub. an archery exhibition by a society of London archers, who assumed the name of Prince Arthur’s knights, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 303.

Articulate, v. i. to draw up articles for a peace, Coriol. i. 9. 77; pt. p. specified, set forth, 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 72.

Askance, adv. awry, with sidelong glance, Ven. and Ad. 342; v. t. to make to turn aside, Lucrece, 637.

Assinego, sub. an ass, Troil. & Cres. ii. 1. 49.

Atone, v. t. to reconcile, set at one, Rich. II. i. 1. 202; Cymb. i. 4. 44.

Attaint, sub. stain, disgrace, Com. of Err. iii. 2. 16; Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 26; Lucrece 825.

Augur, sub. augury, Macb. iii. 4. 124.

Aunt, sub. an old woman, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 51; a loose woman, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 11.

Avise, v. t. to inform. ‘Are you avised?’=‘Do you know?’ Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 171.

Baby, sub. a doll, Macb. iii. 4. 106.

Backare, int. go back! Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 73.

Backswordman, sub. a singlestick player, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 71.

Back-trick, sub. a caper backwards in dancing, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 133.

Baffle, v. i. to disgrace, Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 176; 1 Hen. IV. i. 2. 113.

Baldrick, sub. a belt, Much Ado, i. 1. 252.

Bale, sub. evil, mischief, Coriol. i. 1 169.

Balk, v. t. to balk logic=to dispute, chop logic, Tam. of Shrew, i. 1. 34.

Balked, pt. p. heaped up in balks or ridges, 1 Hen. IV. i. 1. 69.

Ballow, sub. a cudgel, K. Lear, iv. 6. 248.

Ban-dogs, sub. fierce dogs, which are kept tied up, 2 Hen VI. i. 4. 21.

Bandy, v. t. to fight, contend; a metaphor taken from striking the balls at tennis, As You Like It, v. 1. 62, Rom. & Jul. ii. 5. 14.

Bank, v. t. to land on the banks of, K. John, v. 2. 104.

Banquet, sub. dessert, Tam. of Shrew, v. 2. 9; Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 126.

Barbason, sub the name of a fiend, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 315; Hen. V. ii. 1. 57.

Barbed, pt. p. armed; spoken of a horse, Rich. II. iii. 3. 117; Rich. III. i. 1. 10.

Bare, v. t. to shave, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 188; All’s Well, iv. 1. 54.

Barful, adj. full of difficulties, Twelfth Night, i. 4. 41.

Barm, sub. yeast, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 38.

Barn, sub. a child, Much Ado, iii. 4. 48; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 6.

Base, sub. a rustic game, Cymb. v. 3. 19; ‘To bid a base’=to challenge in the game, Two Gent. of Ver. i 2. 94; Ven. & Ad. 303.

Base court, sub. a back yard, the lower court in a castle [Fr. basse-cour], Rich. II. iii. 3. 182.

Bases, sub. housings worn by knights on horseback, Per. ii. 1. 173.

Basilisco-like, adj. Basilisco, a character in the old play of Soliman and Perseda, indulges in iteration as in the text, K. John i. 1. 244.

Basilisk, sub. a large cannon, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 58.

Basta, int. enough! [Ital.] Tam. of Shrew, i. 1. 202.

Bastard, sub. a sweet Spanish wine, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 4; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 83.

Bate, v. i. to flutter as a hawk, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 199.

Bated, pt. p. abated, sunk, Mer. of Ven. iii. 3. 32.

Bateless, adj. which cannot be blunted, Lucr. 9.

Bat-fowling, pr. p. fowling at night by means of a net with torches and poles, Temp. ii. 1. 193.

Batler, sub. a flat piece of wood, with which washer-women beat linen, As You Like It, ii. 4. 48.

Batten, v. t. to feed coarsely, Coriol. iv. 5. 35; Ham. iii. 4. 67.

Battle, sub. an army, or division of an army, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 129; Hen. V. iv. 8. 3.

Bauble, sub. a fool’s staff, All’s Well, iv. 5. 32.

Bavin, adj. composed of dry waste brushwood, used in contempt, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 61.

Baweling, adj. insignificant, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 58.

Bawcock, sub. a term of rude endearment [Fr. beau coq], Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 127; Hen. V. iii. 2 27.

Bay, sub. the space between the main timbers of a roof in a building, Meas. for Meas. ii. 1. 261.

Beadsman, sub. one paid to say prayers for others, Two Gent. of Ver i. 1. 18; Rich. II. iii. 2. 116.

Bear a brain, to be intelligent, Rom. & Jul. i. 3. 29.

Bear hard, to dislike, Jul. Cæs. i 2. 318.

Bearing-cloth, sub. the cloth in which a child was carried to be christened, Wint. Tale, iii. 8. 119; 1 Hen. VI. i. 3. 42.

Bear in hand, to deceive, Macb. iii. 1. 81; Ham. ii. 2. 67.

Beast, sub. an ox, K. Lear, iii 4. 107.

Beaver, sub. that part of a helmet which covers the face, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 104; Ham. i. 2 229.

Bedlam, sub. a lunatic, K. John, ii. 1. 183; adj. mad. 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 51.

Behests, sub. commands, Rom. & Jul. iv. 2. 20.

Being, conj. seeing that, Much Ado, v. 1. 61.

Be-leed, pt. p. forced to lee of the wind, Oth. i. 1. 30.

Bergomask, sub. a dance after the manner of the peasants of Bergamasco, a country in Italy, belonging to the Venetians, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 361.

Beshrew, v. t. to curse (not used seriously), L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 46; Rom. & Jul. v. 2. 25.

Beslubber, v. t. to besmear, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 244.

Besmirch, v. t. to besmear, Hen. V. iv. 3. 110; Ham. i. 3. 15.

Bestraught, adj. mad, distracted, Tam. of Shrew, Ind. 2. 27.

Beteem, v. t. to allow, grant, Ham. i. 2. 141; with a play on the meaning, to pour out, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 131.

Bewray, v. t. to discover, to reveal, K. Lear, iii. 6. 120; Lucrece, 1698.

Bezonian, sub. a base fellow [Ital. bisognoso] 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 115; 2 Hen. VI. iv. 1. 134.

Biddy! a call to allure chickens, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 130.

Biggin, sub. a nightcap [Fr. béguin], 2 Hen. IV. iv. 5. 26.

Bilbo, sub. a sword-blade of great flexibility, manufactured at Bilboa, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 167; iii. 5. 115.

Bilboes, sub. a species of fetters used at sea, Ham. v. 2. 6.

Bill, sub. brown-bills=battle-axes painted brown, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 10. 14; K. Lear, iv. 6. 93.

Bird, sub. the young of any bird, 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 60; Tit. Andr. ii. 3. 12.

Bird-bolt, sub. a blunt-headed arrow, Much Ado, i. 1. 42; L.’s L. ’s L. iv. 3. 25; Twelfth Night, i. 5. 99.

Birth-child, sub. a child adopted on account of being born in a certain domain, Pericles, iv. 4. 41.

Bisson, adj. blear-eyed, dim-sighted, Coriol. ii. 1. 71; ‘bisson rheum’=blinding tears, Ham. ii. 2. 537.

Blacks, sub. mourning clothes, suits of mourning, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 133.

Bladed, pt. p. (1) adorned with blades or (2) in the blade, Mach. iv. 1. 55.

Blank, sub. the white mark in centre of a target [Fr. blanc], Ham. iv. 1. 42; the aim, Oth. iii. 4. 127; v. t. to blanch, to make pale, Ham. iii. 2. 232.

Blanks, sub. blank charters sealed by the king, to be filled up at pleasure, Rich. II. ii. 1. 251.

Blench, v. i. to start, flinch, Ham. ii. 2. 634; to be inconstant, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 333.

Blenches, sub. inconstancies, Sonnets, cx. 7.

Blent, pt. p. blended, mixed, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 259; Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 182.

Blistered, adj. garnished with puffs, Hen. VIII. i. 8. 31.

Block, sub. the wood on which a hat is made, Much Ado, i. 1. 78, the fashion of a hat, K. Lear, iv. 6. 188.

Blood, sub. a spirited young man, K. John, ii. 1. 2.

Blood-boltered, adj. matted with blood, Macb. iv. 1. 123.

Blood, worst in, in worst condition, Coriol. i. 1. 141.

Blowse, sub. a coarse beauty, Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 73.

Blue-bottle, adj. an allusion to the blue dress of a beadle, 2 Hen. IV. v. 4. 22.

Blue-eyed adj. with a dark circle round the eye, Temp. i. 2. 269. Comp. Blue, As You Like It, iii. 2. 398, Lucrece, 1587.

Blurted at, pt. p. sneered at, Pericles, iv. 3. 34.

Bob, v. t. to beat, to drub, Rich. III. v. 3. 335; to cheat, Troil. & Cres. iii. 1. 76; Oth. v. 1. 16; sub. a cutting remark, As You Like It, ii. 7. 55.

Bodkin, sub. a dagger, Ham. iii. 1. 76.

Boggle, v. i. to hesitate, All’s Well, v. 8. 234.

Bolins, sub. bowlines, Pericles, iii. 1. 43.

Bollen, adj. swollen, Lucrece, 1417.

Bolt, v. t. to sift, refine, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 377; Troil. & Cres. i. 1. 19, 21.

Bolter, sub. a sleve, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 80.

Bombard, sub. a leathern drinking vessel, Temp. ii. 2. 21; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 503.

Bombast, sub. cotton padding, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 364; ‘bombast circumstance’ = inflated talk, Oth. i. 1. 13.

Bona-roba, sub. a showily dressed woman of light character, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 26.

Bosky, adj. woody, Temp. iv. 1. 81.

Bottom, sub. ball of thread, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 137; v. t. to wind thread on, Two Gent. of Ver. iii. 2. 53.

Bound, v. t. to make to leap, Hen. V. v. 2. 145.

Bourn, sub. a limit or boundary, Temp. ii. 1. 159; Ham. iii. 1. 79; a stream, K. Lear, iii. 6. 28.

Bow, sub. a yoke, As You Like It, iii. 3. 85.

Bowget, sub. a leathern pouch, Wint. Tale, iv. 2.

Brabble, sub. quarrel, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 69.

Brace, sub. armour for the arm, Per. ii. 1. 137; state of defence, Oth. i. 3. 24.

Brach, sub. a female hound, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 240; K. Lear, i. 4. 125.

Braid, adj. deceitful, All’s Well, iv. 2. 73; v. t. to upbraid, Pericles, i. 1. 93.

Brain-pan, sub. the skull, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 10. 13.

Brave, adj. fine, beautiful, Temp. i. 2. 6; v. t. to make fine Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 125.

Bravery, sub. finery, Meas. for Meas. i. 3. 10; Tam. of Shrew, iv. 8; 57; bravado, Jul. Cæs. v. 1. 10; Ham. v. 2. 79.

Brawl, sub. a French dance, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 9.

Breach, sub. ‘breach of the sea’ = the surf, Twelfth Night, ii. 1. 23.

Breast, sub. voice in singing, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 21.

Breath, sub. voice in singing, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 22.

Breese, sub. the gadfly, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 48, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 8. 24.

Bribed buck, perhaps stolen buck, perhaps buck given away in presents, Merry Wives of W. v. 5. 27.

Brief, sub. a short summary, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 42; a short account, All’s Well, v. 3. 137; a letter, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 1; a list, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 137.

Broach, v. t. to pierce through, or transfix, Hen. V. v. Chorus, 32; Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 86.

Brock, sub. a badger (term of reproach), Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 115.

Brogues, sub. shoes made of untanned hide, Cymb. iv. 2. 214.

Brooch, v. t. to adorn, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 13. 25.

Bubukles, sub. pimples, Hen. V. iii. 6. 111.

Buck, v. t. to wash linen with lye, and afterwards beat it, Merry Wives of W. iii 3. 165.

Bucklersbury, sub. a street in London chiefly inhabited by druggists, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 79.

Buck of the first head, one in its fifth year, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 10.

Bug, sub. an object of terror, 3 Hen. VI. v. 2. 2

Bugle, sub. a black bead, As You Like It, iii. 5. 47; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 224.

Bulk, sub. projecting part of a building, Coriol. ii. 1. 229; Oth. v. 1. 1; the breast, the trunk, Ham. ii 1. 95; Lucrece, 467.

Bully-rook, sub. a swaggering cheater, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 2.

Bung, sub. a pickpocket, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 136.

Burgonet, sub. a close-fitting helmet, 2 Hen. VI. 200.

Bush, sub. advertisement (a bush of ivy was usually the vintner’s sign), As You Like It, Epil. 4.

Busky, adv. woody, 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 2.

Buss, sub. a kiss, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 291; v. t. to kiss, K. John, iii. 4. 35.

Buttons, sub. buds, Ham. i. 3 40.

Buttons, in his, within his power to succeed in it, Merry Wives of W. iii. 2. 74.

By-drinkings, sub. occasional drinkings, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 84.

Caddis, sub. a galloon of worsted, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 208.

Caddis-garter, adj. worsted garter (in derision); garters of the time were worn in sight, and naturally were of costly material, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 80.

Cade, sub. a cask, a barrel, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 36.

Cage, sub. a prison, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 59.

Cake, sub. ‘my cake is dough on both sides’ = our plans are quite frustrated, Tam. of Shrew, i. 1. 109.

Caked, pt. p. coagulated, inert, Tim. of Ath. ii. 2. 226.

Caliver, sub. a kind of musket, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 2. 21; 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 295.

Call, sub. a whistle to lure birds, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 197; K. John, iii. 4. 174.

Callat, sub. a drab, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 90; Oth. iv. 2. 121; 2 Hen. VI. i. 3. 86.

Canary, sub. a lively dance, All’s Well, ii. 1 77; v. i. to dance the above dance, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1 13.

Candle-mine, sub. a magazine of tallow, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 328.

Candle-waster, sub one who sits up late to study, Much Ado, v. 1. 18.

Canker and Canker-bloom, sub. the rose of the sweet-briar, Much Ado, i. 3. 28; 1 Hen. IV. 1. 3. 176, Sonnets, liv. 5.

Canker-blossom, sub. a blossom eaten by the canker-worm, Mid. N. Dr. iii 2. 282.

Cantle, sub. a small piece, a slice, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 101, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 8. 16.

Canton, sub. a song, Twelfth Night, i 5. 291.

Canzonet, sub. a song, a ditty [Ital. canzonetta], L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 125.

Capitulate, v. i to make an agreement, Coriol. v. 3. 82, to combine, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 2 120.

Capocchia, sub. a fool,—fem. of capocchio,—Troil. & Cres. iv. 2 32. An Italian word.

Caraways, sub. comfits made with caraway seeds, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 3.

Carbonado, sub. meat scotched for brolling, Coriol. iv. 5. 199; v. t. to hack like a carbonado, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 267; K. Lear, ii. 2. 41.

Card, sub ‘cooling card’=a stroke which suddenly turns the tables, 1 Hen. VI. v. 3. 84.

Cardecu, sub. [quart d’écu], quarter of a French crown, All’s Well, iv. 3. 314; v. 2. 35.

Carkanet, sub. a necklace [Fr carcan], Com. of Err. iii 1. 4 (Sonnets, iii. 8, Carconet).

Carl, sub. a clown, peasant, Cymb. v. 2. 4.

Carlot, sub. a peasant, As You Like It, iii. 5. 108.

Carpets, sub. table cloths, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 52.

Carrack, sub. a huge ship of burthen [Ital. caracca], Oth. i. 2. 50.

Case, v. t. to strip off the skin, All’s Well, iii. 6. 110.

Casque, sub. a helmet [Fr. casque], Rich. II. i. 3. 81; Coriol. iv. 7. 43.

Cassock, sub. a military cloak, All’s Well, iv. 3. 193.

Cast, v. t. to dismiss, Oth. i. 1. 150; pt. p. emptied out, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 91; adj. second-hand, cast off, As You Like It, iii. 4. 15.

Cataian, sub. a Chinaman, a native of Cathay, a cant term, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 147, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 83.

Catlings, sub. small strings for musical instruments, made of cat-gut, Troil. & Cres. iii. 3. 309.

Cautel, sub. craft, stratagem, Ham. i. 8. 15; Lov. Comp. 303.

Cautelous, adj. crafty, cunning, deceitful, Coriol. iv. 1. 33; Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 129.

Cease, sub. extiuction, Ham. iii. 3. 15; Cymb. iv. 2. 112.

Ceinture [O. Ed. Centre], sub. cincture, girdle, K. John, iv. 8. 155.

Censer, thin man in a, ‘a plate or dish, in which was incense, and at the bottom of which was usually represented in rude carving the figure of some saint’ (Hanmer), 2 Hen. IV. v. 4. 20.

Censure, sub. opinion, judgment, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 36; Ham. iii. 2. 31; judicial sentence, Oth. v. 2. 367.

Cerements, sub. the wrappings of an embalmed body, Ham. i. 4. 48.

’Cern, v. t. to concern, Tam. of Shrew, v. 1. 76.

Cesse, v. i. to cease, All’s Well, v. 3. 72.

Chace, sub. a term at tennis [quibbling], Hen. V. i. 2. 266.

Chambers, sub. small cannons, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4 56.

Changeable, adj. varying in colour, Twelfth Night, ii 4. 75.

Chanson, sub. a song, Ham. ii. 2 447.

Chape, sub. the metal at the end of a scabbard, All’s Well, iv. 3. 165.

Character, sub. handwriting, K. Lear, i. 2. 68.

Chare, sub. a turn of work, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 230.

Charge-house, sub. a school-house, L’s L.’s L. v. 1. 88.

Charneco, sub. a kind of wine, named from Charneca in Portugal, 2 Hen. VI. ii. 3. 63.

Chaudron, sub. entrails, Macb. iv. 1. 33.

Cheator, sub an escheator, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 75.

Cherry-pit, sub. a children’s game, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 131.

Cheveril, sub. kid-leather, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 90, adj. yielding, flexible, Twelfth Night, iii. 1. 13; Hen, VIII. ii. 3. 32.

Chewet, sub. a chough [Fr. chouette], 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 29. [There may be an allusion to another word, which means a sort of meat pie]

Childing, adj. fruitful, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 112.

Childness, sub. childish disposition, Wint. Tale, 1. 2. 170.

Chopine, sub. a high-soled shoe, Ham. ii. 2. 455.

Choppy, adj. chapped, Macb. i. 3. 44.

Christom child, sub. a chrisom child, one who died within a month of birth; the chrisom was a white cloth put on the infant at baptism, Hen. V. ii. 3. 12.

Chuff, sub. a churl, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 98.

’Cide, v. t. to decide, Sonnets, xlvi. 9.

Cinque-pace, sub. a grave dance [Fr. cinque pas], Much Ado, ii. 1. 78; Twelfth Night, i. 3. 141.

Circumstance, sub. circumlocution, Ham. i. 5. 127.

Cital, sub. a recital, 1 Hen. IV. v. 2. 61.

Citizen, sub. town-bred, effeminate, Cymb. iv. 2. 8.

Cittern, sub. a guitar, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 611.

Clack-disii, sub. a beggar’s dish with a loose cover, by moving which he attracted the notice of passers by, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 139.

Clap, at a, at a blow, K. Lear, i. 4. 318.

Clapper-claw, v. t. to beat soundly, Merry Wives of W. ii. 3. 67; Troil. & Cres. v. 4. 1.

Claw, v. t. to flatter, Much Ado, i. 3. 19.

Clepe, v. t. to call, Ham. i. 4. 19; Ven. & Ad. 995.

Climate, sub. clime, region, Jul. Cæs. i. 3. 32.

Climatures, sub. fellow-countrymen, Ham. i. 1. 125.

Cling, v. t. to shrivel up, Mach. v. 5. 40.

Clip, v. t. to embrace, Oth. iii. 3. 465; Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 360.

Clipper, sub. a defacer of coin, Hen. V. iv. 1. 249.

Cloud, sub. a spot between the eyes of horses, regarded as a blemish, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 2. 51.

Clout, sub. piece of canvas in centre of target, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 1. 138; 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 52.

Clouted, adj. hobnailed; or according to some, patched, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 199; Cymb. iv. 2. 214.

Cloy, v. t. to stroke with the claw, Cymb. v. 4. 118.

Cobloaf, sub. a misshapen loaf of bread, run out in the baking into lumps, Troil. & Cres. ii. 1. 41.

Cock, sub. a cock-boat, K. Lear. iv. 6. 20; a weathercock, K. Lear, iii 2. 3

Cock-a-hoop, to set, to cast off all restraint, Rom. & Jul. i. 5 85.

Cockle, sub. a weed in corn, the corn-cockle, Lychnis Githago, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 3. 383.

Cockney, sub. one bred and born in the city, and ignorant of all things out of it, Twelfth Night, iv. 1. 15; K. Lear, ii. 4. 123.

Cock-shut time, twilight, Rich. III. v. 3. 70.

Codling, sub. an unripe apple, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 168.

Coffin, the crust of a pie, Tit. Andr. v. 2. 189.

Cog, v i. to cheat, Much Ado, v. 1. 95; v. t. to filch, Coriol. iii. 2. 133

Coign, sub. a corner-stone [Fr. coin], Coriol. v. 4. 1, Macb. i. 6. 7.

Coil, sub. bustle, tumult, Much Ado, iii. 3. 99; Ham. iii. 1. 67.

Collection, sub. inference, Cymb. v. 5. 433; Ham iv. 5. 9.

Collied, adj. sooty, black, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 145; pt. p. Oth. ii. 3. 208.

Comma, sub the smallest break or stop, Ham. v. 2. 42.

Commodity, sub. profit, advantage, K. Lear, iv. 1. 21.

Compact, pt. p. made up of, composed, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 8; As You Like It, ii. 7. 5.

Compassed, adj. round, arched, Tam. of Shrew iv. 3. 139; Ven. & Adon. 272.

Competitor, sub. partner, L.’s L.’s L. ii. 1. 82; Ant. & Cleo. v. 1. 42.

Comptible, adj. sensitive, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 188.

Con, v. t. to learn, to know, to understand, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 163; to con thanks=to give thanks, All’s Well, iv. 3. 175; Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 431.

Conclusion, sub. an experiment, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 356, Cymb. i. 5. 18.

Conclusion, still, silent inference, or perhaps settled demeanour, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 13. 28.

Consul, sub. Venetian senator, Oth. i. 1. 25.

Convent, v. i. to be suitable, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 394.

Convicted, pt. p. defeated, K. John, iii. 4. 2.

Convince, v. t. to overcome, Macb. i. 7. 64, iv. 3. 142, Cymb. i. 4. 109.

Convive, v. i. to feast together, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 271.

Cony-catch, v. i. cheat, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 129; 1. 3. 34

Copatain, adj. high-crowned and pointed, Tam. of Shrew, v. 1. 69.

Cope, v. t. to encounter, As You Like It, ii. 1. 67; Ven. & Adon. 888; to requite, Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 413.

Copesmate, sub. a companion, Lucrece, 925.

Copped, adj. round-topped, Per. i. 1. 101.

Copy, sub. lease, Macb. iii. 2. 38.

Coranto, sub. a quick lively dance, All’s Well, ii. 3. 49; Twelfth Night, i. 3. 139.

Corinthian, sub. a wencher, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 13.

Corey, adj. shrivelled, K. Lear, iii. 7. 29.

Corollary, sub. a surplus [Fr. corollaire] Temp. iv. 1. 57.

Corrosive, and Corsive, sub. an irritant remedy, 2 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 403; adj. irritating, giving pain, 1 Hen. VI. iii. 3. 3.

Costard, sub. the head,—properly an apple,—Merry Wives of W. iii 1. 14; K Lear, iv. 6. 248.

Cote, v. t. to come up with, and pass on the way, Ham. ii. 2. 338.

Cot-quean, sub. a man busying himself with the business of women, Rom. & Jul. iv. 4. 6.

Counter, adv. to run or hunt counter is to follow the game backwards on the scent, Com. of Err. iv. 2. 39; 2 Hen. IV. i 2. 102 (here a play is intended on the name of the well-known London debtors’ prison, the Counter); Ham. iv. 5 110.

Counter-caster, sub. a reckoner, caster-up of accounts, Oth. i. 1. 31

Counterfeit, sub. a portrait, Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 115; Ham. iii. 4. 54; a piece of bad money, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4 548.

Counterpoint, sub. a counterpane, Tam of Shrew, ii. 1. 345.

Countervail, v. t. to outweigh, Rom. & Jul. ii. 6. 4.

Couplet, sub. a pair, Twelfth Night, iii. 4 414; Ham. v. 1. 309.

Course, sub. a large sail, Temp. i. 1. 55; the onset of dogs in bear-baiting, Macb. v. 7. 2; K. Lear, iii. 7. 54.

Court-cupboard, sub a sideboard used for the display of plate, Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 8.

Court holy-water, sub. flattery [Fr. eau bénite de la cour], K. Lear, iii. 2 10.

Cower, v i. to sink or squat down, Per. iv. 2. 115.

Cowl-staff, sub. a pole on which a basket is borne by two persons, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 157.

Coy, v. t. to stroke, to caress, Mid. N. Dr. iv. 1. 2; v. i. to disdain, Cor. v. 1. 6.

Coystril, sub. a mean fellow, originally a groom, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 44; Per. iv. 6. 181.

Cozier, sub. a cobbler, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 99.

Crack, v. i. to boast, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 3. 268; Cymb. v. 5. 178, 208; sub. a pert forward boy, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 34; Coriol. i. 3. 74.

Cracked within the ring, uncurrent [quibbling], Ham. ii. 2. 457.

Cracker, sub. a blusterer, K. John, ii. 1. 147.

Crank, sub. a winding passage, Coriol. i. 1. 143.

Crants, sub. a garland, a chaplet, Ham. v. 1. 254.

Crare, sub. a small vessel, Cymb. iv. 2. 205.

Craven, v. t. to make recreant or cowardly, Cymb. iii. 4. 80.

Creek, sub. a rivulet, a winding part of a rivulet, Cymb. iv. 2. 151.

Cresset, sub. an open lamp set on a beacon, or carried on a pole, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 15.

Crib, sub. a hovel, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 9.

Crisp, adj. curled, Temp. iv. 1. 130; Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 92.

Critic, sub. a cynic, a carper, Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 128.

Cross-row, sub. the Christ-cross Row, the alphabet, Rich. III. i. 1. 55.

Crow-keeper, sub. the boy, or stuffed figure, to keep away crows, Rom. & Jul. i. 4. 6; K. Lear, iv. 6. 89.

Cruel, adj. crewel, worsted [quibbling], K. Lear, ii. 4. 7.

Cruzado, sub. a Portuguese coin worth about six shillings, Oth. iii. 4. 27.

Cry, sub. a pack, Coriol. iii. 3. 118; a company, Ham. iii. 2. 294.

Cry aim, to encourage, K. John, ii. 1. 196.

Cry you mercy, I beg your pardon, Merry Wives of W. iii. 5. 27; Meas. for Meas. iv. 1. 12.

Cub-drawn, adj. sucked dry by cubs, made ravenous, K. Lear, iii. 1. 12.

Cullion, sub. a mean fellow [Fr. couillon, Ital. coglione], Hen. V. iii. 2. 23; 2 Hen. VI. i. 3. 43.

Cullionly, adj. mean, countemptible, K. Lear, ii. 2 36.

Culverin, sub a kind of cannon, 1 Hen IV. ii 3. 58.

Curb, v. t. to bend [Fr. courber], Ham. iii. 4. 155.

Curiosity, sub. scrupulosity, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 303 , K. Lear, i. 1. 6

Curious, adj. elegant, Cymb. v. 5 362; careful, anxious, Cymb. i. 6. 191.

Currents, sub. occurrences, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3 60.

Curst, adj. ill-tempered, Much Ado, ii. 1. 22; K. Lear, ii. 1. 67.

Cushes, sub. cuisses, armour for the thighs, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 105.

Custard-coffin, sub. the crust of a custard, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 82. Comp. Coffin.

Customer, sub. a loose woman, All’s Well, v. 3. 291 , Oth. iv. 1. 120.

Cut, sub. a horse, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 206

Cut and long-tail, of every sort, Merry Wives of W iii. 4. 47.

Cuttle, sub. a bully, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 138.

Daff, v. t. to take off, Lov. Comp. 297 , to put by, to turn aside with slight and neglect, Much Ado, ii. 3. 187; 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 96.

Dagonet, sub. a foolish knight at the court of King Arthur, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 303

Dancing horse, a performing horse, belonging to one Bankes, a Scotchman, L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 58.

Danger, sub. power, control, according to some debt, Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 180.

Dare, v. t. to terrify, make to couch; larks were caught by small mirrors fastened on scarlet cloth, Hen. V. iv. 2. 36; Hen. VIII. iii. 2. 283.

Darraign, v. t. to arrange, or put in order of battle, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 2 72.

Dash, sub. a stigma, Wint. Tale, v. 2. 127; Lucrece, 206.

Daubery, sub. false pretence, cheating, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 190.

Day-bed, sub. a sofa, Twelfth Night, ii. 4. 55; Rich. III. iii. 7. 71.

Day-woman, sub. a dairy woman, L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 138.

Dear, adj. dear was used for anything powerfully though unpleasantly affecting the feelings, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 872; 1 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 123.

Death-tokens, sub. plague spots, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 189.

Decent, adj. becoming, Hen. VIII. iv. 2. 146.

Deck, sub. a pack of cards, 3 Hen. VI. v. 1. 44; v. t. to cover, perhaps to sprinkle, Temp. i. 2. 155.

Deedless, adj. inactive, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 98.

Deem, sub. a surmise, opinion, Troil. & Cres. iv. 4. 59.

Defeat, v. t. to disguise, Oth. i. 3. 346.

Defend, v. t. to forbid, Much Ado, ii. 1. 99 , Rich. II. i. 3. 15; Ant. & Cleo. iii. 3. 43.

Delighted, adj. framed for delight, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1 119; delightful, Oth. i. 3. 291; Cymb. v. 4. 102

Demerit, sub. desert, Coriol. i. 1. 278; Macb. iv. 3. 225; Oth i 2. 22.

Demuring, pr. p. looking demure, Ant. & Cleo. iv 13. 29

Denier, sub. a very small piece of (French) money, Tam. of Shrew, Induc. 1. 9; Rich. III. i. 2. 253.

Deracinate, v. t. to eradicate, to root up [Fr. déraciner], Hen. V. v. 2. 47; Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 99.

Dern, adj. dreary, secret, K. Lear. iii. 7. 63; Per. iii. Prol. 15.

Descending, sub. lineage, Per. v. 1. 130.

Design, v. t. to point out, mention before, Rich. II. i. 1. 203; Ham. i. 1. 94.

Devest, v. t. to undress, Oth. ii. 3 183.

Dewberries, sub. fruit of Rubus Cœsius, a large kind of blackberry, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 1. 173.

Dich, v. t. do to, happen to, Tim. of Ath. i. 2. 74.

Diet, sub. regimen, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 1. 26; Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 87.

Dieted, pt. p. bound strictly, All’s Well, iv. 3. 35

Diffuse, v. t. to confuse, K. Lear, i. 4. 2.

Diffused, adj. wild, irregular Merry Wives of W. iv. 4. 56; Hen. V. v. 2. 61.

Disappointed, pt p. unprepared, Ham. i. 5. 77.

Discandy, v. t. to dissolve, to melt, to thaw, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 165.

Disclose, v. t. to hatch, Ham. v. 1. 309; sub. the coming forth of the chicken from the shell, Ham. iii. 1. 175.

Discoverer, sub. scout, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 3.

Disedge, v. i. to surfeit, Cymb. iii. 4. 96.

Dislimn, v. i. to efface, blot, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 10.

Disme, sub. tenth [Old Fr. disme], Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 19.

Disponge, v. i. to pour down, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 9. 13.

Dispose, sub. disposition, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 176; Oth. i. 3. 403.

Distance, sub. hostility, alienation, Macb. iii. 1. 116.

Disvouch, v. t. to contradict, M. for M. iv. 4. 1.

Dive-dapper, sub. the dab-chick, Ven. & Ad. 86.

Division, sub. variation in music, modulation, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 210; Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 29.

Document, sub. instruction, Ham. iv. 5 177.

Doff, v. t. to put off, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 103; Rom. & Jul. ii. 2. 47.

Dowlas, sub. coarse linen, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 79.

Dowle, sub. down, the soft plumage of a feather, Temp. iii. 3. 65.

Down-gyvrd, adj. covering the ankles like fetters, Ham. ii. 1. 80.

Down-roping, adj. hanging down in glutinous strings, Hen. V. iv. 2. 48.

Down sleeves, hanging sleeves, Much Ado, iii. 4. 20.

Doxy, sub. a mistress, a canting word [Comp. Dekker’s ‘Bellman of London’], Whit. Tale, iv. 2. 2.

Draff, sub. dregs, refuse, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 112; 1 Hen. IV. iv. 2. 38.

Graught, sub. a privy, Troil. & Cres. v. 1. 84; Tim. of Ath. v. 1. 107.

Draw dry-foot, follow game by the scent Com. of Err. iv. 2. 39.

Drawer, sub. a tapster, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 167; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 7.

Drawn, pt. p. quaffed, Temp. ii. 2. 158.

Drawn Fox, a fox turned out of his earth, 1 Hen. IV iii. 3 128.

Dribbling, adj. weakly shot, Meas. for Meas i. 3. 2.

Drollery, sub. a puppet show, Temp. iii 3. 21; a humorous painting, 2 Hen IV. ii. 1. 160.

Drumble, v i. to be sluggish, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3 157.

Dry-beat, v. t. to thrash, cudgel, L’s L.’s. L v 2. 264; Rom. & Jul iii. 1. 84.

Dudgeon, sub. the handle of a dagger, Macb. ii. 1. 46.

Dun, sub. name for a horse. ‘To draw dun from mire,’ a rustic game played with a log of wood, Rom. & Jul. i. 4. 41.

Dun’s the mouse, a proverbial expression now unintelligible, Rom & Jul. i. 4. 40.

Dup, v. t. to open, Ham. iv. 5. 54.

Durance, sub. prison dress, Com. of Err. iv. 3. 26 There seems a play on another meaning of durance, which was a kind of durable stuff.

Eager, adj. sour, Ham. i. 5 69; keen, Sonnets, cxviii 2; Ham. i. 4. 2.

Ean, v. t. to yean, to bring forth young, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 5. 36.

Eanling, sub. a young lamb, Mer of Ven i. 3 80.

Ear, v. t. to plough or cultivate, All’s Well, i. 3. 48; pr p. Ant. & Cleo. i. 2. 120.

Ecstasy, sub. a temporary aberration of the mind from joy or grief, Much Ado, ii. 3. 167; Ham. iii. 1. 169.

Egal, adj. equal, Tit. Andr. iv. 4. 4.

Eld, sub. old times, old age, Merry Wives of W. iv. 4. 37; Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 36.

Elf, v. t. to entangle hair in so intricate a manner that it is not to be unravelled; supposed to be the work of fairies in the night, K. Lear, ii. 3. 10.

Emballing, pr. p. being invested with ball and sceptre at coronation, Hen. VIII. ii. 3. 47.

Embarquements, sub. bindrances, restraints, Coriol. i. 10. 22.

Emboss, v. t. to hunt to death, All’s Well, iii. 6. 106.

Embossed, part. adj. swollen out. As You Like It, ii. 7. 67; 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 176; foaming at the mouth from hard running, Tam. of Shrew, Ind. 1 17; Ant. & Cleo. iv. 11 3.

Embowelled, pt. p. emptied, All’s Well, i. 3. 249.

Empery, sub. dominion, Hen. V. i. 2. 226; a country subject to a prince’s sway, Cymb. i. 6. 120.

Endbared, pt. p. bound, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 11; Tim. of Ath. 1. 2. 236.

Engine, sub. an instrument of war, a piece of ordnance, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 144; Oth. iii. 3. 356; instrument of torture, K. Lear, i. 4. 292.

Englut, v. t. to swallow [Fr. engloutir], Oth. i. 3. 57.

Enmesh, v. t. to entangle, ensnare, Oth ii. 3. 371.

Enmew, v. t. to mew up, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 89.

Ensconce, v. t. to cover as with a fort, to shelter, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 96; Lucrece, 1515

Enseamed, part. adj. filthy, Ham iii 4 92

Ensear, v. t. to sear up, to make dry, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 188.

Enshield, part adj. shielded, protected, Meas. for Meas ii. 4 81.

Ensteeped, part. adj lying under water, Oth ii. 1 70.

Entertain, v. t. to take into one’s service, Jul. Cæs. v. 5. 60; K Lear, iii 6. 83; sub. reception, Per. i 1. 119.

Entreatments, sub. invitations, Ham. i. 3. 122

Ephesian, sub. a boon companion, Merry Wives of W. iv. 5 19

Eringo, sub the candied roots of sea-holly, Merry Wives of W. v 5. 23

Erring, part. adj. wandering, Ham. i. 1 154; Oth. i. 3. 362.

Escape, sub. a freak, Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 114; Oth. i. 3. 136, 197.

Escoted, pt. p. paid, maintained, Ham ii. 2 370.

Even Christian, sub. fellow Christian, Ham. v. 1. 31.

Even-pleached, adj. evenly interwoven, Hen. V v. 2. 42.

Evitate, v. t. to avoid, Merry W. of W. v. 5 253.

Exceed, v. i. to be of surpassing excellence, Much Ado, iii. 4. 17; Per. ii. 3 15

Excrement, sub. hair, beard, anything growing out of the body, L’s L.’s L. v. 1. 112; Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 87; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 7 6; Ham. iii. 4. 120.

Exhibition, sub. a money allowance, K. Lear, i. 2. 25; Oth i. 3. 239.

Exigent, sub. extremity, pressing necessity, Jul. Cæs. v. 1. 19; also the end, 1 Hen VI. ii. 5. 9, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 63.

Exorciser, sub. one who raises spirits, Cymb. iv. 2. 276.

Exorcist, sub. the same, All’s Well, v. 3 309; Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 323.

Expedience, sub. expedition, enterprise, 1 Hen. IV. i. 1. 33; also haste, Rich. II. ii. 1. 287; Hen. V. iv. 3. 70.

Expedient, adj. expeditious, quick, K. John, ii. 1. 60; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1 288.

Exsufflicate, v. i. inflated, or perhaps contemptible, Oth. iii. 3. 182.

Extent, sub. seizure, a law term, As You Like It, iii. 1. 17; favour, Ham. ii. 2 399.

Extravagant, adj. wandering about, Ham. i. 1. 154; Oth. i. 1. 137.

Eyas, sub. a young hawk just taken from the nest, Ham. ii. 2. 363.

Eyas-musket, sub. young sparrow-hawk, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 22

Eye, sub. a shade of colour, Temp. ii. 1. 58; v. i. to look, appear, Ant. & Cleo. i. 3. 19.

Face, v. t. to brave, bully, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 125; to trim a garment, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 65; to lie with effrontery, Com. of Err. iii. 1. 47.

Fadge, v. i. to turn out, to suit, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 158; Twelfth Night, ii. 2. 34.

Fading, sub. burden of song, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 195.

Fail, sub. failure, omission, Wint. Tale, ii. 2. 41.

Fairing, sub. a present, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 2.

Fairy, sub. an enchantress, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 8. 12.

Fall, sub. a cadence in music, Twelfth Night, i. 1. 4.

Fallow, adj. yellowish brown, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 92.

False, v. t. to falsify, perjure, Cymb. ii. 3. 74.

Fame, v. t. to make famous, Sonnets, lxxxiv. 11.

Fancies, sub. love-songs, or songs in general, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 346.

Fancy, v. t. to love, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 12; Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 30; Lucrece, 200.

Fang, v. t. to seize, lay hold of, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 23.

Fangled, adj. fond of finery, Cymb. v. 4. 134.

Fantastic, sub. a dandy, Dram. Per. of Meas. for Meas.; fond of finery, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 7. 47.

Fantastical, adj. imaginary, Macb. i. 3. 53, 139; incredible, Oth. ii. 1. 227; imaginative, Twelfth Night, i. 1. 15.

Fantasticoes, sub. coxcombs, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 31

Fap, adj. drunk, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 184.

Far, adv. further, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 443.

Farced, pt. p. stuffed out, full, Hen. V. iv. 1. 283.

Fardel, sub. a bundle, a pack [Ital. fardello], Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 729, 742, 783; Ham. iii. 1. 76.

Farrow, sub. a litter of pigs, Macb. iv. 1. 65.

Farthingale, sub. a hooped petticoat, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 7. 51; Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 69.

Fashions, sub. a skin disease in horses, now called farcy, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 54.

Fast, pt. p. fasted, Cymb. iv. 2. 347.

Fast and loose, a cheating game, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 109.

Fat, sub. a vat, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 7 122.

Fat, adj. heavy, unpleasant, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 113.

Favour, sub. countenance, visage, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 33; Jul. Cæs. i. 3. 129.

Favours, sub. features, As You Like It, iii. 2. 280; 1 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 136; K. Lear, iii. 7. 40.

Fear, v. t. to frighten, Mer. of Ven. ii. 1. 9; Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 214.

Fearful, adj. timorous, frightened, Rom. & Jul. iii. 3. 1; Ven. & Ad. 677.

Feature, sub. form, shape, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 4. 74; Cymb. v. 5. 164; perhaps thing composed, As You Like It, iii. 3. 3.

Federary, sub. confederate, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 89.

Freder, sub. a shepherd, As You Like It, ii. 4. 100; a servant, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 109; Tim. of Ath. ii. 1. 169 (according to some, a parasite).

Feeding, sub. pasturage, Wint. Tale, iv. 4. 169.

Fee-grief, sub. grief not shared by any, Mach. iv. 3. 196.

Fellowly, adj. companionable, sympathetic, Temp. v. 1. 64.

Feodary, sub. confederate, Meas. for Meas. ii. 4. 123; Cymb. iii. 2. 21.

Fere, sub. a spouse, Tit. Andr. iv. 1. 89; Per. Prol. 21.

Ferret, v. t. to worry, Hen. V. iv. 4. 30.

Fervency, sub. eagerness, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 5. 18.

Fetch, sub. a trick, a stratagem, Ham. ii. 1. 38; K. Lear, ii. 4. 90.

Fetch off, v. t. to make away with, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 334.

Fettle, v. t. to get into condition, prepare, Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 154.

Fewness, sub. rarity, or brevity, Meas. for Meas. i. 4. 39.

Field-bed, sub. camp-bed, Rom. & Jul ii. 1. 40.

Fig, v. t. to insult by thrusting the thumb between two fingers, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 1.

Fights, sub. canvas hung up to screen the crew of a ship during action, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2, 144.

Figo, sub. [see Fig], Hen. V. iii. 6 60.

Figure, sub. a turn of rhetoric, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 1. 156: L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 59; a method of fortune-telling, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 189.

Figures, sub. disquieting fancies, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 234; Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 231.

File, sub. a list, Macb. iii. 1. 95.

File, v. t. to defile, Macb iii. 1. 65.

Fills, sub. shafts, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 46.

Filtii, sub. term of contempt, Tim. of Ath. iv. 1. 6; Oth. v. 2. 229.

Fineless, adj. without end, Oth. iii. 3. 173.

Finical, adj. foppish, K. Lear, ii. 2. 19.

Fire-drake, sub. a meteor, fiery dragon, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 46.

Firk, v. t. to beat, Hen. V. iv. 4. 29.

Fist, v. t. to grasp, Coriol. iv. 5. 131; Per. iv 6. 182.

Fitchew, sub. a polecat, Troil. & Cres. v. 1. 67; Oth. iv. 1. 148.

Fitted, pt. p. worked as if by fits, Sonnets, cxix. 7.

Fives, sub. inflammation of parotid glands in horses [French avives], Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 56.

Flap-dragon, sub. a small burning body lighted and put afloat in a glass of liquor, to be swallowed burning, snapdragon, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 46; 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 267; v. t. to swallow like a flap-dragon, Wint. Tale, iii. 3. 100.

Flap-eared, adj. broad hanging ears, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 160.

Flap-jack, adj. a pancake, Per. ii. 1. 88.

Flap-mouthed, adj. with broad hanging lips, Ven. & Ad. 920.

Flat, sub. sandbank, Mer. of Ven. i. 1. 26; iii. 1. 5.

Flat-long, adv. flat, Temp. ii. 1. 188.

Flaw, sub. a crack, K. Lear, ii. 4. 288; fig. Ant. & Cleo. iii. 10. 34; v. t. to break, crack, Hen. VIII. i. 1. 95.

Flaws, sub. outbursts of passion, Meas. for Meas. ii. 3. 11; Macb iii. 4. 63; sudden gusts of wind, Coriol. v. 8. 74; Ven. & Ad. 456; small blades of ice; 2 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 35.

Flecked. adj. spotted, Rom. & Jul. ii. 8. 3

Flewed, adj. ‘Flews’ are the large hanging chaps of a hound, Mid. N. Dr. iv. 1. 126.

Flicker, v.i. to twinkle, K. Lear, ii. 2. 114.

Flight, sub. a long, light arrow, Much Ado, i. 1. 40.

Flighty, adj. swift, Macb. iv. 1. 145.

Flirt-gills, sub. light wenches, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 163.

Flock, sub. a lock of wool, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 7.

Flote, sub. wave, Temp. i. 2. 234.

Flourish, sub. ornament, Rich. III. i. 3, 1st; sonnets; lxix.; a sounding of trumpets, Meas. for Meas. iv. 1. 76; Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 49.

Forbed, pt. p. cheated, 1 Hen. IV. i. 2. 68.

Foin, sub. a thrust, K. Lear, iv. 6. 252; v. i. to thrust in fencing, Merry Wives of W. ii. 3. 24; Much Ado, v. 1. 84.

Foison, or Foizon, sub. plenty [Fr. foison], Temp. ii. 1. 170; iv. 1. 110; Macb. iv. 3 88.

Foot, v t. to kick, Mer. of Ven. i. 3. 119; to seize with the talon, Cymb. v. 4. 116.

Fop, sub. a fool, K. Lear, i. 2. 14.

Forbid, pt. p. accursed, Macb. i. 3. 46.

Fordo, v t. to lay violent hands upon, to destroy, K. Lear, v. 3. 293; Oth. v. 1. 129.

Fordone, pt. p. exhausted, Mid. N Dr. v. 2. 4.

Fore-end, sub. the first part, Cymb. iii. 3. 73.

Fore-hand, sub. advantage, Hen. V iv. 1. 300, the best part, the pick, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 143; adj. anticipated, Much Ado. iv. 1. 50.

Fore-hand suaft, an arrow for shooting point blank, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 52.

Forfend, v. i. to forbid, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 1 190; Oth. v. 2. 32.

Forgetive, adj inventive, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 3 107.

Fork, sub. the tongue of a snake, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1 16; Macb. iv. 1. 16; the head of an arrow, K. Lear, i. 1 146.

Forslow, v. i. to delay, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 3. 56.

Forted, adj. fortified, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 12.

Forth-right, sub. a straight path, Temp. iii. 3 3; Troil & Cres. iii. 3. 158.

Fosset-seller, sub. a seller of taps, Coriol. ii. 1. 80.

Foutra, sub expression of contempt, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 118.

Fox, sub. a broadsword, Hen. V. iv. 4. 9.

Foxship, sub. cunning and selfishness, Coriol. iv 2. 18.

Fracted, pt. p. broken, Tim. of Ath ii. 1. 22.

Frampold, adj. unquiet, quarrelsome, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 95.

Frank, sub. a sty, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 160; v. i to shut up in a sty, Rich. III. i. 3. 314; iv. 5. 3

Franklin, sub. a yeoman, Wint. Tule, v. 2. 181; Cymb. iii. 2. 78.

Fraughting, part. adj. constituting the freight, Temp. i. 2. 13.

Free, adj. innocent, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 113; Ham. ii 2. 598.

Freshes, sub. springs of fresh water, Temp. iii. 2. 77.

Fret, v. t. to adorn, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 104; Cymb. ii. 4. 88.

Frets, sub. the stops of a guitar, Lucrece, 1140.

Frippery, sub. an old clothes shop, Temp. iv. 1. 228.

Frontier, sub. an outwork, fortification, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 57.

Frontlet, sub. a band for the forehead, fig. K. Lear, i. 4 210.

Frush, v. t. to break, bruise, or crush [Fr. froisser], Troil & Cres. v. 6. 29.

Fubbed off, pt. p. put off with excuses, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 39.

Fullams, sub. a kind of false dice, Merry Wives of W. i. 8. 92.

Fumitra, and fumitory, sub. the plant Fumaria, Hen. V. v. 2. 45; K. Lear, iv. 4. 3.

Fustilarian, sub. a term of reproach, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 68.

Gaberdine, sub. the coarse frock of a peasant [Ital. gavardina], Temp. ii. 2. 41; Mer. of Ven. i. 3. 113.

Gad, sub. a sharp-pointed instrument, a goad, Tit. Aside. iv. 1. 103; ‘upon the gad’=on the spur of the moment, K. Lear, i. 2. 26.

Gage, v. t. to pledge, Ham. i. 1. 91; Lucrece, 144; sub. also a pledge pawned, Rich. II. i. 1. 146.

Gain-giving, sub. misgiving, Ham. v. 2. 227.

Gait, sub. proceeding, Ham. i. 2. 31.

Gall, v i. to scoff, to jest bitterly, Hen. V. v. 1. 78.

Galled, pt. p. worn by the action of the waves, Hen. V. iii. 1. 12; Lucrece, 1440; irritated as the eyes are by tears, Rich. III. iv. 4. 53; Ham i 2. 155.

Galliard, sub. the name of a dance, Twelfth Night, i. 8. 139; Hen. V. i. 2. 252.

Galliasse, sub. a large galley, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 372.

Gallimaufry, sub. a medley or jumble of things together, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 117, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 337.

Gallow, v t. to frighten, K. Lear, iii. 2. 44.

Gallowglasses, sub. heavy armed Irish foot-soldiers, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 9. 26; Macb. i. 2. 13.

Gallows, sub. a knave, one fit for the gallows, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 12.

Gape, v. i to cry out loudly, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 3. Comp. ‘a gaping pig’ (which however may mean a pig prepared for the table with a lemon in its mouth), Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 47.

Garboil, sub. disturbance, commotion, Ant. & Cleo. i. 3 61.

Garden-house, sub. a summer-house, Meas. for Meas v. 1. 223.

Garish, adj. glittering, gaudy, Rich III. iv. 4. 89; Rom. & Jul. iii. 2. 25.

Garner, v. t. lay up, store up, Oth. iv 2. 56.

Garnish, sub. equipment, Mer. of Ven ii 6. 45.

Gaskins, sub. loose breeches, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 27.

Gasted, pt. p. frightened, K Lear, ii. 1 57.

Gastness, sub ghastliness, Oth v. 1. 106.

Gaudy, adj. festive, Ant. & Cleo. iii 11. 182.

Gawds, sub. toys, nicknacks, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 33; K. John, iii. 3. 36.

Geck, sub a dupe, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 355; Cymb. v. 4. 67.

Geminy, sub a pair, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 9.

Generation, sub. offspring, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 147; K. Lear, i. 1. 119.

Generosity, sub. nobility, Coriol. i. 1. 217.

Generous, adj. of noble birth, Meas. for Meas. iv. 6. 13; Oth. iii. 3. 280.

Gentle, v. t. to ennoble, Hen. V. iv. 3. 63.

Gentry, sub. courtesy, Ham. ii. 2. 22; v. 2. 115.

Germens, sub. seeds, germs, Macb. iv. 1. 59; K. Lear, iii. 2. 8.

Gest, sub. a period of stopping in a place, originally the halting-place in a royal progress [Fr giste, gtte], Wint. Tale, i. 2. 41.

Gests, sub. acts, exploits, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 8. 2.

Ghost, v. t. to visit as a ghost, to haunt, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 6. 13.

Gib, sub. an old tom-cat, Ham. iii. 4. 190.

Gib cat, sub. the same, 1 Hen. IV. i. 2. 83.

Gibber, v. i. to speak inarticulately, Ham. i. 1. 116.

Gibbet, v. t. to hang, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 285.

Gig, sub. a top, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 3. 167; v. 1. 71.

Giglot, sub. a light wench, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 347; adj. 1 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 41; Cymb. iii. 1. 31.

Gilt, sub. money, Hen. V. ii. Chor. 26; gilding, fair show, Twelfth Night, iii. 2 27, Coriol. i. 3. 44.

Gimmal, adj. double, or made with double rings, Hen. V. iv. 2. 49.

Gimmals [Fol. Gimmors], sub connecting parts in the mechanism of a clock, 1 Hen. VI. i. 2. 41.

Ging, sub. a gang, a pack, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 126.

Gird, sub. a scoff, sarcasm, Tam. of Shrew, v. 2. 58, 1 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 131; v. t. to gibe, taunt, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 6; Coriol. i. 1. 262.

Give out, to report, Coriol. i. 1. 199; to give over, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 8. 27.

Gleeks, sub. scoffs, 1 Hen. VI iii. 2. 123.

Gnarling, adj. snarling, Rich. II. i. 3. 292; v. i. 2 Hen VI. iii. 1. 192.

God, v. t. to worship, Coriol. v. 3. 111.

God ’ild you, God yield you (i.e. reward you), As You Like It, iii. 3. 81.

Good, adj wealthy, Mer. of Ven. i. 3. 12; Coriol. i. 1. 16.

Good deed, in very deed, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 42.

Gorbellied, adj. big-bellied, 1 Hen IV. ii. 2. 97.

Gorge, sub. the throat, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 43.

Gorget, sub. armour for the throat, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 174.

Gospelled, pt. p. indued with precepts of the gospel, Macb. iii. 1. 88.

Goss, sub. gorse, Temp. iv. 1. 180.

Gossip, sub. a sponsor, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 41; v. t. to christen, All’s Well, i. 1. 191.

Goujeres, sub. the French disease, K. Lear, v. 3. 24.

Gourds, sub. false dice, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 92.

Gout, sub. a drop [Fr. goutte], Macb. ii. 1. 46.

Grain, sub. the kermes of which the purple dye was made, a fast colour, Com. of Err. iii. 2. 109; Twelfth Night, i. 5. 257.

Grained, adj. dyed in grain, Ham. iii 4. 90; furrowed, rough, Coriol. iv. 5. 114; Lov. Comp. 64.

Grange, sub. a farm, or lone house in the country, Oth. i. 1. 106.

Gratify, v. t. to reward, Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 407; Coriol. ii. 2. 45.

Gratulate, adj. gratifying, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 531.

Great morning, broad daylight, Troil. & Cres. iv. 3. 1; Cymb. iv. 2. 61.

Greek, sub. a boon companion, a merry fellow, Twelfth Night, iv. 1. 19; Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 116; iv. 4. 56.

Grief-shot, adj. sorrow-stricken, Coriol. v. 1. 45.

Grime, v. t. to begrime, K. Lear, ii. 3 9.

Gripe, sub. a griffin, Lucrece, 543.

Grize, sub. a step, Twelfth Night, iii. 1. 138; Oth. i. 3. zoo.

Grizzle, sub. a tinge of grey, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 169.

Ground, sub. the original air, on which the variations are made, Rich. III. iii. 7. 48.

Groundlings, sub. vulgar spectators, who stood in what is now the pit of the theatre, Ham. iii. 2. 12.

Grow to, to have a strong flavour, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 18.

Grow to a point, to come to the point, Mid. N. Dr. i. 2. 10.

Guard, v. t. to trim, K. John, iv. 2. 10; pt. p. trimmed, ornamented, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 170.

Guards, sub. two stars of Ursa Minor were called guards of the pole, Oth. ii. 1. 15; trimmings, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 95.

Guilder, sub. a Dutch coin, Com. of Err. i. 1 8.

Gules, adj. red, in heraldry, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 59; Ham. ii. 2. 488.

Gulf, sub. the gullet, Macb. iv. 1. 23.

Gull, sub. a young unfeathered bird, 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 60; Tim. of Ath. ii. 1. 31.

Gummed velvet, sub. velvet stiffened with gum, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 3.

Gust, v. t. to taste, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 34.

Guttered, part. adj. worn by the action of water, Oth. ii. 1. 69.

Habitude, sub. condition of body, Lov. Comp. 114.

Hack, v. i. to grow common, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 52.

Haggard, sub. a wild hawk, Much Ado, iii. 1. 36; adj. Oth. iii. 3. 260.

Hair, sub. nature, texture, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 61.

Half-checked bit, mutilated, of which only one part remained, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 58.

Hall, interj. a hall! a cry to make room for dancers, Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 30.

Hand-fast, sub. a contract, betrothal, Cymb. i. 5. 78; custody, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 798.

Handy-dandy, a game in which an object is passed from one to another, K. Lear, iv. 6. 158.

Hangman boys, young raseals, Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 4. 61.

Happely, or Happily, adv. perchance, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 98; Twelfth Night, iv. 2. 58.

Hardiments, sub. feats of arms and valour, 1 Hen. IV i. 8. 101; Cymb. v. 4. 75.

Harlot, adj. base, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 4 (harlot king).

Harlotry, sub. a harlot, Oth. iv. 2. 239; a silly wench, Rom. & Jul. iv. 2. 14.

Harrow, v. t. to disquiet, to distract, Ham. i. 1. 44; i. 5. 16.

Harry, v. t. to vex, to harry, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 3. 40.

Hatch, sub. a half door, K. John, i. 1. 171; K. Lear, iii. 6. 76.

Haught, adj. haughty, Rich. II. iv. 1. 254; 3 Hen. VI. ii. 1. 169.

Haunch, sub. the rear, latter end, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 92.

Havoc, interj. to cry ‘havoc!’ signifies to give no quarter, Jul. Cæs. iii. 1. 273; Ham. v. 2. 378.

Hawking, adj. hawk-like, All’s Well, i. 1. 106.

Hay, sub. a circular dance, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 166; an exclamation used by a fencer when he hits his adversary [It. hai! ‘You have it!’], Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 28.

Head, sub. an armed force, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 25; K. John, v. 2. 113; Ham. iv. 5. 101; source, All’s Well, i. 3. 180.

Head-Lugged, part. adj. dragged by the ears, navage, K. Lear, iv. 2. 42.

Heap, sub. company of persons, Rich. III. ii. 1. 53.

Hearted, pt. p. placed or rooted in the heart, Oth. i. 3. 373; iii. 3. 449.

Heat, v. t. to run ever, traverse, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 96.

Heaves, sub. deep sighs, Wint. Tale, ii. 2. 55; Ham. iv. 1. 1.

Hebona [Fol. Hebenon], sub. a word of doubtful meaning; the yew, ebony, and henbane have all been suggested, Ham. i. 5. 62.

Hectic, sub a fever. Ham. iv. 3. 68.

Hedge, v. i. to skulk, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 27, Troil. & Cres. iii. 1. 66.

Hedge-priest, sub. clergyman of the lowest order, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 543.

Heel, v. t. to dance, Troil. & Cres. iv. 4. 146.

Hefts, sub. heavings, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 44.

Helm, v. t. to steer, Meas, for Meas. iii. 2. 155.

Helpless, adj. incurable, Lucrece, 756; useless, unprofitable, Rich. III. i. 2. 13; Ven & Ad 604.

Henchman, sub. a page, Mid. N. Dr. ii 1. 121.

Hent, v. t. to seize, take, Meas. for Meas. iv. 6. 14; Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 134; sub. hold, seizure, Ham iii. 3. 88.

Herblets, sub small herbs, Cymb. iv. 2. 287.

Here of grace, rue, Rich. II. iii. 4. 105; Ham. iv. 5. 181.

Hercules and his load, the Globe theatre, from its sign, Ham. ii. 2. 386.

Hermit, sub. a beadsman, Macb. i. 6. 20.

Hests, sub. commands, Temp. i. 2. 274; iii. 1. 37.

Hewgh, sub. a sound to represent the whizzing of an arrow, K. Lear, iv 6. 94.

Hide fox, and all after, the game of hide and seek, Ham. iv. 2 32.

High and low, kinds of false dice, Merry Wives of W. i. 8. 93.

High-battled, adj. at the head of a victorious army, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 29.

High-day, adj. holiday. Mer. of Ven. ii. 9. 98.

High lone, adj. alone, on one’s own feet, a term of the nursery, Rom. & Jul. i. 3. 36.

Hight, is called, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 169.

High-viced, adj. conspicuously wicked, Tim of Ath. iv. 3. 110.

Hilding, sub. a menial, All’s Well, iii. 6. 4; Cymb. ii. 3. 128; adj. base, Hen. V. iv. 11. 29.

Hip, to catch on, have in one’s power; a wrestling or hunting phrase, Mer. of Ven. i. 3. 47; Oth. ii. 1. 317.

Hipped, pt. p. hurt in the hips, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 50.

Hiren, sub. Irene, name of the heroine in a lost drama by Peele, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 172.

Hit together, v. agree or act together, K. Lear, i. 1. 308.

Hive, sub. a kind of bonnet, Lov. Comp 8.

Hoar, v. t. to make white, as with leprosy, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 156.

Hobby-horse, sub. a principal part in the morris-dance, Ham. iii. 2. 144; a light woman, Much Ado, iii. 2. 75; Oth. iv. 1. 158.

Hodge-pudding, sub. perhaps a haggis, Merry Wives of W. v. 5. 163.

Holding, sub. a burthen of a song, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 7. 118; congrulty, sense, All’s Well, iv. 2. 27.

Holidams, sub. halidom, holiness, Tam. of Shrew, v. 2. 100.

Holy-ales, sub. rural festivals, Per. i. Prol. 6.

Honeying, pr. p. fondling, Ham. iii. 4. 93.

Honey-stalks, sub. clover, Tit. Andr. iv. 4. 90.

Hoodman, sub. the person blinded in the game of blind man’s buff, All’s Well, iv. 8. 137.

Hoodman-blind, sub. blind man’s buff, Ham. iii. 4. 77.

Horn-mad, adj. mad like a savage bull [quibbling], Com. of Err. ii. 1. 57; Merry Wives of W. i. 4. 51.

Horologe, sub a clock, Oth. ii. 3. 136.

Host, v. i to lodge, Com. of Err. i. 2. 9; All’s Well, iii. 5. 94.

Hot at hand, not to be held in, Jul. Cæs. iv. 2. 23.

Hot-house, sub. a bagnio, Meas. for Meas. ii. 1. 67.

Hox, v. t. to hough, to hamstring, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 244.

Hoy, sub. a small coasting vessel, Com. of Err. iv. 3. 39.

Hugger-mugger, in, secretly, with burried secrecy, Ham. iv. 5 84.

Hull, v i to float, Twelfth Night, i 5. 217; Rich. III. iv 4. 439.

Hulling, pr. p. floating at the mercy of the waves, Hen. VIII. ii. 4. 197.

Hunt, sub. game killed in the chase, Cymb iii. 6 89.

Hunts-up, sub. tunes to arouse the huntsman, Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 34.

Hurly, and Hurly-burly, sub. tumult, uproar, K. John, iii 4 169; Macb. i. 1. 3.

Hurricano, sub. waterspout, Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 169; K. Lear, iii 2. 2.

Hurtless, adj. harmless, K. Lear, iv. 6. 171.

Hurtling, sub. a clashing noise, As You Like It, iv. 3. 133.

Hurtle, v. i. to come together with noise, Jul. Cæs. ii. 2. 22.

Husbandry, sub. management, Macb. ii. 1. 4; Tim. of Ath. ii. 2. 165.

Hyen, sub. an hyæna, As You Like It, iv. 1. 163.

Ice brook, sub. supposed to be the river Salo, near Bibilis, in Spain, Oth. v. 2. 252.

Ignomy, sub. ignominy, Meas. for Meas. ii. 4. 112.

Illume, v. t. to illuminate, Ham i. 1. 37.

Illustrous, adj. wanting lustre, without brightness, Cymb. i. 6. 109.

Imbar, v. t. to secure, or perhaps to exclude, Hen. V. i. 2. 94.

Immanity, sub. ferocity, 1 Hen. VI. v. 1. 13.

Immediacy, sub. directness, K. Lear, v. 3. 66.

Immoment, adj. insignificant, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 165.

Imp, sub. child, used affectedly, L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 5; Hen. V. iv. 1. 45; v. t to graft new feathers into a hawk’s wing, Rich. II. ii. 1. 292.

Impasted, pt. p. coagulated, Ham. ii. 2. 490.

Imperceiverant, sub. dull, undiscerning, Cymb. iv. 1. 15.

Importance, sub. importunity, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 375; Cymb. i. 4. 47.

Important, adj. urgent, importunate, Com. of Err. v. 1. 138; K. Lear, iv. 4. 26.

Impose, sub. command, Two Gent. iv. 3. 8.

Imposthume, sub. an abscess, Troil. & Cres. v. 1. 24.

Impress, sub. a device with a motto, Rich. II. iii. 1. 25.

Incarnardine, v. t to dye red, Macb. ii. 2. 63.

Inch-meal, sub. piecemeal, Temp. ii. 2. 3.

Incontinent, sub. immediately, As You Like It, v. 2. 44.

Incontinently, adv. the same, Oth. i. 3. 307.

Incony, adj. delicate, pretty, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 142; iv. 1. 146.

Indent, v. t. to make terms, 1 Hen. IV. i. 3 87.

Induction, sub. introduction, and preparation, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 2; Rich. III. i. 1. 32.

Inexecrable, adj. that cannot be sufficiently execrated, Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 128.

Inform, v. i. to take shape, Macb. ii. 1. 48; to animate, inspire, Coriol. v. 8. 71.

Informal, adj. crazy, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 230.

Inherit, v. t. to possess, Temp. iv. 1. 154.

Inkle, sub. a kind of coarse tape, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 146; Wint. Tale, iv. 3 208; Per. v. Prol. 8.

Inland, adj. civilized, perhaps living near the capital, As You Like It, iii. 2. 367.

Innocent, sub. an idiot, All’s Well, iv. 3. 214; Per. iv. 3. 17.

Insane, adj. causing insanity, Macb. i. 3. 84.

Insanie, sub. madness, L.’s L.’s L. v. i. 28. [Holofernes.]

Insculped, pt. p. engraved, cut, Mer. of Ven. ii. 7. 57.

Insculpture, sub. an inscription cut in stone, Tim. of Ath. v. 4. 67.

Insisture, sub. persistency, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 87

Instance, sub. motive, Ham. iii. 2. 194; proof, 2 Hen IV. iii. 1. 103.

Intelligencer, sub. agent, go-between, Rich. III. iv. 4. 71.

Intelligencing, adj. going between parties, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 68.

Intend, v. t. to pretend, Much Ado, ii. 2. 46; Rich. III. iii. 7. 44.

Intendment, sub. design purpose, As You Like It, i. 1. 142; Ven. & Ad. 222; aim, Hen. V. i. 2. 144.

Intenible, adj. unretentive, All’s Well, i. 3. 210

Intention, sub. aim, direction, Merry Wives of W i 3. 71; Wint. Tale, i. 2. 139.

Intentivrly, adv. attentively, or perhaps consecutively, Oth. i. 3. 155.

Interessed, pt. p. interested [legal sense], K. Lear, i. 1. 87

Intrinse, adj. hard to untie, K. Lear, ii. 2. 80.

Intrinsicate, adj. the same, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 306.

Invectively, adj. reproachfully, As You Like It, ii. 1. 58.

Invincible, adj. invisible [Qy. error], 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 340.

Inward, adj. intimate, Rich. III. iii. 4. 8; secret, Much Ado, iv. 1. 12; sub. an intimate friend, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2 142.

Inwardness, sub. intimacy, Much Ado, iv. 1. 247.

Iron-witted, adj. unfeeling, insensible, Rich. III. iv. 2 28.

Irregulous, adj. lawless, Cymb. iv. 2. 315.

Iterance, sub. repetition, Oth. v. 2. 148.

I wis, adv. certainly [Ang.-Sax. ge-wis], Mer. of Ven. ii. 9. 68; Rich. III. i. 3. 102.

Jack, sub. the small ball aimed at in the game of bowls, Cymb. ii. 1. 2; a term of reproach, Rich. III. i. 3. 72; 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 98; a figure which struck the bell in old clocks, Rich. II. v. 5. 60; Rich. III. iv. 2. 113.

Jack-a-lent, sub. a stuffed figure thrown at during Lent, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 27; v. 5. 137.

Jacks, sub. the keys of a virginal, Sonnets, cxxviii. 5; a drinking vessel, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 51.

Jack-sauce, sub. a saucy Jack, Hen V. iv. 7. 149.

Jade, v. t. to drive like a jade, Ant & Cleo. iii. 1. 34; to treat with contempt, Hen. VIII. iii. 2. 281; to run away with, Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 180.

Jaded, adj. worn out with work, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 1. 52.

Jar, sub. a tick of the clock, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 43; v. i. to tick, Rich. II. v. 5. 51.

Jaunce, sub. a wild ramble, Rom. & Jul. ii. 5. 26; v. i. to ramble, Rom. & Jul. ii. 5. 53; to spur hard, Rich. II. v. 5. 94.

Jay, sub. a loose woman, Merry W. of W. iii. 3. 44.

Jennet, sub. a Spanish horse, Ven. & Ad 260.

Jesses, sub. foot straps, which attached the legs of a hawk to the fist, Oth. iii. 3. 261.

Jet, v. i. to strut, Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 36; Cymb. iii. 3. 5; to advance insultingly, Rich. III. ii. 4. 51; Tit. Andr ii. 1. 64.

Jig, sub. a ludicrous ballad, Ham. ii. 2. 530; L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 12.

Jigging, pr. p composing jigs, Jul. Cæs. iv. 3. 136.

Joint-ring, sub. a split ring, gimmal-ring, Oth. iv. 3. 74.

Jolthead, sub. a blockhead, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 169.

Journal, adj. diurnal, daily, Meas. for Meas. iv. 3. 95; Cymb. iv. 2. 10.

Jovial, adj. like Jove, Cymb. iv. 2. 311.

Jowl, or Joll, v. t. to knock, to dash, All’s Well, i. 3. 60; Ham. v. 1. 82.

Judicious, adj. judicial, Coriol. v. 5. 128.

Jump, v. t. to risk, Coriol. iii. 1. 153; Cymb. v. 4. 187; to agree, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 262; adv. just, exactly, Ham. v. 2. 389; Oth. ii. 3. 395.

Justicer, sub a minister of justice, K. Lear, iii. 6. 24; Cymb. v. 5 215.

Kam, adj. crooked, away from the point, Coriol. iii. 1. 302.

Kecksies, sub. hemlock, and other hollow-stalked plants, Hen. V. v. 2. 52.

Keech, sub a roll of tallow, Hen. VIII. i. 1. 55.

Keel, v t. to cool, or perhaps to skim, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 928.

Keep, v. t. to guard, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 133; sub. keeping, custody, Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 120; to dwell, Ham. ii. 1. 8.

Kern, sub. a light-armed Irish foot-soldier, Rich. II. ii. 1. 157; Macb. i. 2. 13.

Kersey, sub. cheap woollen cloth, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 414.

Kettle, sub. a kettle-drum, Ham. v. 2. 289.

Key, sub. a tuning key, Temp. i. 2. 83.

Key-cold, adj. stone-cold, cold as a key, Rich. III. i. 2. 5; Lucrece, 1774.

Kibe, sub. a chilblain, Temp. ii. 1. 284; a chap on the heel, Ham. v. 1. 152.

Kick at, v. t. to turn away from with loathing and disgust, Coriol. ii. 2. 129.

Kickshaw, sub. a trifle, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 124; 2 Hen. IV. v. 1. 29.

Kicky-wicky, sub. a ludicrous term for a wife, All’s Well, ii. 3. 297.

Kiln-hole, sub. the fireplace of an oven or kiln, Merry Wives of W. iv. 9. 61; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 247.

Kindle, v. i. to bring forth young, As You Like It, iii. 2. 362; v. t. to incite to a thing, K. John, i. 1 33.

Kindless, adj. unnatural, Ham. ii. 2. 617

Kissing-comfits, sub. sugar-plums perfumed for sweetening the breath, Merry Wives of W. v. 5. 22.

Kitchen, v. t. to entertain in the kitchen, Com. of Err. v. 1. 418.

Knack, sub. a toy, or pretty trifle, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 34; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 361.

Knap, v. t. to snap or break short; to hit or rap smartly, Mer. of Ven. iii. 1. 10; K. Lear, ii. 4. 125.

Knot-grass, sub. a herb supposed to have the power of checking growth, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 329.

Knot-pated, adj. thick-headed, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 79.

Laboursome, adj. elaborate, Ham. i. 2. 59; Cymb. iii. 4. 167.

Laced, pt. p. adorned, embellished, Macb. ii. 3. 119, Cymb. ii. 2. 22.

Laced Mutton, sub. a prostitute, Two Gent. i. 1. 102.

Lade, v. t. to empty, to drain, 3 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 139.

Lady-smock, sub. the plant Cardamine pratensis, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 903.

Lag, sub. a fragment, thing left, Cymb. v. 3. 92; the lowest class, Tim. of Ath. iii. 6. 91.

Lag End, the last part, the fag end, Hen. VIII. i. 3. 35.

Laid, pt. p. waylaid, ‘the country is laid’=set on its guard to arrest, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 10. 4.

Lampass, sub. a disease in a horse’s palate, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 53.

Land, sub. lawn, Temp. iv. 1. 130; L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 310.

Land-damn, v. t. corrupt word in Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 142.

Lank, v. i. to shrink, Ant. & Cleo. i. 4. 71.

Lantern, or Lanthorn, sub. a louvre, a window-turret, Rom. & Jul. v. 3. 84.

Lap, v. t. to wrap up, Macb. i. 2. 55; Cymb. v. 5. 361.

Lapsed, pt. p. surprised, Twelfth Night, iii. 3. 36.

Lard, v. t. to ornament, Ham. iv. 5. 38.

Latch, v. t. to catch, lay hold of, Macb. iv. 3. 195; Son. cxiii. 6; to close, or, perhaps, to smear over, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 36.

Latten, adj. a mixed metal, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 167.

Laund, sub. lawn, wood opening, 3 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 2. Comp. Land.

Launder, v. t. to wash, Lov. Comp. 17.

Lavolt, sub. a kind of waltz, Troil. & Cres. iv. 4. 86.

Leading, sub. the power of leading, generalship, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 3. 17.

Leaguer, sub. a camp, All’s Well, iii. 6. 27.

Leash, sub. a set of three, from the string or thong for leading greyhounds, to which usually three dogs were coupled, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 7.

Leather-coat, sub. a kind of apple, the golden russeting, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 42.

Leer, sub. complexion, colour, As You Like It, iv. 1. 69; Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 120.

Leese, v. t. to love, Sonnets, v. 14.

Leet, sub. a manor court, Tam. of Shrew, Ind. ii. 89; Oth. ii. 3.

Leg, sub. a bow, Coriol. ii. 1. 78; Tim. of Ath. i. 2. 241.

Legerity, sub. lightness, nimbleness Hen. V. iv. 1. 23.

Leiger, sub. a resident ambassador, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 57; Cymb. i 5. 80.

Lenten, adj. sparing, meagre, Ham. ii. 2. 337; Twelfth Night, i. 5 9.

Liberal, adj. licentious, Much Ado, iv 1. 93; Ham. iv. 7. 171, Oth ii. 1. 164

Liberty, sub. licentiousness, Tim. of Ath. iv. 1. 25; Ham. ii. 1. 32.

Lifter, sub. a thief, Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 127.

Light o’ love, sub. the name of a tune, Two Gent. i. 2. 80; Much Ado, iii. 4. 44.

Limbeck, sub. an alembic, Macb. i 7. 67; Son. cxix. 2.

Limb-meal, adv. limb by limb, Cymb ii. 4. 147.

Limbo, sub. the edge or border of hell, All’s Well, v. 3. 264; Tit. Andr. iii. 1. 150.

Lime, v. t. to put lime into liquor, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 14.

Limit, v. t. to appoint, Meas. for Meas iv. 2. 175; Mach. ii. 3. 58.

Limn, v. t. to draw in colours, As You Like It, ii. 7. 197.

Line, v. t. to draw, delineate, As You Like It, iii. 2. 98; to strengthen, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 88; Macb. i. 3. 112.

Line-grove, sub. probably a grove of lime trees, Temp. v. 1. 10.

Link, sub. a torch, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 137

Linsey-woolsey, sub. gibberish, jargon, All’s Well, iv. 1, 13.

Linstock, sub. the stick for holding a gunner’s match, Hen. V. iii Chorus, 33.

Lip, v. t. to kiss, Oth. iv. 1. 72; Ant. & Cleo. ii. 5. 30.

Lipsbury pinfold, to have one in; a difficult expression perhaps to have one between the teeth, K. Lear, ii. 2. 9.

Liquor, v. t. to moisten with oil, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 94.

List, sub. wish, desire, Oth. ii. 1. 104; v. i. to desire, Ven. & Ad. 564; to attend to, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 357.

Lither, adj. yielding, fiexible, 1 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 21.

Litigious, adj. doubtful, precarious, Per. iii. 3. 3.

Little, in, in miniature, As You Like It, iii. 2. 149; Ham. ii. 2. 392.

Lob, sub. a lubber, a heavy fellow, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 16; v. t. to hang down, to droop, Hen. V. iv. 2. 47.

Lockram, sub. a cheap kind of linen, Coriol. ii. 1. 228.

Lode-star, sub. the pole-star, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 183; Lucrece, 179.

Lodged, pt. p. laid flat as corn is by wind and rain, Rich. II. iii. 3. 162; Macb. iv. 1. 55.

Loggats, sub. a rustic game, something like bowls, Ham. v. 1. 99.

Long of, on account of, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 339; Cymb. v. 5. 272.

Loof, v. t. to luff, bring close to the wind, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 8. 27.

Loon, sub. a base fellow, Macb. v. 3. 11.

Looped, adj. full of holes, K. Lear, iii. 4. 31.

Loose, sub. the discharge of an arrow, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 750; v. t. to let loose, discharge as an arrow, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 60.

Lord’s tokens, sub. plague spots, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 424.

Lots to blanks ‘any odds,’ Coriol. v. 2. 10.

Louted, pt. p. made a fool of, 1 Hen. VI. iv. 3. 13.

Love-day, sub. a day for the amicable settlement of differences, Tit. Andr. i. 1. 491.

Loves, of all, for the sake of everything lovely, an adjuration, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2 119

Lown, sub. a base fellow, Oth. ii. 3. 96; Per. iv. 6. 19 [Comp. Loon.]

Lozel, sub. a worthless fellow, Wist. Tale, ii. 3. 108.

Luce, sub. a pike, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 17.

Lumpish, adj. dull, heavy, Two Gent. iii. 2. 62.

Lunes, sub. freaks of madness, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 22 [Fol. Lines]; Wint. Tale, ii. 2. 30.

Lurch, v. i. to skulk, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 27, to win with great ease, a phrase used at cards, Coriol. ii. 2. 106.

Lure, sub. the stuffed figure of a bird, used to amuse a hawk, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 195; the whistle or call to allure the hawk, Ven. & Ad. 1027; v. i. to call, allure a hawk, Rom. & Jul. ii. 2. 159.

Lush, adj. luxuriant, Temp. ii. 1. 55.

Lustig, adj. lustig is Dutch for merry or cheerful, All’s Well, ii. 3 47.

Luxurious, adj. lascivious, Much Ado, iv. 1. 41; Hen. V. iv. 4. 20.

Luxury, sub. lust, Merry Wives of W. v. 5 100; Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 53.

Lym, sub. a bloodbound, so called because he was held by a lym or leash, K. Lear, iii. 6. 72.

Maculate, adj. stained, impure, L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 98.

Maculation, sub. stain, the spot of guilt, Troil. & Cres. iv. 4. 64.

Mad, adj. wild, untrained, 1 Hen. VI. v. 3. 191.

Made, pt. p. fastened, Com of Err. iii. 1. 93.

Maggot-pie, sub. a magpie, Macb. iii. 4. 125.

Magnifico, sub. the title of a Venetian grandee, Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 281; Oth. i. 2. 12.

Maid Marian, a character in the morris-dance, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 128.

Mailed up, wrapped up, a hawking term, 2 Hen. VI. ii. 4. 31; to mail a hawk was to pinion her, or fasten her wings with a girdle.

Main, sub. a hand at dice, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 47; the mainland, K. Lear, iii. 1. 6.

Main-course, sub. a mainsail, Temp. i. 1. 40.

Mained, pt. p. maimed, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 176.

Makeless, adj. mateless, widowed, Sonnets, ix. 4.

Malkin, sub. a kitchen slut, Coriol. ii. 1. 227.

Mall, sub. Mary, Temp. ii. 2. 51; ‘Mistress Mall’s picture,’ improbably explained as referring to the picture of the notorious Mary Firth, or Mall Cut-purse, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 137.

Mallard, sub. a wild drake, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 8. 29.

Mallecho, sub. mischief [perhaps Span malhecho], Ham. iii. 2. 148.

Malt-worm, sub. a tippler of ale, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 83; 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 366.

Mammer, v. i. to hesitate, Oth. iii. 3. 70 (perhaps to mutter in hesitation).

Mammet, sub. a doll, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 97; Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 186. Some have suggested breasts as its meaning in the first passage.

Mammock, v. t. tear in fragments, Coriol. i. 3. 71.

Man. v. t. to tame a hawk, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 196; to direct, to aim, Oth. v. 2. 269.

Manage, sub. taming of a horse, Temp. i. 2. 70; As You Like It, i. 1. 13; Rich. II. iii. 3. 179; v. t. to train, break in a horse, Ven. & Ad. 598.

Mandragora, sub. mandrake, Oth. iii. 3. 331; Ant. & Cleo. i 5. 4.

Mandrake, sub. the plant Atropa Mandragora, the root of which was supposed to bear human shape, and to shriek when pulled out of the ground, causing madness or death to the hearer, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 16; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 310; Rom. & Jul. iv. 3. 48.

Mankind, adj. masculine, applied to a woman, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 67; Coriol. iv. 2. 16.

Manned, pt. p. furnished with a servant, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 18, 59.

Manner, to be taken with the, to be caught in the act, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 202; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 775; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 226.

Man-queller, sub. a murderer, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 60.

Manure, v. t. to cultivate, Oth. i. 3. 329.

Mappery, sub. the study of maps, theory as opposed to real practice in warfare, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 205.

Mareled, adj. like marble, everlasting, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 192.

Marchpane, sub. confectionery made of a paste of pounded almonds formed into cakes, Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 9.

Mare, sub. the nightmare, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 86; ‘to ride the wild mare’=to play at see-saw, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 268.

Mark, sub. God bless or save the mark=saving your favour, 1 Hen. IV. 1. 356; Oth. i. 1. 33.

Martial, adj. like Mars, Cymb. iv. 2. 310.

Martlemas, sub. 11th of November, supposed to be a time of fair weather, applied to a hale old man, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 112.

Mary-buds, sub. flowers of the marigold, Cymb. ii. 3. 26.

Mashed, pt. p. mixed or beaten into a confused mass, Tit. Andr. iii. 2. 38.

Mate, v. t. to confound, to paralyze, Macb. v. 1. 85; Ven. & Ad. 909; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 265; to cope with, to match, Hen. VIII. iii. 2. 275.

Maugre, prep. in spite of, Twelfth Night, iii. 1. 165; K. Lear, v. 3 133.

Maund, sub. a basket, Lov. Comp. 36.

Mazzard, sub. a head, Ham. v. 1. 95; Oth. ii. 3. 157.

Meacock, adj. spiritless, henpecked, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 307.

Mealed, pt. p. mingled, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 86.

Mean, sub. an intermediate part (alto or tenor) between the treble and bass, Two Gent. of Ver. i. 2. 92; L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 329; Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 46; poor, humble, Com. of Err. i. 1. 54.

Mechanical, sub. a handicraftsman, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 9; Jul. Cæs. i. 1. 3.

Medicine, sub. a physician, All’s Well, ii. 1. 75; Macb. v. 2. 27.

Meiny, sub. household, attendants, K. Lear, ii. 4. 35.

Mell, v. i. to meddle, All’s Well, iv. 3. 258.

Merchant, sub. a fellow, a chap [Ital. mercatante], 1 Hen. VI. ii. 8. 57; Tam. of Shrew, iv. 2. 63; Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 154.

Mere, adj. entire, absolute, Oth. ii. 2. 3; Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 111; adv. All’s Well, iii. 5. 55.

Mered, adj. only, entire, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 10.

Merely, adv. entirely, Ham. i. 2. 137

Mess, sub. a set of four, L’s L. ’s L. iv. 3. 207; v. 2. 362; 3 Hen. VI. i. 4. 73; a small quantity or fragment, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 106; Oth. iv. 1. 210.

Metaphysical, adj. supernatural, Macb. i. 5 30.

Mew, v. t. to pen up, to imprison, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 71; Rom. & Jul. iii. 4. 11.

Mew! an interjection of contempt, K. Lear, iv. 2. 68.

Micher, sub. a truant, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 455.

Miching, adj. sneaking, lurking, Ham. iii. 2. 148.

Middle-earth, sub. the world, Merry Wives of W. v. 5. 86.

Milch, adj. moist, shedding tears, Ham. ii. 2. 548.

Milliner, sub. a man dealing in fancy articles, Wint. Tale, iv. 4. 192; 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 36.

Mill-sixpence, sub. coin that first had milled edge [1561], Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 160.

Millstones, to weep [proverbial], not to weep at all, Rich. III. i. 3. 353; i. 4. 249.

Mind, sub. ‘put in mind of’=informed, Oth. ii. 3. 138.

Mine, v. t. to undermine, to sap, As You Like It, i. 1. 22; Ham. iii. 4. 148.

Mineral, sub. a mine, Ham iv. 1. 26, a poisonous drug, Oth. i. 2. 74; Cymb. v. 5. 50.

Minikin, adj. small, pretty, K. Lear, iii. 6. 46.

Minimus, sub. anything very small, Mid. N. Dr. iii 2. 329

Minute-jacks, sub. time-servers, Tim. of Ath. iii. 6. 108.

Mire, v. i. to sink as in the mud, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3 148.

Miser, sub. a miserable wretch, 1 Hen. VI. v 4. 7.

Misprised, adj. mistaken, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 74.

Misprision, sub. contempt, mistake, Much Ado, iv. 1. 187.

’Miss, adv. misconduct, Ven. & Adon. 53.

Missingly, adv. with regret, Wint. Tale, iv. 1. 34.

Missive, sub. a messenger, Macb. i. 5 7; Ant. & Cleo. ii. 2. 78.

Mist, v.t. to throw a mist upon anything, K. Lear, v. 3. 264.

Mistress, sub. the jack at the game of bowls, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 50.

Morled, pt. p. having the head closely wrapped up. Ham. ii. 2. 533.

Modern, adj. trite, commonplace, Macb. iv. 3. 170; Oth. i. 3. 109.

Moldwarp, sub. a mole, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 148.

Mome, sub. a blockhead, Com. of Err. iii. 1. 32.

Momentany, adj. momentary, instantaneous, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 143.

Monarcho, sub. name of a crazy Italian, living in London about 1580, who professed to be monarch of the world, L.’s L. ’s L. iv. 1. 102.

Montant, sub. a fencing term, an upward thrust, Merry Wives of W. ii. 3. 27 [Comp. ‘Mountanto’ applied to Benedick in ‘Much Ado about Nothing,’ i. 1. 30.]

Monumental, adj. ancestral, memorial, All’s Well, iv. 3. 20; Troil. & Cres. iii. 3. 153.

Mood, sub. fit of passion, Two Gent. iv 1. 51; Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 13.

Moonish, adj. unconstant, As You Like It, iii. 2. 436.

Mop, sub. a grimace, Temp. iv. 1. 47.

Mopping, pr. p. making grimaces, K. Lear, iv. 1. 62.

Morisco, sub. a Morris-dancer, 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 365.

Morris-pike, sub. a Moorish pike, Com. of Err. iv, 3. 27.

Mort, sub. a set of notes sounded at the death of the deer, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 119.

Mortal, adj. deadly, causing death, Com. of Err. i. 1. 11; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 263; Lucrece, 364; perhaps=abounding, excessive; according to some, human, As You Like It, ii. 4. 55.

Mother, sub. the disease hysterica passio, K. Lear, ii. 4. 56.

Motion, sub. a puppet-show, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 104; Lucrece, 1326; a puppet, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 121.

Motive, sub. a mover, author, Tim. of Ath. v. 4. 27; Oth. iv. 2. 42.

Motley, adj. the particoloured dress of a fool, As You Like It, ii. 7. 13, sub a fool, As You Like It, iii. 3. 84; Sonnets, cx. 2.

Mould, sub. ‘men of mould’=earth-born men, Hen. V. iii. 2. 24.

Moulten, adj. without feathers, 1 Hen. IV. iii 1. 151.

Mountant, adj. lifted up. Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 136

Mouse, sub. a term of endearment, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 68; L.’s L’s L. v. 2. 19.

Mouse, v.t. to tear in pieces, K. John, ii. 1. 354.

Mow, v. a grimace, Temp. iv. 1. 47.

Moy, sub. imaginary name of a coin, evolved from a misunderstanding of French moy, Hen. V. iv. 4. 14.

Mulled, adj. insipid, flat, Coriol. iv. 5. 240.

Mural [O. Ed. Moral], sub. perhaps wall, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 210 (? read ‘wall’).

Murdering-piece, sub. a cannon loaded with chain shot, Ham. iv. 5. 95

Mure, sub. a wall, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 119.

Murrion, adj. infected with the murrain, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 97.

Muscadel, sub. a sweet wine, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 175.

Muset, sub. a gap in a hedge or thicket through which a hare is accustomed to pass, Ven. & Adon. 683.

Muss, sub. a scramble, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 91.

Mutine, v. i. to mutiny, to rebel, Ham. iii. 4. 83.

Mutines, sub. mutineers, K. John, ii. 1. 378; Ham. v. 2. 6.

Nayward, to the, in the negative direction, towards denial or disbelief, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 63.

Nayword, sub. a byword, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 147; a watchword, word of intelligence, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 132; v. 2. 5.

Neaf, sub. a fist, Mid. N. Dr. iv. 1. 20. Comp. Neif.

Near, adj. nearer, Macb. ii. 3. 147; Rich. II iii. 2. 64; v. 1. 88.

Near-Legged, adj. knock-kneed, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 58.

Neat, adj. foppish, 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 33; K. Lear, ii. 2. 45.

Neb, sub. bill or beak, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 183.

Necessitied, pt. p. so poor as to urgently need, All’s Well, v. 3. 85.

Needful, adj. wanting supplies, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 1. 147.

Needly, adj. absolutely, Rom. & Jul. iii 2. 117.

Neeld, sub. needle, Per. Prol. iv. 23, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 2. 204.

Neeze, v. i. to sneeze, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 56.

Neif, sub. a fist, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 199.

Nephew, sub. grandchild, Oth. i. 1. 112.

Nether-stocks, sub. stockings, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 132.

Nice, adj. scrupulous, Two Gent. of Ver. iii. 1. 82, Mer. of Ven. ii. 1. 14, trivial, Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 160; Jul. Cæs. iv 3. 8; ‘makes nice of no vile hold’=is not prudish with respect of &c., K. John, iii. 4. 138.

Niceness, Nicety, sub. coyness, Meas. for Meas. ii. 4 163; Cymb. iii. 4. 158.

Nicholas’ clerks, St., highwaymen, 1 Hen IV. ii. 1. 67. St. Nicholas was also patron of scholars, Two Gent. of Ver. iii. 1. 303.

Niece, sub granddaughter, Rich. III. iv. 1. 1.

Night-crow, sub. the night-heron, Ardea nycticorax, or according to some, the owl; according to others, the night-jar, 3 Hen. VI. v. 6 45.

Nighted, adj. dark, K Lear, iv 5. 13.

Night-rule, sub. revelry, nightly diversion, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 5.

Nill, will not, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 265; Ham. v. 1. 18.

Nine-fold, sub. explained ‘nine foals,’ or ‘nine familiars,’ K. Lear, iii. 4. 124.

Nine men’s morris, a sort of game played with stones on figures cut in the green turf, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 98. ‘Morris’ is a corruption of merrils [Fr. merelles]. ‘Le jeu des merelles, the boyish game called merills, or five-penny morris, played here most commonly with stones, but in France with pawns, . . . and termed merelles’—Cotgrave, Fr. Dic.

Ninny, sub. a fool, Temp. iii. 2. 73.

Nod, give you the, a term in the game of cards called ‘Noddy,’ Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 209.

Noddy, sub. a simpleton, Two Gent. of Ver. i. 1. 120.

Noise, sub. music, Temp. iii. 2. 147; a company of musicians, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 13.

Nook-shotten, adj. running out into numerous angies or corners, shooting out into capes and necks of land, Hen. V. iii. 5. 14. Comp. Cymb. iii. 4. 140, 141.

Note, sub. stigma, mark of reproach, Rich. II. i. 1. 43.

Noted, pt. p. marked with a stigma, disgraced, Jul. Cæs. iv. 3. 2.

Nousle, v. t. to nourish delicately, Per. i. 4. 42.

Novum, sub. a game of dice, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 545.

Nowl, sub. the head, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 17.

Numbered, part. adj. having full numbers, richly stored with, Cymb. i. 6. 36.

Nuthook, sub. a catchpole, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 173; 2 Hen. IV. v. 4. 8.

Nuzzling, pr. p. pushing with the nose, nosing, Ven. & Adon. 1115.

O, sub. anything round, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 188; Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 81; perhaps pit, Hen. V. Chor. 13.

Obsequious, adj. connected with obsequies, funereal, Tit. Andr. v. 3. 152; Ham. i. 2. 92.

Obsequiously, adv. as becomes a funeral, Rich. III. i. 2. 3.

Oestruct, sub. an obstacle, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 6. 61.

Occulted, adj. hidden, Ham. iii. 2. 85.

Odd-even, sub. perhaps the interval between twelve at night and one in the morning, Oth. i. 1. 124.

Œilliades, sub. amorous glances, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 66; K. Lear, iv. 5. 25.

O’er-crow, v. t. to overcome, Ham v. 2. 367.

O’ergrown, pt. p. having long locks, Cymb. iv. 4. 33.

O’erlooked, pt. p. bewitched, Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 15; Merry Wives of W. v. 5 89.

O’er-parted, pt. p. having too difficult a part assigned to one, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 585.

O’er-raught, pt. t. overtook, Ham. iii. 1. 17; pt. p. swindled, Com. of Err. i. 2. 96.

O’er-sized, pt. p. smeared over as with size, Ham. ii. 2. 493.

Off-cap, v. t. to take the cap off, Oth. i. 1. 10.

Officed, pt. p. holding a certain position, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 172; having a certain function, Oth. i. 3 272.

Offices, sub. servants’ apartments in a great house, Rich. II. i. 2. 69; Mach. ii. 1. 14.

Old, sub. wold, K. Lear, iii. 4. 123.

Old, adj. abundant, plentiful, great, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 22; Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 126; Rom. & Jul. iii. 3. 93: Macb. ii. 3. 2.

On, prep. of, Mer. of Ven. ii. 6. 67; Wint. Tale, ii. 2. 31; Macb. v. 1. 74; Ham. iii. 1. 180.

Oneyers, sub. unexplained, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 85.

Open, v. i. to give tongue, to bark on the scent, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 213.

Operant, adj. active, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 25; Ham. iii. 2. 186.

Or, adv. before, Cymb. ii. 4. 14.

Orgulous, adj. proud [Fr. orgueilleux], Troil. & Cres. i. Prol. 2.

Ort, sub. leaving, refuse, Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 155; Jul. Cæs. iv. 1. 37; Lucrece, 985.

Ought, v. t. owed, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 151.

Ouphs, sub. goblins, Merry Wives of W. iv. 3. 51; v. 5. 63.

Outface, v. t. to put out of countenance, Mer. of Ven. iv. 2. 17.

Out-peer, v. t. surpass, Cymb. iii. 6. 86.

Out-vied, pt. p. beaten by a higher card, Tam. of Shrew. ii. 1. 379.

Overbuy, v. t. to pay too much for, Cymb. i. 1. 146.

Over-scutched, part. adj. worn out, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 344.

Overseen, pt. p. bewitched, Lucrece, 1206.

Overshot, pt. p. put to shame, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 141; Hen. V. iii. 7. 139. Perhaps, quibbling with the sense, tipsy.

Overture, sub. disclosure, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 171; K. Lear, iii. 7. 89; declaration, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 226.

Owches, sub. ornaments, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 52.

Owe, v. t. to own, to possess, Temp. i. 2. 404; Rich. II. iv. 1. 185.

Oves, int. ‘hear ye!’ the public crier’s word [Fr. syez.] Merry Wives, v. 5. 47; Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 142.

Pack, v. t. to plot, to shuffle cards unfairly, Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 157; Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 19; sub. a confederacy, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 126.

Packing, sub. plotting, K. Lear. iii. 1.

Paddock, sub. a toad, Ham. iii. 4. 190; a familiar spirit like a toad, Macb. i. 1. 9.

Paid, pt. p. perhaps drunk, Cymb v. 4. 165.

Painful, adj. laborious, Temp. iii. 1. 1; Sonnets, xxv. 9.

Painted cloth, cloth or canvas hangings, painted with figures and sentences, As You Like It, iii. 2. 291; Troil. & Cres. v. 10. 46.

Pajock, sub. some term of contempt, explained ‘peacock,’ which is doubtful, Ham. iii. 2. 300. ‘Some in Leinster and Ulster are . . . grown to be as very patchcockes as the wild Irish’ (Spenser, ‘A View of the State of Ireland.’ Grosart, vol. ix. p. 104, ed. 1882).

Palabras, sub. words [Span.], Much Ado, iii 5. 18; ‘paucas pallabris’ (Sly)=pocas palabras [Span:], few words, Tam. of Shrew, Ind. i. 5.

Paled, adj. pale, Lov. Comp 198.

Pall, v. t. to wrap one’s self up, Macb. i. 5. 52.

Palliament, sub. a robe, Tit. Andr. i. 1. 182.

Palmy, adj. victorious, Ham. i. 1. 113.

Pantaloon, sub. an old fool, taken from the Italian comedy, As You Like It, ii. 7. 158; Tam. of Shrew, iii. 1. 37.

Pantler, sub. a servant in charge of the pantry. Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 56.

’Paritor, sub. apparitor, an officer in the bishop’s court. L.’s L’s L. iii. 1. 196.

Parlous, adj. a vulgar corruption of perilous=mischievous, alarming, As You Like It, iii. 2. 46.

Parmaceti, sub. spermaceti, 1 Hen. IV. i 3. 58.

Part, v. t. to quit, to leave, Rich. II. iii. 1. 3; Per. v. 3. 38.

Parted, pt. p. gifted, Troil & Cres. iii. 3 96.

Partial, adj. ‘a partial slander’=the reproach of partiality, Rich. II. i 3. 241.

Parti-coated, adj. having a coat of various colours, L.’s L’s L. v. 2. 774.

Partlet, sub. the name for the hen in Reynard the Fox, so called from her ruff, Wint. Tale, ii 3. 75, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 60.

Pash, sub. the head, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 129; v. t. to beat, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 217; part. adj. v. 5. 10.

Pass, v. i. to die, K. Lear, v. 3. 315; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 3. 25; v. t. to care for, regard, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 140; to exceed bounds, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 185; Troil. & Cres. i. 2. 180; to pass sentence on, Meas. for Meas. ii. 1. 19; sub. ‘pass of pate’=sally of wit, Temp. iv. 1. 246.

Passado, sub. a term in fencing, L.’s L.’s L. i. 2. 188; Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 27.

Passes, sub. proceedings, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 371.

Passy-measure, sub. a corruption of the Italian passamezzo, a slow and stately dance, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 208.

Patch, sub. a fool, Temp. iii. 2. 73; Macb. v. 3. 15.

Patchery, sub. roguery, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 78; Tim. of Ath. v. 1. 101.

Path, v. i. to walk, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 83.

Patines, sub. metal plates, Mer. of Ven. v. 1. 59.

Paunch, v. t. rip up, Temp. iii. 2. 101.

Pavin, sub. a stately dance, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 209.

Pax, sub. a small piece of metal offered to be kissed; but Pistol probably meant ‘pix,’ a box which held the Host, Hen. V. iii. 6. 42.

Peach, v. t. to accuse, turn king’s evidence, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 50.

Peaches, v. t. betrays, Meas. for Meas. iv. 3. 12.

Peak, v. i. to grow thin, Macb. i. 3. 23; to mope, Ham. ii. 2. 602.

Peaking, adj. sneaking, Merry W. of W. iii. 5. 73.

Pearl, sub a cataract in the eye, Two Gent. of Ver. v. 2. 13 [quibbling].

Pearl, sub. ‘kingdom’s pearl’=fine youth, or perhaps choice nobility of the country, Macb. v. 7. 85.

Peat, sub. a pet, a darling, Tam of Shrew. i. 1. 78.

Peculiar, adj. preserved, guarded, Meas. for Meas. i. 2. 96

Pedant, sub. a schoolmaster, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 187; Tam. of Shrew, iii. 1. 88.

Peeled, part. adj. shaven, 1 Hen. VI. i. 3. 30.

Peer, v. i. to appear, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 3; Ven. & Adon. 86.

Peevish, adj. silly, foolish, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 321; Rich. III. iv. 2. 96.

Peg, v. t. to wedge, Temp. i. 2. 295.

Pegs, sub. the pins of an instrument, Oth. ii. 1. 203.

Peise, v. t. to make heavy and so retard, Mer. of Ven. iii. 2. 22; to poise, balance, K. John, ii. 1. 575 [peized]; ‘peise down’=to weigh down, Rich. III. v. 3. 106.

Pelt, v. i to chafe with anger, Lucrece, 1418.

Pelting, adj paltry, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 91; K. Lear, ii. 3. 18.

Pendulous, adj. impending, K. Lear, iii. 4. 66.

Penetrative, adj. affecting the heart, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 75.

Pensioner, sub gentleman pensioner, gentlemen in the personal service of the sovereign. Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 81; Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1 10.

Pensived, adj. pensive, Lov. Comp 219.

Pent-house, sub. a shed standing aslope from the main building, Much Ado, iii. 3. 109; fig. the eyelid, Macb. i. 3. 20.

Perdu, sub. a soldier sent on a forlorn hope, K. Lear, iv. 7. 35.

Perfect, pt. p. fully satisfied, Macb. iii. 4. 21; adj. certain, Wint. Tale, iii. 3. 1, Cymb. iii. 1. 73.

Periapts, sub. amulets, 1 Hen. VI. v. 3. 2.

Perked up, dressed up, adorned, Hen VIII. ii. 3. 21

Perniciously, adv. excessively, or else maliciously, Hen. VIII. ii. 1. 50.

Perpend, v. i. to reflect, consider, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 117; Hen. V. iv. 4. 8.

Perspectively, adv. as through a perspective, Hen. V. v. 2. 347.

Perspectives, sub. glasses cut so as to form an optical delusion, All’s Well, v. 3. 48; Twelfth Night, v. 1. 227.

Pert, adj. lively, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 273; Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 13.

Perttaunt-like, a word not yet explained, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 67.

Petar, sub an engine charged with powder to blow up gates, Ham. iii. 4. 207.

Pettish, adj. capricious, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 140.

Pettitoes, sub. feet, properly, pigs’ feet, Wint. Talc, iv. 3. 621.

Pew, sub. a seat, K. Lear, iii. 4. 53.

Pew-fellow, sub. companion, Rich. III. iv. 4. 58.

Phantasime, sub. a fantastical person, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 1. 102; v. 1. 20.

Phantasma, sub. a vision, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 65.

Philip and Jacob, first of May, festival of St. Philip and St. James, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 218.

Phraseless, adj. indescribable, Lov. Comp. 225.

Physic, v. t. to heal, to keep in health, Macb. i. 3. 55; Cymb. iii. 2. 34.

Physical, adj. wholesome, Coriol. i. 5. 18; Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 261.

Pia mater, the membrane that covers the brain, the brain itself, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 71; Twelfth Night, i. 5 122.

Pick [O. Ed. Peck], v. t. to pitch, Coriol i. 1. 206; Hen. VIII. v. 4. 96.

Picked, adj. refined, punctilious, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 14; K. John i. 1. 193; Ham. v. 1. 150.

Pick-thanks, sub. officious fellows, 1 Hen. IV. iii 2. 25.

Piece, sub. excellent person, Temp. i. 2. 56; Per. iv. 6 122; a vessel of wine, Troil & Cres. iv. 1. 62; a coin, Coriol. iii. 3. 32; a work of art, a statue, Wint. Tale, v. 2. 107.

Pight, pt. p. pitched, ready, Troil. & Cres. v. 10. 24; K. Lear, ii. 1. 67

Pilcher, sub. a scabbard, Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 86.

Pill, v t. to plunder, Rich. II. ii. 1. 247; Tim. of Ath. iv. 1. 12.

Pin, sub. bull’s-eye, centre of a target, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 1. 140; Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 15; ‘a pin!’ in contempt, in answer to an excuse or evasion, Merry Wives, i. 1. 118; Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 21.

Pin and web, a disease of the eye, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 291; comp. K. Lear, iii. 4. 120.

Pin-buttock, sub. narrow buttock, All’s Well, ii. 2. 19.

Pinfold, sub. the pound, Two Gent. of Ver. i. 1. 114; K. Lear, ii. 2. 9.

Pinked, part. adj. pierced with small holes, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 51.

Pink eyne, small, or perhaps winking, half-shut eyes, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 7. 121.

Pioned, pt. p. a doubtful word, ‘covered with marsh marigold,’ or ‘dug,’ Temp. iv. 1. 64.

Pip sub. a spot on cards, Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 33; ‘a pip out’=intoxicated, with reference to a game called ‘one-and-thirty,’ Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 33.

Pipe-wine, sub. wine from the butt, playing on the other meaning of pipe. Merry Wives of W. iii. 2 94.

Pitch, sub. the height which a falcon soars, Rich. II. i. 1. 109; 2 Hen. VI. ii. 1. 6.

Placket, sub. opening in a petticoat, or a petticoat, Wint. Tale, iv. 4. 624; K. Lear, iii. 4. 97.

Plain, adj. mere, nothing else but, Temp. v. 1. 266; K. John, ii. 1. 462; v. i. to complain, K. Lear, iii. 1. 39.

Plain-song, sub. the plain melody without variations, Hen. V. iii. 2. 7; Hen. VIII. i. 3. 45.

Plaits, sub. folds, Lucrece, 93.

Planched, adj. made of planks, Meas. for Meas. iv. 1. 32.

Plant, sub. the sole of the foot, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 7. 2.

Plantage, sub. plants, vegetation, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 184.

Plash, sub. a pool, Tam. of Shrew, i. 1. 23.

Plate, sub. a piece of money, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 92.

Platforms, sub. plans, schemes, 1 Hen. VI. ii. 1. 77.

Plausibly, adv. willingly, or by acclamation, Lucrece, 1854.

Plausive, adj. pleasing, All’s Well, i. 2. 53; Ham. i. 4. 30.

Pleached, adj. folded, interwoven, Much Ado, iii. 1. 7; Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 73.

Plighted, pt. p. folded, intricate, K. Lear, i. 1. 283.

Plume up, v. t. prank up, to make to triumph, Oth. i. 3. 399.

Plurisy, sub. superabundance, Ham. iv. 7. 117.

Point, sub. a signal given by blast of trumpet, 2 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 52; Coriol. iv. 6 126.

Point, at, on the point, Coriol. iii. 1. 193; K. Lear, iii. 1. 33.

Point, at a, fully prepared, Macb. iv. 3. 135; Ham. i. 2. 200.

Point-devise, adj. affectedly nice, finical, L.’s L.’s L. v 1. 21; adv. Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 178.

Points, sub. tags of laces, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 50; 2 Hen. IV. i. 1. 53.

Poking-sticks, sub. irons for setting out ruffs, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 228.

Polack, sub. a native of Poland, Ham. ii. 2. 63.

Pole, sub. standard, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 13. 65.

Polled, pt. p. laid bare, Coriol. iv. 5. 216.

Pomander, sub. a ball of perfumes, Wint. Tale, iv. 8. 611.

Pomegarnet, sub. pomegranate, name of a room in a tavern, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 42.

Pome-water, sub. a large kind of apple, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 4.

Poop, v. t. to strike fatally, Per. iv. 2. 25.

Poor-John, sub. salted and dried hake, Temp. ii. 2. 28.

Poperin, sub. a sort of pear from Poperingue, a town in French Flanders, Rom. & Jul. ii. 1. 38.

Popinjay, sub. a parrot, 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 50.

Popish, adj. bigoted, Tit. Andr. v. 1. 76.

Popular, adj. vulgar, Hen. V. iv. 1. 38; Coriol. ii. 1. 233.

Popularity, sub. vulgarity, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 69.

Poring, pr. p. ‘poring dark’=darkness which makes one strain his eyes, Hen. V. iv. Chor. 2.

Porpentine, sub. the porcupine, 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 363; Ham. i. 5. 20.

Portage, sub. port-hole, Hen. V. iii. 1. 10; port-dues, Per. iii. 1. 35.

Posy, sub. motto, Mer. of Ven. v. 1. 151; Ham. iii 2. 164.

Pot, to the, to sure destruction, Coriol. i. 4. 47.

Potato, sub. regarded as an exciting dish, Merry Wives of W. v. 5. 21; Troil. & Cres. v. 2. 54.

Potch, v. i. to thrust, Coriol. i. 10. 15.

Pother, sub. turmoil, Coriol. ii. 1. 237; K. Lear, iii. 2. 50.

Pottle-pot, sub. a tankard containing two quarts, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 86.

Poulter, sub. a poulterer, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 487.

Pouncet-box, sub. a perfume box with perforated lid [comp. Fr. poinçonner], 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 38.

Powder, v. t. to salt, 1 Hen. IV. v. 4. 112; Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 64.

Powdering-tub, sub. a salting tub, referring to a favourite medical treatment of the time, Hen. V. ii. 1. 79.

Practice, sub. treachery, artifice, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 108; Hen. V. ii. 2. 90.

Practisants, sub. performers of a stratagem, 1 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 20.

Practise, v. t. to plot, As You Like It, i. 1. 158.

Praise, v. t. to appraise, value, Twelfth-Night, i. 5. 213; Oth. v. 1. 66.

Precedent, sub. rough draft, K. John, v. 2. 3; Rich. III. iii. 6. 7.

Preceptial, adj. instructive, Much Ado, v. 1. 24.

Pregnancy, sub. ready wit, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 194.

Pregnant, adj. ready, clever, ingenious, Ham. ii. 2. 216; iii. 2. 66; very probable, Wint. Tale, v. 2 34.

Presence, sub. the presence chamber, Rich. II. i. 3. 289.

Prest, adj. ready, Mer. of Ven. i. 1 161.

Prester John, sub. a fabulous eastern monarch, Much Ado, ii. 1. 278.

Pretence, sub. design, Coriol. i. 2. 20.

Pretend, v. t. to assert, 3 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 57.

Prick, sub. point of a dial, Lucrece, 781; the bull’s-eye in a target, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 1. 136.

Pricket, sub. a buck of the second year, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 22.

Prick-song, sub. music written down, in opposition to plain-song, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 22.

Prig, sub. a thief, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 109.

Primal, adj. first, Ham. iii. 3. 37.

Prime, adj. the spring, Lucrece, 332; Sonnets, xcvii. 7.

Primero, sub. a game at cards, Hen. VIII. v. 1. 7; Merry Wives, iv. 5. 105.

Primy, adj. early, or perhaps flourishing, Ham. i. 3. 7.

Principals, sub. the corner beams of a house, Per. iii. 2. 16.

Princox, sub. a pert, saucy fellow, Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 90.

Priser, sub. perhaps prize-fighter, As You Like It, ii. 3. 8.

Prize, sub. value, estimation, Cymb. iii. 6. 76; Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 182.

Prized, pt. p. estimated, Much Ado, iii. 1. 90.

Probal, adj. satisfactory, reasonable, Oth. ii. 3. 347.

Probation, sub. proof, Cymb. v. 5. 363; trial, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 157; Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 144.

Proditor, sub. a traitor, 1 Hen. VI. i. 3. 31.

Proface, interj. much good may it do you!—an expression addressed to guests by their hosts, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 28.

Prolikious, adj. tedious, causing delay, Meas. for Meas. ii. 4. 163.

Propend, v. i. to incline, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 190.

Propension, sub. inclination, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 133.

Propee, adj. handsome, Oth. iv. 3. 35; Ant. & Cleo. iii. 3. 38; peculiar to one’s self, Mess. for Meas. i. 1. 30; own, Meas. for Meas. i. 2. 138; ‘proper-false,’ handsome, but deceitful, Twelfth Night, ii. 2. 30.

Propertied, pt. p. endued with qualities, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 83.

Properties, sub. stage requisites, Merry Wives, iv. 4. 80; Mid. N. Dr. i. 2. 109.

Property, v. t. to make a tool of, Twelfth Night, iv. 2. 101; K. John, v. 2. 79; sub. an instrument for one’s designs, a tool, Merry Wives, iii. 4. 10; Jul. Cæs. iv. 1. 40.

Propose v. t. to speak, to converse, Much Ado, iii. 1. 3.

Propugnation, sub. means of opposition, defence, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 136.

Pugging, adj. thieving, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 7.

Puisny, adj. unskilful, As You Like It, iii. 4. 44.

Puke-stocking, adj. puke, dark-coloured, perhaps puce, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 79.

Pun, v. t. to pound, to beat, Troil. & Cres. ii 1. 42.

Punto, sub. a stroke in fencing, Merry Wives, ii. 3. 26.

Punto reverso, sub a back-handed stroke in fencing, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 28.

Purl, v. i. to curl, to run in circles, Lucrece, 1407.

Purples, long, the purple orchis, Orchis mascula, Ham. iv. 7. 170.

Push sub. an expression of contempt, Much Ado, v. 1. 38; Tim. of Ath. iii. 6. 120.

Push-pin, sub. a childish game, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 3. 169.

Put on, to instigate, Oth. ii. 3. 360; K. Lear, i. 4. 230.

Put over, to refer, K. John, i. 1. 62.

Puttock, sub a kite, 2 Hen. VI. iii. 2. 191; Cymb. i. 1. 140.

Puzzel, sub. a foul drab, 1 Hen. VI. i. 4. 107.

Pyramides, sub. pyramids, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 61.

Pyramis, sub. a pyramid, 1 Hen. VI. i. 6. 21.

Quaint, adj. fine, delicate, Temp. i. 2. 317; Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 99.

Qualified, adj. excellent, well composed, Cymb. i. 4. 68.

Qualify, v. t. to moderate, Meas. for Meas. i. 1. 65; Much Ado, v. 4. 67.

Quality, sub. profession, Ham. ii. 2. 461.

Quantity, sub. value, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 232; Ham. iii. 2. 46.

Quarrel [O. Ed. Quarry], sub. cause, Macb. i. 2. 14.

Quarrelous, adj. quarrelsome, Cymb. iii. 4. 162.

Quarry, sub. heap of slaughtered game [Fr. curée], Macb. iv. 3. 206; Ham. v. 2. 378.

Quartered, pt. p. slaughtered, Coriol. i. 1. 205.

Quat, sub. a pimple, applied contemptuously to a person, Oth. v. 1. 11.

Quatch-buttock, adj. squat or flat buttock, All’s Well, ii. 2. 19.

Queasy, adj. disgusted, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 6. 20; ticklish, difficult, K. Lear, ii. 1. 19; fastidious, Much Ado, ii. 1. 402.

Quell, sub. a murder, Macb. i. 7. 72.

Quern, sub. a handmill, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 36.

Questant, sub. aspirant, All’s Well, ii. 1. 16.

Question, sub. conversation, As You Like It, iii. 4. 37; v. 4. 168; Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 73; v. t. to talk, converse, Lucrece, 122.

Questionable, adj inviting converse, Ham. i. 4. 43.

Questrist, sub. searcher, K. Lear, iii. 7. 17.

Quests, sub. inquiries, Meas. for Meas. iv. 1. 63.

Quick, adj. alive, Merry Wives of W. iii. 4. 90; fresh, Temp. iii. 2. 77; pregnant, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 680.

Quiddity, sub. subtlety, 1 Hen. IV. i. 2. 51; Ham. v. 1. 105.

Quietus, sub. settlement of an account, Ham. iii. 1. 75.

Quill, in the, in a body, 2 Hen. VI. i 3. 4.

Quillets, sub. cavilling, chicanery, 1 Hen. VI. ii. 4. 17; Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 156.

Quintain, sub. a post, block, or dummy figure set up for tilting at, As You Like It, i. 2. 268.

Quip, sub. piece of repartee, Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 2. 12; 1 Hen. IV. i. 2. 51.

Quirk, sub. a sudden turn. an evasion. Per. iv. 6. 8; All’s Well, iii. 2. 51; a shallow conceit, Much Ado, ii. 8. 256; Oth. ii. 1. 63.

Quiver, adj. nimble, 2 Hen. IV. iii 2. 304.

Quoif, sub. a cap, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 226; 2 Hen. IV. i. 1. 147.

Quoit, v. t. to throw, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4 205

Quote, v t. to note, examine, scrutinize, notice, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 232; Tit. Andr. iv. 1. 50.

Rabato, sub. a kind of ruff, Much Ado, iii 4 6.

Rabbit-sucker, sub. a sucking rabbit, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 486.

Rack, sub. a root, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 51.

Rack, v. i. to move about as the clouds do, 3 Hen VI. ii 1. 27; sub. a cloud, a mass of floating clouds, Temp. iv. 1. 156; Ham. ii. 2. 514; Sonnets, xxxiii. 6.

Rag, sub. a beggarly person, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 112; Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 272.

Raged, pt. p. chafed, Rich. II ii. 1. 70.

Raging-wood, adj. raving mad, 1 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 35.

Rake up, v. t. to bury, to cover up, K. Lear, iv. 6. 282.

Rampallian, sub. a term of low abuse, 2 Hen IV. ii. 1. 67.

Ramping, pt. p. rampant, 1 Hen. IV. iii 1. 152; 3 Hen. VI v 2. 13.

Ramps, sub. wanton wenches, Cymb. i. 6. 134.

Range, v. t. to dispose in order, Ant. & Cleo. i. 1. 34; sub. ranks of an army, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 5.

Rank, sub. perhaps pace, As You Like It, i. 2. 114.

Rank, adj. swollen, Ven. & Adon 71.

Rap, v. t. to transport, Macb. i. 3. 57, 142; Cymb. i. 6. 51.

Rapture, sub. violent motion, Coriol. ii. 1. 226; Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 138; plundering, robbing, according to some violent tossing, Per. ii. 1. 167.

Rascal, sub. a deer too lean to be hunted, As You Like It, iii. 3. 60; adj. 1 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 49.

Ravel, v. t. to unravel, Rich. II. iv. 1. 228; Ham. iii. 4. 186.

Ravin, adj. ravening, All’s Well, iii. 2. 120; v. t. to devour greedily, Macb ii. 4. 28.

Ravined, pt. p. gorged with prey, Macb. iv. 1. 24.

Rayed, pt p. befouled, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 3; afflicted, or perhaps defiled, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 55.

Raze, sub. root, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 27. Comp. Race.

Razed, part. adj. slashed, Ham. iii. 2. 293.

Razure, sub. erasure, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 13.

Rebate, v. t. to blunt, Meas. for Meas. i. 4. 60.

Recheat, sub. hunting term, a set of notes sounded to call the dogs off from a wrong scent, Mach Ado, i. 1. 251.

Record, v. t. to sing. Two Gent. of Ver. v. 4. 6; v. i. Per. iv. Prol. 27.

Recorder, sub. a kind of flute, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 124; Ham. iii. 2. 367.

Recourse, sub. frequent flowing, Troil. & Cres. v. 3. 55.

Recover the wind, to get the windward of the game, so as to drive it into a toll, Ham. iii. 2. 368.

Rede, sub. advice, counsel, Ham. i. 3. 51.

Red-lattice sub. the window of an ale-house, used adjectively, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 29.

Reduce, v. t. to bring back, Rich. III. v. 4. 49.

Reed, adj. piping, Mer. of Ven. iii. 4. 67.

Reeky, adj. filthy, Rom. & Jul. iv. 1. 83.

Refell, v. t. to refute, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 95.

Regiment, sub. rule, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 6. 95.

Region, sub. the sky, the upper air, Rom & Jul ii. 2. 21; Ham. ii 2. 517; adj. Ham. ii. 2. 615; Sonnets, xxxiii. 12.

Rejourn, v. t. to adjourn, Coriol. ii. 1. 80.

Remediate, adj. medicinal, K. Lear, iv. 4. 17.

Remember, v t. to remind, Temp i. 2. 243.

Remorse, sub. pity, Meas for Meas. ii. 2. 54, Merry Wives of W iii. 5. 10.

Remorseful, adj. compassionate, Two Gent. of Ver iv. 3 13.

Render, v. t. to account, Tim of Ath. iv. 1. 9; v i. to surrender, Macb. v. 7. 24; Ant. & Cleo iii 8. 42.

Render, sub. a surrender, Cymb. v. 4. 17; Sonnets, cxxv. 12; account, statement, Tim. of Ath. v. 1. 154; Cymb. iv. 4 11.

Renege, v. t. to deny, K. Lear, ii. 2. 83; Ant. & Cleo i. 1. 8.

Rent, v. t. to rend, to tear, Mid. N. Dr. iii 2. 215.

Renying, pr. p. denying, Son Sun. Notes of Mus. iii. 7.

Repasture, sub. food [Armado’s verses], L.’s L.’s L iv. 1. 96.

Replenished, part. adj. consummate, Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 78; Rich. III. iv. 3. 18.

Replication, sub. echo, reverberation, Jul. Cæs. i. 1. 50; answer, Ham. iv. 2. 13

Reprisal, sub. prize, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 118.

Reprobation, sub. perdition, Oth. v. 2. 207.

Repugn, v. t. to oppose, 1 Hen. VI. iv. 1. 94.

Repugnancy, sub. opposition, Tim. of Ath. iii. 5. 46.

Rere-mice, sub. bats, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 2. 4.

Resolve, v. t. to dissolve, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 445; Ham. i. 2. 130; to free from doubt, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 226; to answer, Tit. Andr. v. 3. 35.

Respect, sub. consideration, K. John, iii. 1. 58; Ham. iii. 1. 68.

Respective, adj. careful, Mer. of Ven. v. 1. 156; Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 129.

Respectively, adv. particularly, Tim. of Ath. iii. 1. 3.

’Rest, v. t. to arrest, Com. of Err. iv. 2. 42.

Rest, sub. ‘to set up one’s,’ a phrase in a game at cards, to venture one’s final stakes held in reserve, fully make up one’s mind, be resolved, Com. of Err. iv. 3. 26; All’s Well, ii. 1. 138.

Resty, adj. lazy, slothful, Cymb. iii. 6. 34; Sonnets, c. 9.

Revolt, sub. a rebel, Cymb. iv. 4. 6; K. John, v. 2. 151.

Ribaudred, adj. ribald, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 8. 20.

Rid, v. t. to make away with, Temp. i. 2. 364.

Riggish, adj. wanton, Ant. & Cleo. ii. 2. 248.

Rigol, sub. a circle, a Hen. IV. iv. 5. 35; Lucrece, 1745.

Rim [O. Ed. Rymme], sub. the abdomen, Hen. V. iv. 4. 15.

Rivage, sub. shore, Hen. V. iii. Chor. 14.

Rival, sub. partner, Ham. i. 1. 13.

Rivelled, pt. adj. wrinkled, Troil. & Cres. v. 1. 26.

Rivo, interj. of doubtful meaning, a bacchanalian exclamation, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 126.

Road, sub. a prostitute v. Hen. IV. ii. 2. 183; a roadstead Mer. of Ven. i. 1. 19; a journey, Hen. VIII. iv. 2. 17; an incursion, Coriol. iii. 1. 5.

Robustious, adj. rough, Ham. iii. 2. 10.

Rocked, pt. p. trembled, shook, Lucrece, 262.

Roguing, adj. vagrant, roaming, Per. iv. 1. 96.

Roisting, adj. bold, bullying, defiant, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 208.

Romage, sub. bustle, tumultuous hurry, Ham. i. 1. 107.

Rondurk, sub. circle, Sonnets, xxi. 8.

Ronyon, sub. scurvy wretch, Macb. i. 3. 5; Merry Wives, iv. 2. 199.

Rook, v. t. to cower, 3 Hen. VI. v. 6. 45.

Rooky, adj misty, gloomy, or else full of crows, Macb. iii 2. 51.

Rooted, pt. p. learned by heart, Coriol. iii. 2. 55.

Ropery, sub. roguery, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 155.

Rope-tricks, sub. knavish tricks, Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 113.

Roping, pt. adj. dripping, Hen V. iv. 2. 48. [Comp. Down-roping.]

Rother, sub. an ox, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 12.

Round, adj. plain, honest, Hen. V. iv. 1. 219; sub. a circle, Macb. iv. 1 88; Ven. & Adon. 368.

Round with, be, speak freely with, Com. of Err. ii. 1 82; Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 104.

Round¹, v. t. to surround, Mid N. Dr iv. 1. 57; Rich. II iii. 2. 161; to finish off, Temp. iv. 1. 158; v. i. to grow big, Wint. Tale, ii. 1 16.

Round², v. t. to whisper, Wint. Tale, i. 2 217; K. John, ii 1. 566.

Roundel, sub. a dance, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 2. 1, rung of a ladder, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 24.

Roundly, adv. plainly, directly, As You Like It, v. 3. 12.

Roundure, sub. circuit, K. John. ii. 1. 259.

Rouse, sub. a free and deep draught, Ham. i. 2. 127; i. 4. 8.

Rout, sub. the crowd, the mob. Com. of Err. iii. 1. 101; Jul. Cæs. i. 2. 78; brawl, Oth. ii. 3. 212.

Roymish, adj. scurvy, coarse, As You Like It, ii. 2. 8.

Rub, sub. a term in the game of bowls, an impediment, Rich. II. iii. 4. 4; fig. Hen. V. ii. 2. 188.

Rubious, adj. red, ruby-like, Twelfth Night, i. 4. 32.

Ruddock, sub. the redbreast, Cymb. iv. 2. 224.

Rudesby, sub. rude fellow, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 10; Twelfth Night, iv. 1. 55.

Ruffle, v. t. to be boisterous, K. Lear, ii. 4. 304; stir, bustle, Lov. Comp. 58.

Rug-headed, adj. rough-headed, Rich. II. ii. 1. 157.

Ruinate, v. t. to ruin, 3 Hen. VI. v. 1. 83; Lucrece, 94 .

Rule, sub. behaviour, Twelfth Night, ii. 3 133.

Rump-fed, adj. pampered, or else fed on offal, Macb. i. 3. 6.

Runagate, sub. vagabond, Rich. III. iv. 4. 465.

Running banquet, a hasty refreshment, fig. Hen. VIII. i. 4. 12; v. 4. 71.

Ruth aside, push aside, Rom. & Jul. iii. 3. 26.

Ruth, sub. pity, Rich. II. iii. 4. 106; Coriol. i. 1. 203.

Sables, sub. rich fur. Ham. iv. 7. 80.

Sackerson, sub. name of a famous bear at Paris Garden on the Bank side, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 310.

Sacring Bell, a bell rung when the elements are consecrated at Mass, Hen. VIII. iii. 2. 296.

Safe, adj. sure, sound, Cymb. iv. 2. 131.

Sag, v. t. to droop, sink, Macb. v. 3. 10.

Sagittary, sub. a centaur aiding the Trojans against the Greeks, Troil. & Cres. v. 5. 14 , residence of the commanding officers at Venice, with figure of an archer over the gates, Oth. i. 1. 159.

Sallet, sub. a close-fitting helmet, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 10. 13; a salad, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 10. 9.

Sallets, (i. e. salads), sub. stirring passages, perhaps ribaldries, Ham. ii. 2. 471.

Samingo, sub for Saint Domingo, the patron saint of drinkers, 2 Hen. IV. v. 3. 77.

Sand-blind, adj. half blind, purblind, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 37.

Sanded, adj of a sandy colour, Mid. N. Dr. iv. 1. 126.

Sarcenet, sub. fine silk, Troil. & Cres. v. 1. 36.

Sawn, pt. p. sewn, or perhaps seen, Lov. Comp. 91.

Say, sub. a kind of serge, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 27; v. t. to try, assay, Pericles, i. 1. 59.

Scald, adj. scabby, mangy, Hen. V v. 1. 5; Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 214.

Scale, v. t. to scatter, make clear, make plain, Coriol. i 1. 97, to weigh, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 267; Coriol. ii. 3. 257.

Scamble, v. t. to scramble, Much Ado, v. 1. 94; Hen. V. v. 2 217.

Scamel, sub some sort of birds, possibly seamels, seamews, Temp. ii. 2. 185.

Scandal, v. t. to bring into disgrace, defame, Jul. Cæs. i. 2. 76; Cymb. iii. 4. 62.

Scant, adj. scarcely, Rom. & Jul. i. 2. 104; v. t. to limit, shorten, K. Lear, ii. 4. 142.

Sconce, sub. a covering for the head, Com. of Err. ii. 2. 37; the head, Hamlet, v. 1. 108; a fort, Hen. V. iii. 6. 78.

Scot, sub. contribution, 1 Hen. IV v. 4. 115.

Scotch, sub. a cut, wound, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 7. 10; v. t. to notch, scutch, Coriol. iv. 5. 198 , Macb. iii. 2. 13.

Scrimers, sub. fencers, Ham. iv. 7. 100.

Scrip, sub. a written list, Mid. N. Dr. i. 2. 3.

Scrowl, v. t. perhaps to scrawl, Tit. Andr. ii. 4. 5.

Scrowles, sub. mangy fellows, K. John, ii. 1. 373.

Scrubbed, adj. stunted, Mer. of Ven. v. 1. 162.

Seam, sub. lard, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 197.

Sear, v. t. to brand, Wint. Talc, ii. 1. 72.

Seared, adj. withered, blighted, Cymb. ii. 4. 6.

Security, sub. carelessness, Jul. Cæs. ii. 3. 8; Macb. iii. 5. 32.

Seedness, sub. sowing of the seed, Meas. for Meas. i. 4. 42.

Seel, v. t. to close up the eyes of a hawk, Oth. i. 3. 271; Macb. iii. 2. 46.

Seld, adv. seldom, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 149.

Seld-shown, adj. rarely given to vulgar eyes, Coriol. ii. 1. 232.

Self, adj. same, Mer. of Ven. i. 1. 149.

Sennet, sub. set of notes on a trumpet, frequent in stage directions, K. Lear, i. 1; Coriol. ii. 1, 2, etc.

Serpigo, sub. a sort of skin eruption, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 31; Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 82.

Sewer, sub. an officer whose original office was to taste the dishes placed on the royal table, Macb. i. 7, stage direction, 2nd line.

Shales, sub. husks, shells, Hen. V. iv. 2. 18.

Shard-borne, pt. adj. carried through the air on wingcases, Macb. iii. 2. 42.

Sharded, pt. adj. having wing-cases, Cymb. iii. 3. 20.

Shards, sub. potsherds, Ham. v. 1. 253; wing-cases, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 2. 20.

Shearman, sub. one who shears cloth, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 145.

Sheaved, pt. adj. made of straw, Lov. Comp. 31.

Shrep-biter, sub. a malicious and treacherous fellow, Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 6.

Shent, pt. p. rated, reviled, Twelfth Night, iv. 2. 115; Coriol. v. 2. 104; Ham. iii. 2. 423.

Ship-tire, sub. a head-dress, Merry Wives, iii. 3. 60.

Shive, sub. a slice, Tit. Andr. ii. 1. 87.

Shog, v. i. to move on, Hen. V. ii. 1. 47.

Shotten herring, sub. one that has shed its roe, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 145.

Shoughs, sub. shaggy dogs, Macb. iii. 1. 94.

Shove-groat shilling, one used in the game of shovegroat, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 205.

Shovel-board, sub. a shilling used in the game of that name,—shove-groat, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 161.

Shrewd, adj. mischievous, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 158; As You Like It, v. 4. 180.

Sicles, sub. shekels, Meas. for Meas. ii. 2. 149.

Side sleeves, sub. long hanging sleeves, Much Ado, iii. 4. 21.

Siege, sub. a seat, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 101; rank, Ham. iv. 7. 76; Oth. i. 2. 22; excrement, Temp. ii 2. 114.

Sightless, adj. blind, Lucrece, 1013; invisible, Macb. i 5. 50; ugly, K. John, iii. 1. 45.

Sign, v. t. to mark, stamp, to be a prognostic or omen, K. John, iv. 2. 237; Jul. Cæs. iii. 1. 206; Ant. & Cleo. iv. 3. 14.

Simple, sub. a medicinal herb, Merry Wives of W. i. 4. 65; Rom. & Jul. v. 1. 40.

Simular, adj. pretended, feigned, Cymb. v. 5. 201; sub. simulator, pretender, K. Lear, iii. 2. 54.

Singled, pt. p. separated, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 87.

Sistering, part. adj. neighbouring, Lov. Comp. 2.

Sizes, sub. portions, allowances, K. Lear, ii. 4 173.

Skeins-mates, sub. a word of doubtful meaning perhaps messmates, or knavish companions, &c., Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 163.

Skillet, sub. a little pot, Oth. i. 8. 274.

Seill-less, adj. ignorant, Temp. iii. 1. 53; Twelfth Night, iii. 3. 9.

Skills not, it, it is of no importance, it matters not, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 298; 2 Hen. VI. iii. 1. 281.

Skimble-skamels, adj. wild, confused, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 153.

Skipper, sub. a thoughtless fellow, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 333.

Skire, v. i. to scour or move rapidly, Macb. v. 3. 35.

Slab, adj. slimy, viscous, Macb. iv. 1. 32.

Slave, v. t. to make a slave of, or perhaps to treat as a slave would, K. Lear, iv. 1. 69.

Sleave, and Sleave silk sub. floss silk, Troil. & Cres v. 1. 35; Macb. ii. 2. 38.

Sledded, adj. on sledges, Ham. i. 1. 63.

Sleeve-hand, sub. a wristband, Wint. Tale, iv. 3 212.

Sleeveless, adj. useless, unprofitable, Troil. & Cres. v. 4. 9.

Sleided, pt. p. untwisted, Pericles, iv. Prol. 21.

Slip, sub. a counterfelt coin, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 53; Ven. & Ad. 515.

Sliver, sub. a branch torn off, Ham. iv. 7. 174; v. t. to tear off, to break off, Macb. iv. 1. 28; K. Lear, iv. 2. 34.

Slops, sub. large loose trousers, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 33.

Slubber, v. t. to slur over, Mer. of Ven. ii. 8. 39; to soil, Oth. i. 3. 227.

Smack, sub. a smattering, All’s Well, iv. 1. 18.

Small, adj. shrill-voiced, Coriol. iii. 2. 114; Twelfth Night, i. 4. 32.

Smatch, sub. smack, taste, Jul. Cæs. v. 5. 46.

Smatter, v. i. to prattle, to chatter, Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 172.

Smooth, v. t. to flatter, Rich. III. i. 3. 48; Tit. Andr. iv. 4. 95.

Sneap, v. t. to check, to nip, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 100; Wint. Tale, i. 2. 13; sub. a snub, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 137.

Sneck up! an expression of contempt, go and be hanged, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 103.

Snuff, sub. the smouldering wick of a candle, Cymb. i. 6. 87; an object of loathing and contempt, All’s Well, i. 2. 59.

Snuffs, sub. quarrels, K Lear, iii. 1. 26; to take or be in snuff=to take offence at, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 256; 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 41.

Soiled, adj. luxuriously fed, high-blooded, K. Lear, iv. 6. 125.

Solidare, sub. a small piece of money, Tim. of Ath. iii. 1. 47.

Sore, sub. a buck of the fourth year, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 59.

Sorel, sub. a buck of the third year, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 60.

Sort, sub. company, in contempt, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 21; Rich. III. v. 3. 317; a lot, Troil. & Cres. i. 3. 376.

Sot, sub. a fool, Twelfth Night, i. 5. 128.

Souse, v. t. to swoop down on, as a bird of prey does, K. John, v. 2. 150.

Soused, pt. p. pickled, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 2. 13.

Sowle, v. t. to pull, or drag, Coriol. iv. 5. 214.

Span-counter, sub. a boyish game, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 2. 170.

Spaniel, v. t. to follow subserviently, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 10. 34.

Sped, pt. p. done for, provided for, Mer. of Ven. ii. 9. 72; Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 96.

Sperr, v. t. to bar, to enclose, Troil. & Cres. Prol. 19.

Spinner, sub. a spider, Rom. & Jul. i. 4. 60; Mid. N. Dr. ii. 2. 21.

Spot, sub. a piece of embroidery, Coriol. i. 3. 57.

Sprag, adj. quick, sharp, Merry Wives of W. iv. 1. 85.

Springhalt, sub. a lameness in horses, Hen. VIII. i. 8. 13.

Squandered, pt. p. scattered, Mer. of Ven. i. 3. 22.

Squandering, pr. p. going at random, As You Like It, ii. 7. 57.

Square, sub. ‘the most precious square’=most valuable part, K. Lear, i. 1. 76; the embroidery about the bosom of a smock or shift, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 212; v. t. to quarrel, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 30; Ant. & Cleo. ii. 1. 45.

Squarer, sub. brawler, braggart, Much Ado, i. 1. 83.

Squash, sub. an unripe peascod, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 1. 195; Twelfth Night, i. 5. 167; Wint. Tale, i. 2. 161.

Squiny, v. i. to look asquint, K. Lear, iv. 6. 141.

Squire, sub. a square, rule, measure, L.’s L.’s L. v 2. 475; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 14.

Stale, sub. a decoy, Temp. iv. 1. 187; Tam. of Shrew, iii. 1. 91, a dupe, laughing-stock, 3 Hen. VI. iii. 3. 260; a prostitute, Much Ado, ii. 2. 26.

Stamp, v. t. give currency to, Coriol. v. 2. 22.

Standing-bowl, sub a footed goblet, Per. ii. 8. 64.

Standing-tuck, sub. a rapier standing on end, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 278.

Staniel, sub. a kestrel hawk, Twelfth Night, ii 5. 126.

State, sub. a chair of state, with a canopy, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 423; 3 Hen. VI. i. 1. 168.

Statist, sub. a statesman, Ham. v. 2. 33.

Stelled, part. adj. starry, K. Lear, iii. 7. 61; pt. p. fixed, Lucrece, 1444; Sonnets, xxiv. 1.

Stickler, sub. one whose duty was to separate combatants, Troil. & Cres. v. 8. 18.

Stigmatic, sub one bearing a brand of deformity, 2 Hen. VI. v. 1. 215; 3 Hen. VI. ii. 2. 136.

Stigmatical, adj. marked with deformity, Com. of Err. iv. 2. 22.

Stint, v. i. to stop, to cease, Rom. & Jul. i. 3 48; Per iv 4. 42; to check, Tit. Andr. iv. 4. 85; Hen. VIII. i. 2. 76.

Stithy, sub. a smithy, or perhaps an anvil, Ham. iii. 2. 89; v. t. to forge, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 254.

Stoccado, sub. a thrust in fencing, Merry Wives of W. ii. 1. 233; ‘a stock,’ Merry Wives of W. ii. 3. 26. Comp. Stuck.

Stoccata, sub. a stockado, Rom. & Jul. iii. 1. 79.

Stock-fish, sub. dried cod, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 118.

Stomach, sub. stubborn courage, Temp. i. 2. 157; 2 Hen. IV. i. 1. 129; pride, Hen. VIII. iv. 2. 34.

Stone-bow, sub. a crossbow, from which stones and bullets were shot, Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 52.

Stoop, v. t. to swoop, pounce down on prey, Hen. V. iv. 1. 113; Cymb. v. 3. 42.

Stored, pt. p. filled, charged, Per. ii. 3. 49.

Stoup, sub. a drinking cup, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 14.

Stover, sub. fodder for cattle, Temp. iv. 1. 63.

Strain courtesy, to decline to go first, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 57; Ven. & Ad. 888.

Strained, pt. p. forced, constrained, Mer. of Ven. iv. 1. 184.

Strappado, sub. a species of punishment; the victim’s arms were strapped behind his back, and he was suddenly let fall, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 266.

Strike [sall], a naval term, to submit, give way, Rich. II. ii. 1. 267.

Strikers, sub. dissolute fellows, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 82.

Strossers, sub. trousers, Hen. V. iii. 7. 60.

’Stroy, v. t. to destroy, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 9. 54.

Stuck, sub. a thrust in fencing, a stock, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 307; Ham. iv. 7. 161.

Studied, pt. p. practised, instructed, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 211; Macb. i. 4. 9.

Stuffed, adj. complete, Much Ado, i. 1. 60; Wint. Tale, ii. 1. 184.

Stuff-o’-the-conscience, essence of, Oth. i. 2. 2.

Subscribe, v. t. to yield, 1 Hen. VI. ii. 4. 44; K. Lear, iii. 7. 65.

Subscription, sub. obedience, K Lear, iii. 2. 18.

Success, sub succession, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 394; 2 Hen. IV. iv. 2. 47.

Successantly, adv. in succession, Tit. Andr. iv. 4. 112.

Suggest, v. t. to tempt, Rich. II. iii. 4. 75; Oth. ii. 3. 361.

Suggestion, sub. temptation, Temp. iv. 1. 26.

Suited, pt. p. dressed, Mer. of Ven. i. 2. 78.

Summered, pt p. provided, as cattle are with pasture, Hen. V v. 2. 334.

Supervize, sub. inspection, Ham. v. 2. 23

Sur-addition, sub. extra title, surname, Cymb i. 1. 33.

Surcease, sub. accomplishment, Macb. i. 7. 4; to cease, Lucrece, 1766; Rom. & Jul. iv. 1. 97.

Sur-reined, pt. p. overridden, Hen. V. iii. 5. 19.

Suspire, v. i. draw the breath of life, K. John, iii. 4. 80.

Swabber, sub one whose duty it is to sweep the deck of a ship, Temp. ii. 2. 49; Twelfth Night, i 5. 217.

Swag-bellied, adj. having a loose, hanging belly, Oth. ii. 3. 81.

Swarth, sub. swathe, the grass cut by one sweep of the scythe, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 164; adj. swarthy, black, Tit. Andr. ii 3. 72.

Swasher, sub. a bully, a braggart, Hen. V iii. 2. 31.

Swashing, adj. swaggering, dashing, As You Like It, i. 3. 123.

Swath, sub. wrapping, swaddling-clothes, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 253.

Swayed, pt. p. strained, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 57.

Swinge, v. t. to beat, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 1. 91; 2 Hen. IV. v. 4. 23.

Swinge-buckler, sub. a roisterer, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 24.

Swoopstake, adv. wholesale, indiscriminately. Ham. iv. 5. 141.

Sworder, sub. a gladiator, 2 Hen VI. iv. 1. 135.

Swound, v. i. to swoon, Rom. & Jul. ii. 2. 56.

Sympathy, sub. equality, Oth. ii. 1. 233.

Table, sub. canvas of a picture, K. John, ii. 1. 503; Sonnets, xxiv. 2; the palm of the hand, a term in palmistry, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 174.

Table-book, sub. a memorandum book, or case of tablets, Wint. Tale, iv. 4. 612; Ham. ii. 2. 136.

Tabled, pt. p. set down, Cymb. i. 4. 7.

Tables, sub. tablets, Ham. i. 5. 107; the game of back-gammon, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 327.

Tabourines, sub. drums, Troil. & Cres. iv. 5. 274; Ant. & Cleo. iv. 8. 37.

Tackled stair, sub. a rope ladder, Rom. & Jul. ii. 4. 203.

Taffeta, sub. thin silk, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 159; Twelfth Night, ii. 4. 76.

Tag sub. the mob, Coriol. iii. 1. 247; Jul. Cæs. i. 2. 259.

Tag-rag people, sub. the mob, Coriol. iii. 1. 247; Jul. Cæs. i. 2. 259.

Taint, v. t. to discredit, Oth. i. 3. 273.

Take, v. i. to captivate, Temp. v. 1. 313; Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 119; v. t. to strike with disease, Merry Wives of W. iv. 4. 33; to take refuge in, Com. of Err. i. 2. 94; to jump over, K. John, v. 2. 138.

Take in, to conquer, Coriol. i. 2. 24.

Take me with you, make me understand you, Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 142; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 513.

Take out, to copy, Oth. iii. 3. 296.

Take thought, to suffer grief, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 187.

Take up, to obtain on credit, 2 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 134; to reprove, Two Gent. of Ver. i. 2. 132; to reconcile, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 323.

Talknts, sub. lockets containing hair, Lov Comp. 204.

Tallow ketch, a vessel filled with tallow, according to some a tallow keech, a round lump of tallow, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 256.

Tarre, v. t. to set on dogs to fight, K. John, iv. 1. 117; to urge on, Ham. ii. 2. 379.

Tartar, sub. Tartarus, hell, Hen. V. ii. 2. 123.

Tassel-gentle, sub. tercel-gentle, the male goshawk, Rom. & Jul. ii 2. 159.

Taste, v. t. to act as sewer or server, K. John, v. 6. 28 , v. t. to try, Twelfth Night, iii. 1. 92.

Tawdry lace, sub. a necklace worn by country girls, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 252.

Tax, v. t. to accuse, Ham. i. 4. 18; As You Like It, ii. 7. 86.

Taxation, sub. satire, invective, As You Like It, i. 2. 92.

Teen, sub. grief, Temp. i. 2. 64; Rich. III. iv. 1. 96.

Tender, sub. care, regard, 1 Hen. IV. v. 4. 49; K. Lear, i. 4. 233; v. t. to regard with tender affection, Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 4 147; Com. of Err. v. 1. 132.

Tender-hefted, part. adj. set in a delicate handle, or perhaps moved by tender emotions, K. Lear, ii. 4. 174.

Tent, sub. a roll of lint which was always put into a fresh wound, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 16; v. 1. 11.

Tent¹, v. i. to lodge, reside, fig. Coriol. iii. 2. 116.

Tent², v. t. to search, probe, Ham. ii. 2. 634; Cymb. iii. 4. 118; to cure, Coriol. i. 9. 31; iii. 1. 235.

Tercel, sub. the male goshawk, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 54.

Termagant, sub. a supposed Mahomedan female deity, represented in our old plays as a most violent character, Ham. iii. 2. 16; adj. 1 Hen. IV. v. 4. 114.

Termless, adj. indescribable, Lov. Comp. 94.

Tester, sub. a sixpence, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 299; money in general. Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 94 (Pistol).

Testern, v. t. to present with a tester, Two Gent. of Ver. i. 1. 155.

Testril, sub. sixpence, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 36.

Testy, adj. fretful, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 2. 358; Coriol. ii. 1. 48.

Tetchy, adj. peevish, touchy, Rich. III. iv. 4. 169.

Tetter, sub. a cutancous disease, Ham. i. 5. 71; v. t. to affect with tetter, Coriol. iii. 1. 78.

Tharborough, sub. a kind of constable, L.’s L.’s L. i. 1. 183. Cf. Third-borough.

That, conj. because, Two Gent. of Ver. iv. 1. 71.

Theoric, sub. a theory, Oth. i. 1. 24.

Thereafter, adv. according as, 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 56.

Thick, adv. close, quick, Lucrece, 1784; 2 Hon. IV. ii. 3. 24; Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 36.

Thick-eyed, adj. dim-eyed, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 3. 51.

Thick-pleached, pt. p. thickly intertwined, Much Ado, i. 2. 11

Thick-skin, sub. blockhead, Merry Wives, iv. 5. 2.

Thill-horse, sub. shaft-horse, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 103.

Think, v. i. to be full of sorrowful thoughts, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 11. 1.

Third-borough [O. Ed. Head-borough], sub. a kind of constable, Tam. of Shrew, Ind. 1. 12.

Thought, sub. melancholy, Ham. iii. 1. 85.

Thought-executing, part. adj. executing with the quickness of thought, K. Lear, iii. 2. 4.

Thrasonical, adj. boastful, As You Like It, v. 2. 35.

Three-man beetle, sub. a rammer managed by three men, 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 259.

Three-pile, sub. the richest kind of velvet, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 14.

Three-piled, adj. having a thick pile, Meas. for Meas. i. 2. 34; superfine [metaphorically], L.’s L.’s L. v 2. 408.

Threne, sub. a dirge, Phœn. & Turt. 49.

Thrice-repured, adj. three times refined, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 21

Thrid, sub. thread, fibre, Temp. iv. 1. 3.

Thrum, sub. the tufted end of a thread in weaving, Mid. N. Dr. v. 1. 293.

Thrummed hat, sub. a hat made of very coarse woollen cloth, Merry Wives of W. iv. 2. 82.

Thunder-stone, sub. a thunderbolt, Jul. Cæs. i. 3. 49.

Thwart, adj. perverse, cross, K. Lear, i. 4. 307.

Tickle-brain, sub. strong drink, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 443.

Tick-tack, sub. a sort of backgammon, Meas. for Meas. i. 2. 202.

Tilly-fally or tilly-vally, int. an expression of contempt, Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 86; 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 89.

Timeless, adj. untimely, Rich. II. iv. 1. 5.

Timely-parted, adj. recently dead, 2 Hen VI. iii. 2. 161.

Tinct, sub. the grand elixir sought by alchemists, All’s Well, v. 3. 102; colour, Ham. iii. 4. 91.

Tire, sub. a headdress, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 61; Much Ado, iii. 4. 13; furniture, Pericles, iii. 2. 22; v. i. to feed greedily, 3 Hen. VI. i. 1. 269; Ven. & Ad. 56.

Tiring-house, sub. the dressing-room of a theatre, Mid. N. Dr. iii. 1. 5.

Tirrits, sub. perhaps terrors [Mistress Quickly], 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 219.

Tisick, sub. a cough, Troil. & Cres. v. 3. 101.

Toaze, v. t. to drag out, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 763.

Tod, v. i. to yield a tod, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 33; sub. 28 Ibs. of wool, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 34.

Tofory, adv. before, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 88; Tit. Andr. iii. 1. 293.

Toged, adj. gowned, robed, Oth. i. 1. 25.

Tokened, adj. marked with plagne spots, Ant. & Cleo. iii. 3. 19.

Tom-boy, sub. a drah, Cymb. i. 6. 122.

Tongue, v. t. to denounoe, Meas. for Meas. iv. 4. 28.

Topless, adj. supreme, Troil. & Crea. i. 3. 152.

Torches, sub. a torch-bearer, All’s Well, ii. 1. 165.

Tortive, adj. twisted, turned awry, Troil. & Crea. i. 3. 9.

Tottering, adj. hanging in tatters or rags, K. John, v. 5. 7.

Touch, v. t. to wound, Tim. of Ath. iii. 5. 19; Cymb. i. 1. 10; sub. a touchstone, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 4. 10; of ‘noble touch’=of proved excellence, Coriol. iv. 1. 49.

Touch near, to concern deeply, Two Gent. of Ver. iii. 1. 60.

Touse, v. t. to pull, to tear, Meas. for Meas. v. 1. 309.

Toward, adj. tractable, Tam. of Shrew, v. 2. 183; bold, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 2. 66.

Toward, towards, adv. in preparation, Tim. of Ath iii. 6. 68; Ham. i. 1. 77, Rom. & Jul. i. 5. 126.

Tower, v. i. to soar as a bird of prey, K. John, v. 2 149

Tract, sub. trace, track, Hen. VIII i. 1 40, Tim. of Ath. i. 1. 51.

Trade, sub. track, resort, Rich. II. iii. 3 156; v. i. to go in a particular direction, Mer. of Ven. iii. 4. 54

Train, sub. bait, allurement, Macb. iv. 3. 118, v t. to entice, allure, Com. of Err. iii. 2. 45; Tit. Andr. v. 1. 104.

Traject [O. Ed. Tranect], sub. a ferry [It. tragetto], Mer. of Ven. iii. 4. 53.

Trammel up, to catch as in a net, Macb. i. 7. 3.

Trash, v. t. to lop, to cut off high branches, Temp. i. 2. 81; to restrain a dog by a trash, or strap, Oth. ii 1. 315.

Traverse, v. t. to make a thrust, Merry Wives of W. ii. 3. 25.

Traversed, adj. crossed, folded, Tim. of Ath. v. 4. 7.

Tray-trip, sub. a game of dice, in which success depended on throwing a ‘trois,’ Twelfth Night, ii. 5. 209.

Treachers, sub. traitors, K. Lear, i. 2. 138.

Treble-dated, adj. living for three ages, Phœn. & Turt 17.

Trencher-man, sub. a good feeder, Much Ado, i. 1. 52.

Trey, sub. a three at cards, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 233.

Tribulation, sub. a name applied to Puritans, either to the whole sect, or some particular congregation, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 67.

Trick, v. t. to draw, paint [heraldic term], Ham. ii. 2 488; sub. special peculiarity of look, voice, &c, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 100; 1 Hen. IV. v. 2. 11; K. Lear, iv. 6. 109.

Tricksy, adj. sportive, Temp. v. 1 226; Mer. of Ven. iii. 5. 75.

Trigon, sub a triangle, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 288.

Trill, v. i. to trickle, K. Lear, iv. 3. 14.

Triplex, sub. triple-time in music, Twelfth Night, v. 1. 41.

Tristful, adj. sorrowful, Ham. iii. 4. 50.

Triumph, sub. a trump card, Ant. & Cleo. iv. 12. 20.

Troll, v. i. to sing in rotation, Temp. iii. 2 129

Trol-my-dames, sub. the Freneh game of trou-madame, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 93.

Tropically, adv. figuratively, Ham. iii. 2. 250.

Troth-flight, sub. betrothal, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 278.

Truckle-bed, sub. a low bed, which runs on casters, and can be pushed under another, Merry Wives of W. iv. 5. 7; Rom. & Jul. ii. 1. 39.

True-penny sub. an honest fellow, Ham. i. 5. 150.

Trundle-tail, sub. a long-tailed dog, K. Lear, iii. 6. 73.

Trunk sleeve, sub. a full sleeve, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 3. 141.

Try, bring to, to bring a ship as close to the wind as possible, Temp. i. 1. 40.

Tub, and Tub-fast, sub. refers to a particular process of curing venereal disease by sweating, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 61; Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 86, 87.

Tuck, sub. a rapier, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 247; 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 178.

Tucket, adj. a flourish on a trumpet, Hen. V. iv. 2 35.

Tuft, sub. clump, As You Like It, iii. 5. 75, Rich. II. ii. 3. 53.

Tune, sub. accent, Cymb. v. 5. 239.

Turlygood, sub. apparently a name given to Bedlam beggars, K. Lear, ii. 3. 20.

Turn Turk, to become wicked, Ham. iii. 2. 292; Much Ado, iii. 4. 56.

Twiggen, adj. cased in wicker work, Oth. ii. 3. 153.

Twilled, pt. adj. perhaps sedged or covered with reeds, Temp iv. 1. 64.

Twire, v i to twinkle, Sonnets, xxviii. 12.

Twist, sub. a string, Coriol. v. 5. 96.

Umber, sub. red ochre, As You Like It. i. 3. 115.

Umber’d, adj. darkened, Hen. V. iv. Chor. 9.

Umbhage, sub. shadow [Hamlet’s Euphuism], Ham. v. 2. 126.

Unanel’d, pt. p. without extreme unction, Ham. i. 5. 77.

Unbarbed, pt. adj. bare, without armour, Coriol. iii. 2. 99.

Unbated, pt. p. unblunted, without the button at the point, Ham. iv. 7. 138; v. 2. 331.

Unbolt, v. to reveal, Tim. of Ath. i. 1. 52.

Unbolted, pt. adj. coarse, or unrefined, K. Lear, ii. 2. 70.

Unbonneted, pt. p. without saluting, on equal terms, Oth. i. 2. 23.

Unbookish, adj. skill-less, foolish, Oth. iv. 1. 102.

Unbraced, pt. p. unbuttoned, Jul. Cæs. i. 3. 48; Ham. ii. 1. 78.

Uncape, v. t. to uncouple, throw off the hounds, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3. 175.

Uncase, v. t. to undress, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 706; Tam. of Shrew, i. 1. 211.

Uncolted, pt. p. deprived of one’s horse, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 2. 45.

Uncrossed, pt. p. not struck out, not cancelled (The tradesman’s book was crossed when the account was paid), Cymb. iii. 3. 26.

Undeaf, sub cure of deafness, Rich. II. ii. 1. 16.

Underbear, v. t. to face, trim, Much Ado, iii. 4. 21.

Undercrest, v. t. to wear on the crest, Coriol. i. 9. 72.

Underskinker, sub. an underdrawer, tapster, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 26.

Undertaker, sub. a surety, or agent for others, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 353.

Uneared, part. adj. unploughed, Sonnets, iii. 5. Comp. Ear, v. t.

Unexpressive, adj. inexpressible, As You Like It, iii. 2. 10.

Unfair, v. t. to deprive of beauty, Sonnets, v. 4.

Unfolding star, sub. the star that bids the shepherd unfold, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 219.

Unhaired, pt. adj. beardless, foolish, K. John, v. 2. 133.

Unhatched, pt. p. which has not yet taken effect, Oth. iii. 4. 140; unfledged, Ham. i. 8. 65; unhacked, unhurt, Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 260.

Unhouseled, pt. p. without receiving the sacrament, Ham. i. 5. 77.

Union, sub. a fine pearl, Ham. v. 2. 286.

Unjointed, part. adj. incoherent, 1 Hen. IV. i. 3. 65.

Unkennel, v. t. to drive a fox from his earth, Merry W. of W. iii. 3. 174; to reveal, Ham. iii. 2. 86.

Unmanned, adj. untamed, Rom. & Jul. iii. 2. 14.

Unmitigable, adj. implacable, Temp. i. 2. 276.

Unnecessary, adj. useless, needless, Hen. V. iv. 2. 27; K. Lear, ii. 2. 68.

Unpinked, pt. p. not pierced with eyelet-holes, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 136.

Unpregnant, adj. dull, without sense, Meas. for Meas. iv. 4. 23.

Unprizeable, adj. invaluable, Cymb. i. 4. 104.

Unprized, unvalued, or perhaps priceless, K. Lear, i. 1. 262.

Unproper, adj. not one’s own, common, Oth. iv. 1. 69.

Unprovide, v. t. to unfurnish, to deprive of what is necessary, Oth. iv. 1. 217.

Unraked, pt. p. not made up for the night, Mer. Wives of W. v. 5. 50.

Unrecuring, adj. incurable, Tit. Andr. iii. 1. 90.

Unrespective, adj. unthinking, devoid of respect, Rich. III. iv. 2. 29.

Unrespective sink, the sewer, where worthless things are thrown, Troil. & Cres. ii. 2. 71.

Unrolled, pt. p. struck off the roll, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 131.

Unroosted, driven from the roost, henpecked, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 74.

Unscanned, adj. inconsidered, Coriol. iii. 1. 311.

Unseam, v. t. to rip, Macb. i. 2. 22.

Unsisting, adj. unresting, Meas. for Meas. iv. 2. 92.

Unstanched, adj. incontinent, Temp. i. 1. 53.

Unstate, v. t. to divest of state, K. Lear, i. 2. 111.

Untent, v. t. to remove out of a tent, Troil. & Cres. ii. 3. 180.

Untented, adj. incurable, (1) that which has not been or (2) cannot be tented, K. Lear, i. 4. 324.

Unthrift, adj. good for nothing, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 311; sub. a prodigal, Sonnets, ix. 9.

Untrussing, pr. p. unloosing the points of the hose, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 194.

Unvalurd, adj. mean, Ham. i. 3. 19; invaluable, Rich. III. i. 4. 27.

Unweighed, adj. reckless, Merry Wives, ii. 1. 23.

Unweighing, adj. thoughtless, Meas. for Meas. iii. 2. 151.

Unyoke, v. t. to ease one’s labour, or burden, Ham. v. 1. 57.

Up-cast, sub. a throw, or cast, at bowls; perhaps the final throw, Cymb. ii. 1. 2.

Upshoot, sub. the deciding shot, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 1. 140.

Up-spring, sub. a boisterous dance, translation of the German hupfauf, Ham. i. 4. 9.

Urchin, sub. a hedgehog, Temp. i. 2. 326; a goblin, Merry Wives of W. iv. 4. 51.

Usance, sub. interest of money, Mar. of Ven. i. 3. 46.

Use, sub. usage, Mens. for Mens. i. 1. 40.

Utis, sub. boisterous merriment, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 22.

Utter, v. t. to pass from one to another, L.’s L.’s L. ii. 1. 16; Rom. & Jul. v. 1. 67.

Utterance, to the, to the last extremity [Fr. a outrance], Macb. iii. 1. 72.

Vade, v. i. to fade, Rich. II. i. 2. 20; Pass. Pil. 131.

Vail, sub. a setting, a sinking, Troil. & Cres. v. 8. 7; to lower, let fall, Mer. of Ven. i. 1. 28; Ham. i. 2. 70.

Vails, sub. money given to servants, Per. ii. 1. 163.

Valance, sub. a fringe of drapery, Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 348.

Valanced, pt. p. fringed, Ham. ii. 2. 451.

Valued file, the list in which the good are distinguished from the worthless, Macb. iii. 1. 95.

Vanterace, sub. armour for the forearm, Troil & Cres. i. 3. 297.

Vast, sub. a dreary stretch of sea, Wint. Tale, i. 1. 33; Pericles, iii. 1. 1.

Vast of night, the deep time of night, Temp. i. 2. 327; Ham. i. 2. 198.

Vaultages, sub. caverns, Hen. V. ii. 4. 124.

Vaunt, sub. the van, the opening, Troil. & Cres. prol. 27.

Vaunt-couriers, sub. forerunners, precursors, [Fr. avant-courriers], K. Lear, iii. 2. 5.

Vaward, sub. vanguard, the first part (met.) Mid. N. Dr. iv. 1. 111; 2 Hen. IV. i. 2. 202.

Velure, sub. velvet, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 63.

Velvet-guards, sub. those who wear velvet linings, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 260.

Venew, sub. a bout at fencing, L.’s L.’s L. v. 1. 63.

Veney, sub. the same, Merry Wives of W. i. 1. 298.

Vent, sub. discharge, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 350; ‘full of vent’, (1) effervescent, or (2) full of the scent of game, or (3) full of rumour, Coriol. iv. 5. 239.

Ventages, sub. apertures, stops in a flute, Ham. iii. 2 380.

Ventricle, sub. a cavity, L.’s L.’s L. iv. 2. 70.

Verral, adj. plain-spoken, or else verbose, perhaps playing with words, Cymb. ii. 3. 111.

Via, interj. a word of encouragement, go forward, away with you, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 161; Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 11.

Vice, sub. the buffoon in the old Moral play, Twelfth Night, iv. 2. 138; Rich. III. iii. 1. 82; 2 Hen. IV. iii. 2. 347; v. t. to screw (met.) Wint. Tale, i. 2. 416.

Vie, v. i. to stake at cards, and so to contend with, Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 98; Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 303.

Villiago, sub. base, coward [Ital. vigliaoco], 2 Hen. VI. iv. 8. 49.

Vindicative, adj. revengeful, Troil. & Cres. iv. 6. 107.

Vinewedst, adj. musty, mouldy, Troil. & Cres. ii. 1. 15.

Viol-de-gamdoys, sub. a violoneello, Twelfth Night, i. 3. 28.

Violent, v. i. to be violent, Troil. & Cres. iv. 4. 4.

Virginalling, pr. p. playing with the fingers, as upon the virginal, Wint. Tale, i. 2. 126.

Visitings, pr. p. fits, attache, Macb. i. 5. 46.

Voice, v. t. to proclaim, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 82; sub. a veta, Mid. N. Dr. i. 1. 34; Coriol. ii. 3. 83.

Voiding-lobby, sub. ante-room, a Hen. VI. iv. 1. 62.

Waft, v. t. to beckon, Com of Err. ii 2. 113.

Waftage, sub. passage by water, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 10.

Wafture, sub. waving of the hand, Jul. Cæs. ii. 1. 246.

Wage, v. t. to remunerate, Coriol. v. 5. 40; to risk, K. Lear, i. 1. 158; waged equal=were on an equality, Ant. & Cleo. v. 1. 31.

Waist, sub. that part of the ship between the quarterdeck and the forecastle, Temp i. 2. 197.

Wake, sub. a late revel, Wint. Tale, iv. 2. 110; v. t. to keep late revel, Ham. i. 4. 8.

Wall-eyed, adj. fierce-eyed, with a large portion of the white visible, K. John, iv. 3. 49.

Wall-newt, sub a lizard, K. Lear, iii. 4. 133.

Wanned, v. t. turned pale, Ham. ii. 2. 588.

Wannion. In the phrase, ‘with a wannion’=‘with a vengeance.’ The form ‘wenion’ is not uncommon in writers of the period, Pericles, ii. 1 17.

Wappened, pt. p. of doubtful meaning, perhaps overworn, stale, Tim. of Ath. iv. 3. 38.

Ward, sub. a guard in fencing, Temp i. 2 468; (metaphorically), Wint. Tale, i 2. 33; a bolt, Lucrece, 303.

Warden, sub. a large baking pear, Wint. Tale, iv. 2 49.

Warder, sub a truncheon, Rich. II. i. 2 118.

Warn, v. t. to summon to battle, Jul. Cæs. v. 1. 5; Rom. & Jul. v. 3. 207.

Warrener, sub. a gamekeeper, Merry Wives of W. i. 4. 28

Wassail, sub. revelry, Macb. i. 7. 64.

Wat, sub. term for the harc, Ven. & Ad. 697.

Watch, sub. a watch candle, which marked the hours, Rich III. v. 3. 54; v. t. to tame by keeping awake, Tam. of Shrew, iv. 1. 198; Oth iii. 3. 23.

Watch-case, sub. a sentry box, 2 Hen IV. iii. 1. 17.

Water, sub. lustre of a diamond, Per. iii. 2. 102; v. i. to drink, 1 Hen IV. ii. 4. 17.

Water-colours, sub. weak fellows, 1 Hen. IV. v. 1. 80.

Water-galls, secondary rainbows, Lucrece, 1588

Waterish, adj. watery, Oth. iii. 3. 15; watery, or else weak, K. Lear, i. 1. 261.

Water-rugs, sub. rough water-dogs, Macb. iii 1 94.

Waters, for all, fit for anything, Twelfth Night, iv. 2. 69.

Waters, to raise, excite tears, Mer. of Ven. ii. 2. 52.

Water-work, sub. a painting in water-colour, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 162.

Watery, adj. eagerly desirous, Troil. & Cres. iii. 2. 20.

Waul, v. i. to cry as an infant, K. Lear, iv. 6. 185.

Wave, v. i. to fluctuate, Coriol. ii. 2. 19.

Waxen, v. i. to grow, to increase, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 56.

Weals-men, sub. statesmen, Coriol. ii. 1. 60.

Wealth, sub. prosperity, Mer. of Ven. v. 1. 249.

Weather, sub storm, K. John, iv. 2. 109.

Web and the pin, sub. a disease of the eye, perhaps the cataract, K. Lear, iii. 4 120.

Week, to be in by the, to be a close prisoner, L.’s L.’s L. v. 2. 61.

Weeping-ripe, ready to weep, 3 Hen. VI. i. 4. 172.

Weet, v. t. to know, Ant. & Cleo. i. 1. 39.

Weird, adj. fatal, Macb. i. 3. 32; iii 1 2.

Welkin, sub. blue, Temp. i. 2. 4; Twelfth Night, ii. 3. 61; adj. Wint. Tale, i. 2. 137.

Well-graced, adj. graceful or popular, Rich. II. v. 2. 24.

Well-seen, adj well-skilled, Tam of Shrew, i. 2. 136.

Well-wished, adj. popular, Meas. for Meas. ii 4 28.

Welsh hook, sub. a sort of battle-axe, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 377.

Westward-ho! the cry of watermen on the Thames, Twelfth Night, iii. 1. 148.

Wezand, sub. the windpipe, Temp. iii. 2. 102.

Wheel, sub. the burthen or refrain of a song, or else a spinning wheel at which it was sung, Ham. iv. 5. 171 v. t. to roam, Troil. & Cres. v. 7. o, Oth. i. 1. 137.

Whelk, sub. a pimple, Hen. V. iii. 6. 111.

Whelked, adj. covered with knobs, K Lear, iv. 6. 72.

When, an exclamation of impatience, Temp. i. 2. 316; Jul Cæs. ii 1. 5; ‘when as,’ conj. when, Sonnets, xlix. 3.

Whe’r, adv. whether, Temp. v. 1. 111; Com. of Err. iv. 1. 60.

Where, adv. whereas, Coriol i. 1. 106.

Whey-face, adj. pale-faced, Macb v. 3. 17; covered with youthful down, Merry Wives of W. i. 4 22.

Whiffler, sub. one who cleared the way in a procession, Hen. V. v. Chor. 12.

While, adv. until, Macb. iii. 1. 44; Rich. II. i. 3. 122; ‘whiles,’ Twelfth Night, iv. 3. 29.

While as, conj while, 2 Hen. VI. i. 1. 226.

While, the, adv. meanwhile, As You Like It, ii. 5. 31.

While-ere, adv. not long ago, Temp. iii. 2 130.

Whiles, adv while, Temp i. 2. 343; ‘the whiles,’=meanwhile, Tam of Shrew, iii. 1. 22.

Whilst, the, while, Ham. iii. 2. 93; meanwhile, Rich. II. v. 2. 22

Whipster, sub. a term of contempt for a novice, Oth. v. 2. 242.

Whipstock, sub. handle of a whip, Per. ii. 2. 51.

Whir, v. i. to hurry away, Per. iv. 1. 20.

Whist, adj. still, Temp. i. 2. 378.

Whistle, worth the, worth notice, regard. Comp. the proverb, ‘It’s a poor dog that is not worth the whistling,’ K. Lear, iv. 2. 29.

Whistle her off dismiss the hawk from the fist, Oth. iii. 3. 262.

White, sub. the bull’s-eye in a target, Tam. of Shrew, v. 2. 187.

White-livered, adj. cowardly, Rich. III. iv. 4. 465. Comp. Lily-livered.

Whiting-time, sub. bleaching-time, Merry Wives of W. iii. 3 141.

Whitster, sub. a bleacher, Merry Wives of W iii. 3. 15.

Whittle, sub. a clasp-knife, Tim. of Ath. v. 1. 185.

Whoobub, sub hubbub, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 631.

Wide, adv distracted, astray, Much Ado, iv. 1, 62; K. Lear, iv. 7 50.

Wightly [O. Ed. Whitely], adj. nimble, L.’s L.’s L. iii. 1. 206.

Wild, sub. weald, 1 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 60.

Wilderness, sub wideness, Meas. for Meas. iii 1. 140.

Wild mare, to ride the, to play at see-saw, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 4. 268.

Wildness, sub. distraction, Ham. iii. 1. 40.

Wilful-blame, wilfully incurring blame, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 1. 176.

Wimpled, pt. p. blindfolded, L.’s L. ’s L. iii. 1. 189. (‘Wimple’ was a kerchief, covering the head and neck)

Wind, sub. ‘have the wind of’=have the advantage of, Tit. Andr. iv. 2. 134; ‘allow the wind’, to give air, All’s Well, v. 2. 10.

Wind, v. i. to scent, Tit. Andr. iv. 1. 97; to blow, Much Ado, i. 1. 251; to manage, 1 Hen. IV. iv. 1. 109.

Windgalls, sub swellings in the legs of a horse, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 54.

Windlass, sub. a circuit, Ham. ii 1. 65.

Window, pt. p. seated in a window, Ant. & Cleo iv. 12. 72.

Window-bars, sub. lattice-like embroidery, worn by women across the breast, Tim. of Ath. iv 3. 117.

Windowed, adj. full of holes, K. Lear, iii. 4. 31.

Windring, pr. p. winding, Temp. iv. 1. 128.

Wink, sub. sleep, Temp. ii. 1. 250; to be blind, to be in the dark, Com of Err. iii. 2. 58.

Winking, pr. p. blind, Cymb. ii. 4 89.

Winnowed, adj. wise, sensible, Ham. v. 2. 201.

Winter-ground, v. t. to protect a plant from the cold by covering it up with straw, Cymb. iv. 2. 229.

Wipe, sub a brand, mark of disgrace, Lucrece, 537.

Wise-woman, sub. a witch, Merry Wives of W. iv. 5. 59; Twelfth Night, iii 4. 116.

Wisp of straw, sub. the badge of a scold, 3 Hen. VI. ii. 2. 144.

Wistly, adj. wistfully, Rich. II. v. 4. 7; Ven. & Ad. 343.

Witch, sub. a wizard, Cymb. i. 6. 166.

With, prep. by, being greeted with, Macb. iii. 6. 40; Ant. & Cleo. v 2. 170.

With himself=in possession of his faculties, Tit. Andr. i. 1. 368.

Withal, i could not do=I could not help it, Mer. of Ven. iii. 4 72.

Without, adv. except, Two Gent. of Ver. ii. 1 38.

Wittol, sub. a contented cuckold, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 317.

Wittolly, adj. wittol-like, Merry Wives of W. ii. 2. 288.

Woman, sub. ‘woman me to it’=make me show my woman’s weakness, All’s Well, iii. 2. 53.

Woman’d, adj. accompanied by a woman, Oth. iii. 4. 194.

Woman-queller, sub. a murderer of woman, 2 Hen. IV. ii. 1. 60.

Woman-tired, adj. henpecked, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 74. Comp. To tire.

Womb, v. t. to onclose, Wint. Tale, iv. 3. 503.

Womby, adj. hollow, Hen. V. ii. 4. 124.

Wondered, pt. p. wonder-working, Temp. iv. 1. 123.

Woo, v. t. to solicit, Per. v. 1. 174.

Wood, adj. mad, Mid. N. Dr. ii. 1. 192; 1 Hen. VI. iv. 7. 35; Ven. & Ad. 740.

Woodcock, sub. a simpleton, Tam. of Shrew, i. 2. 164.

Wooden thing, ‘an awkward business, not likely to succeed’ [Steevens], 1 Hen. VI. v. 3. 89.

Woodman, sub. a wencher, Meas. for Meas. iv. 3. 174.

Woollen, in the, between blankets, Much Ado, ii. 1. 33.

Woolward, to go, to wear wool instead of linen next the skin, as a penance, L.’s L. ’s L. v. 2. 716.

Word, v. t. to represent, Cymb. i. 4. 17; to fool with words, Ant. & Cleo v. 2. 190.

Work, sub. a fortification, Hen. VIII. v. 4. 63; Oth. iii. 2. 3.

Worky-day, adj. common, Ant. & Cleo. i. 2. 57. Comp. Working-day, As You Like It, i. 3. 12.

World, sub. ‘to go to the world’=to be married, Much Ado, ii. 1. 332; All’s Well, i. 3. 37; ‘woman of the world’=married woman, As You Like It, v. 3. 5; ‘a world to see’=a wonder to see, Much Ado, iii. 5 38; Tam. of Shrew, ii. 1. 305; the microcosm, Lov. Comp. 7; K. Lear, iii. 1. 10.

Worm, sub. a serpent, Meas. for Meas. iii. 1. 17; Macb. iii. 4. 29; a creature, Temp iii. 1. 31; Cymb. iii. 4. 37 (the mole); Merry Wives of W. v. 5 89.

Wrangler, sub. an adversary, a tennis term, Hen. V. i 2. 264.

Wreak, sub. vengeance, Coriol. iv. 5. 91; to revenge Rom. & Jul. iii. 5. 102.

Wreakful, adj. revengeful, Tim. of Ath. iv 3. 230.

Wrest, sub. a tuning key, Troil & Cres. iii. 3. 23

Wretch, sub. a term of endearment, Rom. & Jul. i. 3. 44; Oth. iii. 3 90; Ant. & Cleo. v. 2. 305.

Wring, v. t to writhe, Much Ado, v. 1. 28.

Wringing, sub. torture, Hen. V. iv 1. 256.

Writ=wrote, claimed, All’s Well, ii. 3. 67.

Writhled, pt. p. wrinkled, 1 Hen VI. ii. 3. 23.

Wry, v. i. to swerve, Cymb. v. 1. 5.

Yare, adj. ready, nimble, active, Temp. v. 1. 224; Twelfth Night, iii. 4. 248.

Yarely, adv. readily, briskly, Temp. i. 1. 4; Ant. & Cleo. ii. 2. 219.

Yaw, v. t. to move unsteadily as a ship which does not answer the helm, Ham. v. 2. 121.

Year, sub. years, Meas. for Meas. ii. 1. 260.

Yearn, v. t. to grieve, vex, Merry Wives of W. iii. 5. 45; Hen. V. iv. 3. 26: v. i. Jul. Cres. ii. 2. 129.

Yellow, adj. emblem of jealousy, Wint. Tale, ii. 3. 106.

Yellowness, sub. jealousy, Merry Wives of W. i. 3. 109.

Yellows, sub. jaundice in horses, Tam. of Shrew, iii. 2. 55.

Yerk, v. t. to lash out, to strike quickly, Hen. V. iv. 7. 84; Oth. i. 2. 5.

Yesty, adj. foaming, frothy, Macb. iv. 1. 53; Ham. v. 2. 199.

Young, adj. recent, Hen. VIII. iii. 2. 47.

Younker, sub. a stripling, 1 Hen. IV. iii. 3. 91; 3 Hen. VI. ii. 1. 24.

Zany, sub. a buffoon, L.’s L. ’s L. v. 2. 464; Twelfth Night, i. 5. 95.